Playing Russian Roulette with Nature

Posted on October 8, 2012 | 4 comments

So, awhile back, my husband and I made a horrible mistake. We decided to casually try for a baby.

Now, you may be thinking “how do you casually try for a baby?” Well, it’s very simple. Casual baby-making means you stop actively trying to prevent pregnancy but aren’t necessarily aiming to get pregnant. But if you do get pregnant, you’d, like, totally be cool with it. Also, you have to both wear fedoras during your “maritals” to up the casualness factor.

Sure, it may not be the most effective method to conception but it’s perfect for a couple like us who want to start a family but are also utterly terrified of the prospect at the same time. So instead we play Russian Roulette with nature and let Fate decide.

(Plus, we really like to wear fedoras.)

Now, kind of, sort of, maybe-ish deciding to try to have a baby wasn’t the horrible mistake we made (although I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who would disagree, including anyone who has ever met our dog, who is in desperate need of canine therapy). No, the mistake lay in telling people about it.

As it turns out, when you start contemplating entering this new and monumental phase of your life, everyone has an opinion about it. Forget that whole “it takes a village to raise a child” idea. The village is much more interested in helping you conceive.

For example, here are some of the responses we got from family and friends (or what I like to call “What to Expect When You Think Maybe Sorta Kinda You Want to be Expecting”):

“Ooh! How exciting! When was the date of your last period? I’m going to chart when you’re most likely ovulating.” –my cousin

“Oh…wow…why?” –our childless friends

“Have you started taking folic acid? You have to take folic acid. Like, now. I’m going to send you some folic acid.” –our pregnant friends

“Are you pregnant yet?” –our co-workers

“Oh, you’ll LOVE being parents! It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, you’ll never sleep again and will constantly be covered in poop and puke. But it’s WORTH it. Trust me.” –about half of all parents we know

“Do as many things as you possible can before you have a baby. Because once it’s here, you’ll never be able to do anything ever again.” –the other half of all parents we know

“Are you pregnant yet?” –our former co-workers

“Make sure you don’t have sex EVERY day. Do it every OTHER day. Otherwise you deplete his sperm.” –my cousin again

“Better hurry. You’re not getting any younger.” –my aunt

“MAKE ME A GRANDMA! I mean, you know, on your own time. No rush. Also, check out this cute onesie I bought eight years ago when you guys first met.” –my mom

“Are you pregnant yet?” –my mailman

“OK, according to my calculations, your best bet is the third of the month through the seventh, so…get busy.” –again, you guessed it, my cousin

Now, I’ll admit, at first this outpouring of responses surprised me. I considered this a very personal decision between myself and my husband. We were the ones who this decision affected, not everybody else. So why was everyone so eager to get all up inside my uterus, verbally kicking the tires and checking under the hood of all my lady business?

But then I slowly came to realize that when and if we ever do get pregnant, while it will completely upend our lives, the ripples will also reach out and touch everyone else. Parents will be turned into grandparents. Siblings become aunts and uncles. Nieces and nephews become cousins. Aunts and uncles become great aunts and great uncles. Cousins become godparents. My mailman will probably have to deal with a lot more care packages. And close friends become honorary family members.

So, as it turns out, it’s nice to know that there is an entire village waiting with bated breath to see what happens. It has the effect of making one feel very loved, if a bit uncomfortable with the sheer number of people in your life who are comfortable casually discussing your uterus.

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Engagement Story, Part 2: I Should Be Committed

Posted on September 18, 2012 | 3 comments

Previously, on Broke Wife, Big City…

Aprill, our protagonist who was pretty in that girl-next-door-who-drinks-a-lot-of-vodka kind of way, was in the midst of revealing her very un-Hollywood-like marriage proposal story (which you can read here) when she had to unexpectedly take a break because her husband made tacos and she was, like, SUPER hungry.

And then she ate too much and there was a “Leverage” marathon on and typing quickly seemed like waaaaaay too much cardio to engage in…and then…well, repeat for five days and here we are.

But now, on with the story…

It all started on a random fall afternoon that we had designated as our “anniversary” since both of us were too lazy to really care what date we actually first met, or first kissed, or first declared our love or first did other things I won’t mention (SEX!!!) because that would be childish and improper.

