how mother's day & poison oak turned out to be pretty darn good

I so love all you ladies out there in blogland. You gave me so much good stuff to consider and ponder on that-there last post (yes, I just used that-there). And ponder it I did.

I came to realize that my reasoning for wanting to stop blogging is that most days I am so over myself.

So. over. myself.

I am a pretty low maintenance kind of gal IRL. I own fewer pairs of shoes than my hubby. I still drive the same old beat up pick up that I bought used in 1997 simply because it still runs. I can do the whole shower-hair-make up out the door routine in 15 minutes if needed (even though I much prefer 30).

And then I come here and spill out all this needy whiny kind of stuff over and over and over. This has become my toxic dumping grounds and while I think everyone needs a place like this, I'm also kind of tired of separating the minimum maintenance happy fun parts of me* with the falling apart over processing EVERYTHING parts of me. I promise you I'm not as crazy as this place might lead you to believe...well, mostly. There is still the whole even numbers only thing...and the color coordinated closet thing and the car radio volume in increments of 5 only thing (please don't ask why this odd number is okay...) and the TV channels in ascending order only thing and the...

Oh, had we not covered those yet? Right. I was just kidding. Really. Kidding. Uh-huh. Anyway...

I think it's time I open this space up a little broader and share more of my happy times. It may not be all encompassing of infertility, but I'm sure I can find a way to drag it in there if needed. I just want this space to reflect more of "all of me" - the good, the bad, and the other.

I hope that the thoughts I threw out about adoption weren't too much. I can assure you they aren't the only thoughts I have on the subject matter. Most are actually much more pleasant, but sweeping anything under the rug that isn't considered "pleasant" is in my honest opinion negligent, especially when it comes to parenting. This might fall under the category of "I'm not going to parent my child the way I was parented." kind of mentality. There is often a reason behind any kind of madness and I've been through enough therapy to know that all of my screwed up tendencies are a direct reflection of the things my parents did wrong. I kid. I kid...mostly.**

So much of adoption is beautiful and wonderful and incredible, but so much of adoption is also painful and confusing and difficult. There is more to consider and be conscience of and willing to deal with even if it doesn't fit into the "we just want to be parents" mentality. I have more to say about some of this (which ties into a pretty great therapy session on the subject) another time. I always do, right?

But that will all have to wait. I already know that any words I have put with this post are now a waste due to the cuteness I am about to share.

Remember that giant dog I mentioned in my last post. Well, there is now a puppy sized version sleeping on my feet as we speak. Yes, ON my feet but only because that is as close as he can get to me without crawling inside my skin and attaching to my bones. This would be his ideal sleeping place.

Something clicked when so many of you said to just go get the dog. I really had no good reason to not just go get the damn dog. And then it kind of all just fell into our laps.

The Short and (who am I kidding) Dirty Version:

I was feeling the annual Mother's-Day-but-still-not-a-mother-again blues so I treated myself to a haircut and eyebrow wax for a bit of cheering up. Eyebrow wax should not be used in the same sentence as treat. I don't know how some of you do a Brazilian. OMFG. I seriously don't. Short stories were never my forte...or sticking to the topic at hand, but really how much does that have to hurt when my eyebrows are tender for 3-days post waxing!?

A coworker of my hair stylist complemented her on the cute new picture of her kids to which she replied. "Do you want them?" and then went on to tell me after her coworker left that said coworker just adores her kids to which she always replies that "You can just have them". Right. No real reason to include in this story except that it actually made a Brazilian suddenly seem more fun than my haircut which now also did not feel like much of a treat.

See, there really is a way to bring infertility into any situation...probably because it is always there lurking.

Again, back to the real story. Apparently my hair stylist's brother as well as the esthetician in their shop also had poison oak really badly. For over a month. With multiple trips to the doctor. And multiple doses of oral hydrocortisone packs. Even though neither remembers coming into direct contact with it. It was like the mothership brought me home.

Cue esthetician. We meet. We commiserate. We show battle wounds and share war stories. I am blaming my poison oak infestation on my own dingy negligence. She is blaming hers on her dog (I knew I should have taken our dog on that hike!) and began talking about her dog and her daughter's dog and the dog she used to have and the next dog she wants. Yes, now this is a conversation I can play in. I share our dog history and mention that we are looking into getting an English Mastiff.

Her: Really? How serious are you?
Me: I don't know. We've done all the research and both agree it is the breed of dog we want. Pretty serious I guess. Why?
Her: I was just at my husband's friends' house last weekend and they have 3 Mastiff puppies they are looking to find homes for from a litter of 9.
Me: How old? Are the parents on-site? Where are they located? And a whole bunch of other babble which she answered.

Next thing I knew I had some contact info for a puppy less than 30 minutes away and a Mother's Day appointment to go meet him.

And that's where I fell in love with this guy...


So we brought him home...


And named him Moose...because he is.


He was 45.3 lbs of roly poly puppiness at his not quite 4 month appointment...seen here with M who isn't real keen on having his face posted on the Internets so he gets a big pink heart...because A) real men wear pink or B) I'm poking fun by adding a pink heart because I'm an ass that way or C) we are that lovey dovey couple who insists on drawing hearts all over one another to express our love. Insert giant laughter here as you make your pick. (hint: think "b" sounds).


His mama (Jenksy) is tipping the scales at 185lbs, but is still working on getting her girlish figure back after a 9 pup litter. Here she is with her owner who gets a star as I lifted this photo from her FB page - WITH her consent - but we never talked about IF or this blog or the like so a star face it is.


His papa is 155lbs at 2 years old and will continue to gain girth for another year to reach his full adult weight. This is (a younger) Moose with his papa (Buehrle - spoken as Burley). I didn't get his permission to post this, but know from my afternoon with him that as long as he has that blue ball nothing else much matters in his world.


Poison oak is gone. A new puppy is in our house. Mother's Day is over for another whole year. This leaves me feeling pretty darn good.


Pretty really darn good.



*The happy fun parts of me are taking the other less stellar parts of me for another girls 3.5-day kayaking/camping extravaganza getaway to Black Canyon this weekend*** where we will explore natural sauna caves and sit in natural hot springs and hang out under the stars around a campfire drinking wine...lots and lots of wine.

**Don't worry, this kind of thing is an ongoing joke in our family. My mom is very much okay with it to the point of gluing $5 bills into our childhood scrapbooks along with some Easter scrapbook paper since there are no pictures of us coloring Easter eggs. There are no pictures because we never once colored eggs during our childhood. Can you hear those mini violins playing? How did we ever survive this tragedy? The End.

***So I will once again get behind on reading blogs but-what-else-is-new-because-I-never-really-caught-up-in-the-first-place. The End End. For reals**** this time.

****I am much too old to use this term and really need to stop reading how my much younger cousins talk to each other on FB b4 I start talkin lik dis an u git pist wit me*****.

*****It's almost as annoying as all the *'s in this post. The End. Yes, finally the end.