Who let the dogs out???

Fucking I do. All day and all night.
Dear my little 4 legged wonder Mitey [who I willingly and happily took into my home because you were so pathetic and laid on my boob (which oddly has gotten me two dogs that specific way) and looked at me with those EYES]:

But who will feed me?? Look at my EYES lady. I laid on your boob. I NEEDED someone as pathetic as you to adopt me.

I love you. Love you as only a single unmarried spinster crazy dog lady in waiting can. But Dude we have to talk. Or bark. .
I understand it must be hard being a dog what with the no opposable thumbs, who is going to feed me, can I, in fact, lick my balls all day and all the sleeping. Sleeping in the morning. Sleeping at night. Sleeping in the car. But here is the deal. One of us (Me - the owner - the Alpha dog.) likes to sleep at night. Preferably through the night. But you aren't tired at night. I wonder why? Hmmm.

I sleep like this because I have no fear, and I am a vicious pitt bull.

Or sleep on people:

There is a dent on my forehead. I am not sure why.

I am aware this is not an attractive picture of me but the dog? Is totally asleep.

Hi Grandpa. I sure am tired during the day what with keeping my Mama up all night.

I am also aware that you have separation anxiety as evidenced by the fact that:

a) Grandma who protected you left this house and NEVER came home and she protected you from me when I must beat you daily.

b) when Grandpa goes on walks you CRY because what if he LEFT you.

c) you shit in the house when we leave you. Inside. For two hours twice a week when we go to eat. What if they don't come back? Who will feed me? Who will play with me? Opposable thumbs? HELP.

d) they are currently people working on our street and if you go up there and look cute maybe they will feed you or you can steal yet another of their sandwiches (twice now).

But, really, you are a dog. Can't I get like 6 hours of sleep at night at one time?

Love,

your adoring Mama.

Yes, thank God I don't have a standard.

The answers to all of Pop's questions...

1. It is too hot to go outside.
2. No the mail is not here yet.
3. Yes I paid that bill.
4. Yes your zipper is down.
5. Yes this is how I drive - you weren't around to teach me.
6. Yes I know smoking is going to kill me. Do you know that worrying about it is going to kill you?
7. No, I don't want to discuss Glenn Beck.
8. Yes I argue. A lot. It is because I am JUST LIKE YOU.
9. Yes I can hear you.
10. Yes they can hear you.
11. Yes I know that is still there. I have something to do with it and when you move it I lose it and it doesn't get done.
12. Yes I know I have too many clothes but you wear all of my Polo shirts so quit your bitching.
13. No I am probably not getting married.
14. Yes I enjoy trashy television.
15. BECAUSE THAT IS THE WAY THAT MAMA DID IT.

I love you. Always.

Stop, Collaborate and Listen...

Pop is a good man. Really he is. So when our car (read his) was for sale and my friend came to visit with her two small children. He gave her the car with the understanding that she would pay us back and y'all can imagine the rest of the story. Yesterday, the car was wrecked. Totalled. And although he had signed the title over to her she didn't have enough money to put it in her name yet and so I guess it was wrecked in our name.
This is a good friend and I am sure she is telling the truth when she says that she explained to the police the whole story but Pop, being Pop, is worried about this to no end. He is sure, no positive, that the person who was hit (or maybe did the hitting as I don't know) is going to go after him (meaning us) for everything since the car was technically still in his name.
After hearing this for three hours - literally - I looked at that 90 year old man and actually said "Stop, collaborate and listen."
And then when we came home I gave him a stress pill.
P.S. I don't think he knows who Vanilla Ice is and thankfully he will never find out because that man's (Vanilla Ice's, not Pop's) eyebrows alone would do him in).

Check out the shaved lines in his eyebrows.

Frustrated...

I don't know how to fully explain how my world changed when my Mama died. I was ruined. Devastated. Ready to commit suicide. Really. Had planned it out. I told some friends how depressed I was - although they knew it already. I know that people have lost children and keep going ( but I barely kept going. Only and only because of Pop did I get out of bed everyday and, as I call it, "played the game." It was really great when a "friend" suggested she would load the gun for me herself. Thanks bitch.

It seems so easy for people to judge me and what I have done but none of these people have walked in my shoes. No one I know has lost their Mama and then automatically had to be in charge of a 90 year old man. I don't think anyone ever will.

So I have to decide whether I care what people think or whether I know I am doing the best that I can and, oddly for me, that is a hard decision as I normally don't care what people think.

Would you mind wobbling it a bit??

As Pop would say "would you mind wobbling it a bit?"

This is a story that was told to him during one of the worst times of his life. He was living in Toronto, had no job, no money and was depressed to put it mildly. He was taken out to eat by a friend of his who proceeded to tell him a story which has gotten him (and also me) through some rough times:

Years and years ago a man went to a pub in England and drank and drank until he could do nothing else. This was in the days before air-conditioning and lo and behold there was a theatre (look at me using the English spelling) that was "air-cooled." Stumbling drunk he bought a ticket, went to the balcony and promptly fell asleep.

When he awoke he had to urinate something horrible so, whether it was because he was so drunk and didn't care or because he was so drunk and full of beer he couldn't make it to the bathroom he opened his zipped and "let her rip" (that would be Pop's terminology). As he was receiving great relief from his decreasing bladder he heard a voice from down below.

"I say old Chap, would you mind wobbling it a bit as I seem to be getting it all."

That is how I feel right now -so would y'all mind wobbling it a bit.

Pop's 90th birthday

Thanks,
Dorothy

Are you kidding?

This morning's conversation:

Pop - "Dorothy can you come out here and smell this. Something smells bad."

Dorothy (trying to enter Scentsy orders on the computer) - "Give me a second and I'll be right there."

I come out to the living room where he smiling. I am terrified I have to clean up dog poop. I can't smell anything so I spell some air freshener (White Tea Cactus for you Scentsy people) and come back to finish entering orders and making phone calls."

Pop walks in not smiling. "Don't worry about the smell. It's me. Did I shower yesterday?"

What in the hell have I gotten myself into?

Really??

So Pop informed me last night that he planned on dying in three years. Of kidney failure. And doesn't want dialysis. Isn't that painful? Or I would kill him in a car wreck - I don't think I could live with myself if that occurs. I think that is a crappy way to decide you are going to die (this coming from a person who has always said I would be murdered) but as long as he is not in pain I'll be somewhat OK. And people wonder why I am so strange?