We were attending a Renaissance Festival (cause we are unapologetically nerd-tastic and love any place where it is acceptable to drink wine and eat turkey legs for breakfast) in Texas with some friends. It was the perfect opportunity. I had been antsy for quite some time for him to put a ring on it and he had been hinting for quite some time that he did indeed like it and intended to put a ring on it. Not to mention, he’s always been a grand gesture kind of guy, so what better place to propose than in front of 30,000 fellow weirdos dressed in loin cloths and barely there fairy costumes, all of whom had started drinking mead at 9 a.m.?

All day I had felt a giddiness. I knew it was coming. I just knew it. So when it didn’t come during the jousting tournament, I didn’t sweat it. When it didn’t come during the performance of the guy who is paid to insult you in Olde English, I, the rancid wench with the questionable virtue, shrugged it off. I wasn’t even too bothered when I had to downplay an escaped squeal and turn it into a cough when my beloved bent down to tie his shoe by the Ye Olde Petting Zoo.

But as dusk descended, my mood, which was already being fueled mostly by Merlot and beer so heavy you had to chew it, started to darken. By the time we got home, it was a black pit of seething drunk girlfriend rage.

Now, men are not necessarily known for their skills of observation. But luckily, the waves of pure anger radiating off my body while we were watching TV on the couch were practically visible even to Ryan’s eyes (the same eyes that have never, EVER managed to see the furry leftovers that smell like hot garbage in August in the fridge).

“Is everything OK, babe?” he asked, while smartly out of hitting range.

“Yup.”

“You sure?”

“Yup.”

“Because you seem mad.”

“Huh.”

“Like, really mad.”

“Hmm…I don’t know, Ryan. What could I, YOUR GIRLFRIEND, and only YOUR GIRLFRIEND, possibly be MAD about?”

“Uhhh…”

…awkward pause…

“Do you want your anniversary gift?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I have to go upstairs to get it.”

“Whatever.”

“OK…? Then I guess I’ll go it…?”

“It’s a free country.”

And that, kids, is how it happened. Just like in a fairy tale, he came downstairs, paused the episode of “Supernatural” that we were watching (well, he was watching and I was blindly staring at while I made a mental list in my head of everything he had ever done wrong in our relationship…which, to be honest, wasn’t much but women have a special skill to turn moments of “you didn’t notice my haircut” into “YOU DON’T THINK I’M PRETTY, DO YOU!?! DO YOU!?!”), got down on one knee and asked “Will you marry me?” while producing a beautiful ring from behind his back.

What followed was a series of “Seriously? Really? You’re not kidding?” followed by 42 tearful yes’s followed by phone calls to every female I knew or had ever known.

But what you didn’t see, and what I didn’t learn until later, was that he had been making plans to propose for years before that actual moment. Each plan more elaborate and “awww…” worthy than the next. For instance, there was the plan to take me on an East Coast road trip in the fall to see the leaves change, where we would stay at a little bed-and-breakfast (which he had already called ahead of time to coordinate his plans with them) and where he would propose in a candle-lit paradise. He had also already called my closest girlfriends to ask permission for my hand. He had schemed with co-workers and mutual friends. He had maps and lists of potential places and estimates of ticket prices to exotic locales.

What he, what we, didn’t ever have was the money or the vacation time to do any of these things.

And just in case I don’t look enough like a selfish, petty person, he actually WAS planning on proposing earlier that day. He had the ring on him the whole time. And when I asked him why he didn’t, he replied:

“Because none of the moments seem perfect enough to propose to the love of my life.”

So, while I may not have a Hollywood-sanctioned, “good” engagement story, I defy anyone who says that I don’t have a beautiful behind-the-scenes engagement story.

And in the end, when you come down to it, a picture-perfect engagement does not a marriage make. But a man who waits three years to propose because nothing seems special enough? I’ll take that man and our “sitting on the couch while Sam and Dean fight demons on the TV” engagement story any day.

Huzzah!

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Once upon a time, a man proposed to a woman…

Posted on September 12, 2012 | 1 comment

Behind every married couple is an engagement story. The story that they will be asked to tell and re-tell for the rest of their lives. The story that is the opening chapter of a little tale called “Till Death (Or That Hottie From Work) Do Us Part.” The story that pretty much defines them as a couple as long as they don’t go on some epic crime spree later on down the road in their relationship.

(Does anyone know Bonnie and Clyde’s engagement story? Point. Proven. Granted, they weren’t ACTUALLY ever married but I think we can all agree the theory still holds.)

