Somewhat Improved

Part II of the series.

The other day, it was National Dog Day, and I took the moment to express the love of my yellow eyed monster. I love that dog SO much. He is just as much a part of the family as anyone else. He is the best dog anyone could ever ask for. So loving. So sweet. I mean, look at him:



Until he isn't. And it's usually right after we spoil the shit out of him.

On Sunday, we spent most of the day with Winston Churchill. We stepped out for breakfast, but hung out and watched some movies with our baby bubba for most of the day. Movie watching means that our bubba gets up on the couch for extra cuddles. A LOT OF LOVE. OK?

Caydence persisted that we go swimming, on this lovely August afternoon. So away we went, the three of us out the back door and on our way to the swimming pool.

Upon our return, there were remnants of pizza crust packaging strewn about the living room.

I bought a 4-pack of organic pizza crusts from Costco (in the heat of the moment after the egg incident). You know, because it would be fun to make our own pizzas and chill the fuck out. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT YOU DO ON SUNDAYS. CHILL.

We used two of them on Saturday. I sealed up the remaining two, and left them on the counter all night, ALL MORNING (when we left for breakfast), and that vindictive fucker decided he was going to have a feast while we went swimming.

Just. Because.

He literally had at least two other opportunities to not only eat the remaining pizza crusts, but to just EAT THE PIZZA WE MADE. And he didn't.

But somehow, going to the pool without Winston Churchill was the last fucking straw for that monster.

So. He consumed two entire pizzas crusts, which is more pizza than a normal human being can eat.

And today, in proper style, he turned into a shit-beast. Because that's what you do, when you're a dog, eating half your body weight in pizza crust. You shit it all out like hot lava.

Thank you, Mr. Winston Churchill. Our lives, (and our yard), will never be the same.

-Stef

Caydence is a good kid. She just is. She makes friends with everyone she meets, listens, always smiles, and occasionally whips out a random dark comment every now and again when we drive past a cemetery.

But sometimes she does really shitty things.

So, when you realize your almost-seven-year-old has coated the bottom of the bath tub with conditioner: do not engage.

Don't turn on the water, stick your foot in, and think the white stuff around the edges isn't really that slippery.

Do not be fooled that the water you've just turned on is going to rinse the slime away while you simultaneously wash yourself.

You should also not be tricked into thinking the little patches of conditioner that you can see, are the only affected areas. No. It's fucking everywhere.

I'm telling you this, so that you don't make the same mistakes I did. Do not be naïve. This is a death trap.

Because once you step in and reassure yourself that everything is going to be fine, even after slipping a couple of times, you are immediately going to find yourself in a small pit of despair face down in the bottom of the shower.

You're also going to sit there for about 3 minutes while you try to stop your eyes from welling after the pain of slamming all of your vulnerably naked limbs into the sides of the bath tub starts to set in. Then, you're going to spend the next two minutes using your daughter's bath poof to clean the bottom of the bath tub out of spite.

At the end of this you're going to be so angry that you scream your daughters name and tell her she will never use conditioner again.

The real kicker is, the previous night you should have been paying more attention when your boyfriend started asking why Caydence had so much "soap" all over her body.

Read. Learn. Save yourself from this tragedy on a Tuesday morning.

-Stef

This is obvious, probably. Because I believe that most people have a lot of internal dialogue with themselves. But, I have a lot of thoughts.

So many I wish I would write down. 50% of the time I feel like I should have a notebook with me at all times because it seems like I have ONE BILLION GOOD IDEAS. Especially in the morning while I'm showering. Tragically, that's not a good setting for a notebook.

Anyway, I have had a lot of ideas about writing lately. I would like to write a memoir of sorts, eventually. Not that I feel like my life has been so amazing and wonderful that I need to document it. But rather, that I want to remember it all. The good and the bad. If it's interesting and relatable, great. If not. Whatever, it's not for you anyway.

I also want to continue documenting all of the random ass shit that goes on in my every day life.

I started listening to the podcast "Serial" (I am fucking slow to that train....I know) and Sarah Keonig tells the story of her struggle in asking people to remember past events. By nature, there are approximately 344,564,345 million things going on at a particular time, and it's impossible to recall them all. Unless there is a BIG event. Something that strikes an emotional cord in your psyche.

Anyway. I just want to remember the shit. Hence, a memoir-thing. That's all.