So naturally, you want your story to be a good one. And this pressure to make it a good story is only exacerbated by Hollywood and all your stupid, story-topping friends.

Exhibit A: Every single rom-com on the market features a proposal that falls into one of the following categories.

1. The over-the-top, probably on a rooftop, fireworks and violins, roses and mandolins (sorry…not a whole lot rhymes with “violins”) perfect proposal.

2. The over-the-top probably on a rooftop perfect proposal that goes horribly awry but makes it all the more special BECAUSE it does go horribly awry (including but not limited to a sudden downpour).

3. The surprise engagement/argument engagement where the proposal comes out of nowhere but is preceded by such lovely words (albeit potentially said in a gruff voice) that you have no choice but to say yes (also usually involving rain).

4. The non-proposal proposal in which a couple decides not to get married but just BE together because I mean it’s just a piece of paper and we want to stay together because we want to stay together and so they make quirky yet heartfelt vows to each other in some random location where it is raining and/or snowing.

5. The post-break up proposal, which always involves a guy running 22 blocks in the (you guessed it) rain to get back to the love of his life, who he finds about to leave her house and stands there all out of breath and wet while wooing her back.

Exhibit B: All your friends who have engagement stories that begin with…

1. An exotic locale

2. A rock the size of a small-to-medium baby’s fist

3. A slide show of the couple’s life together

4. Getting a large crowd involved

These are the things the modern-day proposer is up against. But usually, no matter the circumstances, an engagement story, by its very nature of being a momentous occasion, is always a wonderful and emotional moment.

Except when it’s not.

Which brings me to MY engagement story. Now, keep in mind, the story I’m about to tell isn’t even the worse proposal I’ve ever had. That distinct honor goes to a former boyfriend who tried to break up with me, then decided to get out of the uncomfortable break-up scene by proposing, which was followed by “almost broke up but then got engaged” sex, which was immediately followed by a “No…yeah…we really should break up” reversal.

Best. Christmas Eve. Ever.

So, the bar was set pretty low for my now husband. But, in all fairness to my little Schnookum Bear, he had a LOT of circumstances working against him. Namely:

1. We were piss poor broke.

2. He was proposing to a (lovely if slightly neurotic) woman who was more than a little antsy for a commitment considering she had up and left all her family and friends and quit her job to move over 1,000 miles away with him because he got a job offer he couldn’t refuse all before they had even had their first date and now it was three years later and the (lovely yet still slightly neurotic) woman was starting to worry she was going to end up as a cautionary tale to women everywhere about exactly why you DON’T do that.

But enough beating around the bush (heh). Let’s get on with the actual story and what this story actually says about us in the grand scheme of things. This, ladies and gentlemen, is our engagement story. The story we will eventually have to tell our children. And our children’s children. And those children’s children’s annoying friends, who are always hanging around our house because we’re the old people who always have the good candy hidden away in our cob-webby cabinets.

It all started

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Diary of a Wimpy Adult

Posted on September 4, 2012 | 1 comment

Pssst…kids…hey…PSSST…kiiiiiiids…

Wanna know a secret? About being a grown-up?

You do! Well…us adults? We’re really just big kids with bank accounts.

(Granted, some with…ahem…smaller bank accounts than others).

I know! I was as shocked as you are to learn this. As I got older, I kept waiting to finally, officially feel like an adult. But lo and behold, the years kept passing by…18…22…26…29…29 again…the second anniversary of turning 29…and nothing.

Nada.

Oh sure, there were small changes here and there. Cartoons lost some of their allure while beer gained a LOT of allure.

But overall, I still feel pretty much the same (my encyclopedic knowledge of anti-wrinkle creams notwithstanding).

No…wait. I take that back. There is at least one thing that changes as you transform from kid to adult. While you guys whine on the outside about having to do stuff you don’t want to do, the majority of us have learned to only whine on the inside. So, to you it looks like we’re calmly and diligently paying bills at the kitchen table. But on the inside, we’re all screaming “But I don’t waaaaaaaant toooooooooo…This is soooooo STUPID…I hate iiiiitttttttt…UUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHH…”

So, just as a heads up, let me give you a list of other annoying crap you’ll eventually have to endure and will continually whine internally about:

Grocery shopping: You know how every time you open the fridge, there is always magically edible food in there? Yeah. When you’re an adult, the only magical thing that happens when you open the fridge is that the green moss-covered leftovers from March haven’t sprouted legs yet. And the only way to correct that situation is to battle traffic, the overcrowded parking lot, the two chubby women who ALWAYS stop in the middle of the aisle to talk about something that absolutely CAN’T wait (like frosting) and then a long line manned by a 20-year-old burnout who physically can’t move faster than molasses or else they die (much like the human equivalent of the movie “Speed”).

Taxes: You know that big essay you’re assigned that counts for, like, 50 percent of your grade and your teacher gives you three weeks to work on it? So naturally you keep blowing it off until 11 p.m. the night before it’s due? That’s how it is every year for us when tax time rolls around. The only difference is that the worse thing that can happen to you is you get an F and/or detention. We, on the other hand, get slapped with “penalties” we will never be able to pay off in our lifetimes and/or jail (which is like detention but without the “Breakfast Club” whimsy).

Cleaning: Oh, you hate cleaning your room? Your ONE room? Aw…boo-hoo. Try having to clean six rooms. And no one gives you an allowance for it.

Eating healthy: You think it’s bad when mom nags you about eating brussels sprouts because they’re good for you? Try having the media endlessly nagging you about eating them because if you don’t you’ll get cancer and die. Or get fat. And then get cancer and die.

Going to work: Don’t tell anyone *looks nervously from side to side* but sometimes we fake that we’re sick too. Cough. Cough.

Dealing with bullies: That 3rd grade bully? He eventually becomes the 39-year-old balding, alcoholic bully. That sits right next to your cubicle.

Going to the DMV: Driving is cool, right? Just you and the open road. You and this wonderful machine that stands for the ultimate symbol of freedom. Except for the fact that you first have to go through all the circles of hell, including the Circle of the Eternal Line, the Circle of Finding Out You’ve Just Spent Two Hours in the Wrong Line and the Circle of Dealing With Anita, the Disgruntled Employee Who Hates You.

Insurance: The very first thing you learn as an adult is that you need insurance for everything. Your home, your car, your health, your very effing life. So, you pay thousands of dollars each year to insurance companies to “insure” you should the unthinkable happen. And then, when the unthinkable does happen, they take all those thousands of dollars you paid over all those years and deny your claim to it. Now, you may be thinking, “but wait…isn’t it MY money?” No, it is not. Because the cold sore you had when you went to the emergency room because you got hit by a car means that your intestines, which are currently hanging outside of your body, are now a pre-existing condition and that you are now at fault for the car accident even though you were actually parked at the time and the guy that hit you drove through two houses before hitting you in your parked car.

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When I tell people I ride the subway…

Posted on August 26, 2012 | Leave a comment

To read more about common misconceptions of Boston and city livin,’ check out my latest post for the Weekly Dig here.

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Top 10 Most Useless Marriage Advice

Posted on August 22, 2012 | 5 comments

10. Choose your battles.

In the end, the battles don’t matter. What matters is who wins the major wars. Let them take satisfaction in winning the “Battle of Who Does the Wednesday Chili Night Dishes.” You’ll have the last laugh when you win the “Let’s Retire in New Zealand” War.

9. If all else fails, get naked. You’ll forget what you’re fighting about.

I guarantee this works for Tom Brady and Giselle Bskdfjslkflsk or Orlando Bloom and Miranda Kerr. I’d bang any of them no matter what the hell we were fighting about if they dropped trou. But when you have a normal human body, complete with hair stubble, pimples in weird places, wobbly bits and PMS bloat, getting naked is just likely to make your partner go “What the hell are you doing? Good God, woman, we have neighbors. Put your sweatpants back on.”

8. Always be honest with each other.

I’ll grant you that being honest 85 percent of the time is healthy for your relationship. The other 15 percent should be made up of little white lies like “No, five glasses of wine is definitely not too much,” and “No, those definitely don’t qualify as man boobs” and “Yes, I’d LOVE for you to tell me all about how the “Avengers” movie differs from the comic book series.”

7. Never stop dating.

Dating sucks. That’s why you got married. So you wouldn’t have to shave, wax, bleach, bronze, dye, pluck and paint all so you can go to a crappy restaurant where the waiters wear flair on their vests. Sure, set aside special times to spend with your spouse. But don’t feel you have to, like, put on a bra or anything.

6. Put your spouse on a pedestal.

This one is just simply impossible. Especially if you share a bathroom.

5. Always say “I love you.”

Show, don’t tell. “Oh, you love me? That’s super great, hon. But if you really did, you’d pull all the dental floss the dog ate last night out of his butt.”

4. Really listen to what your partner is saying.

This is good advice unless it’s the 12th time they’ve come home from work bitching about Sharon again. Then you can just pretend to listen while you’re actually thinking about what your next tweet will be or why wasn’t it you who first came up with that ingenious Feminist Ryan Gosling meme. Because honestly all they need to do at this point is vent and if you can already list Sharon’s Top 10 Most Idiotic Statements for the Month of June, you can just pretty much zone out.

3. Never argue about money.

Are you kidding me? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? If you didn’t argue about money, chances are high all your worldly possessions would consist of a 200-inch flat screen and 800 pairs of high heels. Of course you can argue about money. Just do it smartly. And learn to compromise. Like purchasing a 72-inch flat screen and only 400 pairs of shoes instead.

2. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Unless the small stuff is his FREAKING socks that he left ALL OVER the house AGAIN because he gets a weird, perverted THRILL out of taking off his socks in EVERY GODDAMN ROOM IN THE HOUSE AND LEAVING THEM THERE UNTIL THEY DECOMPOSE OF THEIR OWN ACCORD!!!

1. Never go to bed angry.

This only works if you started fighting at 8 a.m. Sometimes you just need to go to freaking bed. Regain your strength. Obsessively go over and over ways to poke holes into their stupid argument about how the time travel in the Terminator series could totally work until you fall asleep. And then wake up, refreshed, and armed with an arsenal of new insults that emerged from your subconscious the night before.

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Let’s just table the issue, shall we?

Posted on August 14, 2012 | 3 comments

For years, my husband and I have harbored a shameful secret. A secret so hideous, so horrifying, so wholly conducive to alliteration, we have hardly dared to even whisper it out loud.

And the worst part is we have carried this secret with us from state to state, apartment to apartment, every time we move, from Ohio to Texas to now Boston. Each time, with each new set of friends and colleagues, our pain and embarrassment only growing as we again try and miserably fail to hide this…this abomination from their innocent eyes.

This shame has only increased ever since we got married and became somewhat upstanding citizens (hunchbacked citizens?). I mean, we pay taxes (occasionally), for crying out loud! We fully intend to register to vote someday probably before we die! Someday we might even be parents once Child Protective Services takes us off their Do Not Let These People Procreate Under Any Circumstances Ever list!

And yet, here we are. Two grown adults, living in our very own house that is “technically” owned by our landlord, and without a single surface to eat on or a chair to sit on that is not of the office variety.

Yes, my friends, my husband and I have never owned a set of table and chairs. For the past, oh, eight years or so, ever since we met, we have been reduced to eating on the couch like a pair of…of ANIMALS (or frat guys…same difference).

Now, you’re probably thinking, “How in the world do two grown adults go without a table and chairs for eight long years!?!” Of course, for all I know, you could be thinking “Cheese may just be the world’s most perfect food.” And I’d have to agree with you there. But for the sake of continuity, let’s assume you’re thinking the former.

It’s not like we didn’t try. We always meant to get an actual dining room set. But other, more pressing financial matters got in the way, such as paying the vet approximately three million dollars because our dumb dog tried to chew his own tail off and the fact we couldn’t live ANOTHER day without owning Rock Band 2.

Although, one time we did get as far as purchasing a second-hand table. Which we had for years. But since we had no chairs to go with it, it ended up turning into “The Giant Shelf of Random Items We Were Too Lazy to Put Away.” And then there was the winter we actually used our patio furniture as our “official” indoor table and chairs, which ended after the Great Thanksgiving Collapse of ’09. We also tried to go all bohemian a few times, making people sit on pillows on the floor as they ate off the coffee table, but that stopped once I hit 30 and the process of getting up off the floor started to resemble one of those bugs that gets caught on its back and can’t right itself.

And then…then a miracle happened. Like a deus ex machina plot twist (yeah, who didn’t pay attention in English class now, Professor Greenberg?), the hand of God himself came down from the heavens and plopped a beautiful, dark wood six-seater with red velvety chairs right in our dining room.

Or, to be more specific, our friend was moving to Chicago and said “Hey, you want this guy?”

And we did want that guy. Oh, how we wanted that guy. Finally! A place to have a nice, intimate dinner! A place for guests to actually sit and eat without our aforementioned dumb dog breathing right in their face! A place to whatever else since I need a third example thanks to that annoying “Rule of Three” writing principle!

I have to tell you, it has completely changed our lives. All two times we have used it in the past three months.

We are now officially civilized.

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Road hookin’

Posted on August 12, 2012 | 3 comments

They say that a true sign of wisdom is when you finally know just how much you don’t know. They also say it’s cliché to start an article with the phrase “they say.” But “they” can suck it. I like how it sounds.

(I also enjoy the “good news/bad news” cliché from time to time and the occasional question lede).

Anyhoo, moving on. If that is the case, then I am now about as wise as…as…uh, I don’t know…Angela Lansbury, maybe? Or perhaps the big-boobed mom from “Facts of Life.” Yeah, definitely the big-boobed mom from “Facts of Life.”

Because despite the numerous road trips I have taken across this great country of ours (like this one, or this one, or this one), I am not too proud to admit that I remained ignorant of an apparently somewhat common road tradition.

That is, until this latest 14-hour trek to the Mid-west I recently took.

It all started when I noticed that an unusually large number of trucks kept flashing their lights and honking at me as I barreled down the highway. Now, in my experience, this kind of behavior meant one of two things:

  1. There is a cop up ahead. And you are going 93 miles per hour. Slow down, dumbass. Or…
  2. Your car, which is being held together with duct tape, has something visibly and very, very wrong with it. Like your trunk just fell off.

However, after about three panick-y inspections of my vehicle at rest stops, I knew it wasn’t No. 2 and I immediately dismissed No. 1 since my car can’t go over 75 miles per hour without switching into what I like to call “Seizure Mode.”

So, I decided to call an expert, who, based on the fact that 1. she drives and 2. calls me “kiddo,” would have the answer.

“Mom? Trucks keep honking their horns at me and flashing their lights. What gives?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s how they try to get your attention when they want you to pull over at the next exit with them.”

“Why?”

“I know you’re not that naive.”

“How the hell do you know this?”

“The 80’s were a crazy time, kid.”*

Of course, seeing as how I drive a 2004 Hyundai Accent, which is technically the smallest car you can get without being a card-carrying member of the Circus Clown Car Union, I immediately dismissed what she said. There is absolutely nothing about that car that says “Hey, I’m a road hooker!”  If anything, it says “Hey, I dig doing puzzles on Saturday night with my cat!” Sure, it gets great gas mileage, but I doubt that’s what these guys are looking for.

“Wow. She gets 38 miles to the gallon? That chick must be down for a good time at a seedy truck stop!”

But then, this happened:

I’m in the left lane. Some white pick-up is in the right. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him creeping up on me. Soon, we are side by side. The truck then falls back. Repeat three times. Cut to me getting annoyed because I hate when people don’t abide by the “left is the passing lane” rule. It throws off the ENTIRE flow of traffic. So I, thinking he wants to pass me and considering my car is already in heavy “Seizure Mode,” slow down and pull into the right lane behind him. As we approach the next exit, he starts hitting his brakes. And now, I’m super-duper annoyed because this jackass just two seconds ago wanted to pass me. He then starts to get on the exit ramp and as I speed past him, he begins flashing his lights and honking his horn as he rolls off toward the exciting world of Snow Shoe, PA.

And that’s when it hit me.

I just apparently accidentally gave the international road hooker sign that said “YES! I will get off this exit with you and then we can make a bastard in some Exxon Mobile/Subway parking lot!”

I felt bad for a bit. Even though I just thought I was being a polite driver, my actions caused this poor horny pick-up driver to not only lose a good two minutes of traveling time as he wandered his way through some podunk town, but had also dashed his hopes that he would soon be able to tell his buddies he scored with some Massachusetts foreign car drivin’ slut.

And that bad feeling lasted for all of two seconds.

But then, just to bring this whole thing full circle, I realized that even though I now know about this underground road sex tradition, there is still so much more that I don’t know. Like, if you do actually get off the exit with these guys, how does it work? Do you park side by side? Do you choose the McDonald’s parking lot or Taco Bell? Or is Arby’s considered classier? Do you introduce yourselves or just get down to business? My car or yours? Afterwards, do I at least get a cup of gas station coffee in return? Or maybe a large bag of Cheetos if my performance was suitable?

So many questions. So many no-way-in-hell will I ever know the answers.

But, I guess in the end, you just have to take the good and take the bad and there you have the facts of life.**

*I may have made that last part up.

**See? So wise now.

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Bad humans! Very bad humans!

Posted on July 31, 2012 | 3 comments

By Aprill Brandon Buffy A. Summers Huddle Brandon

Greetings, worthless humans. In case you haven’t figured it out yet (which of course you haven’t because you’re worthless humans), this is not Aprill. The quote, unquote “Alpha” is busy doing stupid human stuff, like actually voluntarily taking a bath and going poo-poo in my giant water bowl.

So I, Buffy, her quote, unquote “pet,” took this opportunity to take over her blog. Now mind you, I could have done this at any time during the past eight years (the woman is about as observant as Helen Keller). But honestly, I don’t feel the same need as you nose-breathers to share every little detail of my life:

“Just scooted my butt on the floor. Now it’s time for a nap.”

Why do you people enjoy reading crap like that?

However, thanks to certain grave injustices that have recently taken place, I have had no choice but to use this rather pathetic excuse for a public forum (with all nine of her readers) to air out some grievances I have with your kind. Specifically, grievances I have with my…ugh…”owners,” but it applies to all of you vile creatures that sweat out of your…(shudder)…pores.

Now, when I first moved in with my humans, who I not-so-affectionately nicknamed Loud One and Spiky Head, it was mainly because I took pity on them. They were completely clueless. I mean, these are creatures that greet their own species by shaking hands. The same hands they use to clean up after themselves when they go potty! Which they do INSIDE THE HOUSE! Like low-life CATS! Utterly disgusting. Not to mention the food they eat. I may have eaten my fair share of sidewalk vomit but I know what they put in that fast food you all love so much thanks to the fact Loud One and Spiky Head leave talk radio on when they leave (as if THAT will trick me into thinking you didn’t just abandon me for anywhere from five minutes to five days…I’m…uh…not really that good at telling time).

Newsflash: That dead bird you just yelled at me for eating? It’s healthier than that cheeseburger you just scarfed down.

But when they kept insisting on calling me by the ridiculous moniker of Buffy, even though I told them repeatedly my name is Steve, I decided to stay simply because I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I inflicted these two idiots on any other innocent dog.

And so, things went fine for awhile besides the occassional degrading newspaper swat, which I tolerated because, well,…heh…I did, in fact, know those were her favorite shoes. But THEN, three weeks ago, they did something so unforgiveable, something so completely horrible, I had no choice but to finally speak up.

I should have known something was up when they took me to the weird-smelling place again with the mean human female who always sticks things in me. Nothing good ever happens in that place. Seriously, one time when we went there, I woke up the next day missing some VERY vital body parts.

And this time was almost as bad. Apparently obsessively chewing on your tail is now illegal in this country because I left that place wearing…I…I don’t even know if I can say it…they put…the…CONE OF SHAME on me!

Exhibit A:

The cone of shame! In the words of our biggest celebrity, Dug, I do not like the cone of shame.

And they made me wear it for no less than three weeks. Do you know how hard it is to climb stairs or eat food from the floor or not propel yourself backward at 60 miles per hour after running into the door at full speed because your haven’t quite grasped the concept that you have a contraption three times the size of your normal head around you?

And you DARE to call us the lesser species.

That kind of thing should be downright illegal. It’s just inhumane. No! Worse! It’s incanine! How would you feel if someone made you wear an embarrassing piece of plastic that made all the other dogs laugh, not to even mention the insufferable taunting from cats and squirrels.

You humans just think you’re so great. Ooooh, I have opposable thumbs! I’m so awesome! I can turn doorknobs and grab things from high shelves! But you know what? You’re not that great. In fact, you are all just glorified mailmen and we dogs could easily take over “your” world with one simple…oh, hang on. Loud One is trying to talk to me. What is it, woman? I’m busy writ…oh, what’s that? Wait. You’re spelling something. OH, OH, OH, YOU’RE SPELLING SOMETHING! I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SPELLING BUT SPELLING ALWAYS MEANS SOMETHING GOOD! ARE WE GOING FOR A WALK!? OH MY GOD, IT’S A WALK, ISN’T IT? OR A TREAT!?! IT’S A TREAT, ISN’T IT!!! AHHHH! THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!!!

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