Puppy Power!

So things are going swimmingly in the personal life and seriously there will be pleasant introductions in the near future, but there are more pressing matters to deal with right now. Mainly, can anyone tell me why Parsnip is the biggest wuss in the known universe? Because as Britney Spears would say, "She is, for reals, y'all."

I took her (Parsnip, not Britney. Although I think Brit could use a little time away from K Fed.) to a cookout Friday night and there were lots of puppies present (The list of suspects: Murphy, Beast, Fiona, Guy, and Hailey. I love puppy names!) and they were all very pleased to have a new pup in the mix. Except that that new pup was TERRIFIED of them and looked longingly at her momma the WHOLE night. I spent the entire time either holding her or passing her off to another nice young lady who understood my delimna. I'm pretty sure she would have taken Parsnip home with her, if it weren't for the fact that Fiona, Guy, and Hailey all already lived with her.

I have pictures of Parsnip looking terrified, but they're not on this computer, so just do me a favor and imagine my little baby miserable and that's how she looked all night. I'm starting to think that she doesn't realize she is a dog. She aboslutely refused to sniff the other dog's butts and barely tolerated their interested sniffing. She refused to run with them. And when I went inside to use the bathroom, she clung to my leg and asked, "Why momma? Why????"

Another part of the problem is that Beast had a little crush on her. Beast is a chihuaua/pug mix (lovingly referred to as a "chug") and he's not the prettiest fellow around. He's all gangly and weird with his smooshed in face. So I don't think he gets a lot of attention from the ladies. So when he saw the beauty that is Parsnip, he just had to get to know her better. He followed her around everywhere she went and was very, VERY interested in getting to know her better. (He was also interested in getting to know my wine and spilled a large portion of it on my shirt. Thanks Beast!) And I've been pretty careful to keep Parsnip sheltered and away from boy dogs. I didn't want her growing up too fast and being a woman of the world, so she's wholly unprepared to deal with members of the opposite sex. It got to the point, that everytime Beast came near Parsnip, she growled at him. I'm going to have to teach her how to flirt, apparently. If I can't have babies, maybe my dog will!

Yo Momma

Main Entry: ma·tron
Pronunciation: 'mA-tr&n
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English matrone, from Middle French, from Latin matrona, from matr-, mater
1 a : a married woman usually marked by dignified maturity or social distinction b : a woman who supervises women or children (as in a school or police station) c : the chief officer in a women's organization
2 : a female animal kept for breeding

BGF says that I'm not matronly, therefore I will not be a good mother. I'm not sure what being a matron has to do with being a mom, but in his mind, it does. Did he mean maternal? I don't know. But he said "matronly." And then I punched him in the face.

That is all.

Sweet Seventeen

I went to the doctor yesterday for my 6 month check up, because how else would he get my business if he didn’t make me come in every 6 months so he could read the notes from my previous visit to me? It’s really a lot of fun to go in there and sit while Dr. Hotstuff glances up at me as he very literally reads off our history together. It’s a beautiful moment, one in which I shed a little tear and we both smile in anticipation of our future together. Either that or I sit there bored while he reads the chart, bored, and then we do the usual “Let me look at your ears and throat and say doctorly things like, ‘Tonsils look a little swollen. You’ve got some red streaks in your throat.’” He says that EVERY time, y’all. EVERY.SINGLE.TIME. Apparently my tonsils are in a constantly swollen state and my throat is constantly irritated. Occasionally he’ll throw in a new little doozy like, “Your left sinus is completely swollen shut. How do you breathe?” It’s time like those I’m so glad I picked my doctor by the scientific method of choosing the first on the list. Nothing like a little research to really get the best physician around.

So yesterday was proving to be pretty normal except for the fact that this little old lady was sitting in the lobby with gauze stuck in her mouth, patiently bleeding onto her chin. I felt really guilty because she reached out in anticipation when the nurse came to call me and the nurse, being the kind woman that she is, shut her down completely. I mean, I’m not sure how you blow off a little old lady with bloody gauze in her mouth and then smile about it later, but she did it. It was AMAZING. I made a mental note to be extra nice to this one.

Anyway, normal doctor’s visit. I got weighed while refusing to look at the scale. I had my blood pressure checked and found it was normal. I sat on the (new!) uncomfortable bench thingy and crunched up paper. I laid down and dreamed about how I hate my doctor when I was left alone. Normal.

So then Dr. Hotstuff came in and we began our dance. He always asks if I’m in school or working. I always tell him I’m working. He always asks how life’s treating me. I always say, “Fine.” He always wants to know if I “feel” good. I always say I “feel” fine. But today something different happened. After “breathing for the stethoscope” time, he says, “You’ve lost a lot of weight!”

What? Who? Huh? This is new! He noticed something!?

He went on to ask me about what I’ve done to lose the weight and I was really nervous that he was going to tell me that I was doing it all wrong and putting my health at risk. Or that my heartbeat was somehow completely screwed up because I do too much cardio or something. I realize that sounds stupid at this point, but at the time it made a lot of sense to me.

Fortunately, he wasn’t asking to chastise, he was asking because he was proud of me. He proceeded to go on and on about how I lost the weight the right way and that he doesn’t see this very often and how amazing it was and that I should get a gold star and by the way, he loved my hair. I was all, “Thanks Dr. Hotstuff! I noticed my pants were smaller!” So he was like, “Do you know how much weight you’ve lost?” And I said, “No.” And he looked at that chart (that I now adore) and said the magical words that every girl wants to hear, “Seventeen pounds.”

!?

Seventeen pounds!? That’s the number after 16! That’s 3 from 20! 17! Seven-freaking-teen! I had NO idea. None. I’ve lost almost 20 pounds! I somehow managed to control myself and not do the patented Cora happy dance when he told me. How, am I not sure. Apparently I do have a modicum of self-restraint and dignity and every once in a while. I was all giggly after that and I barely managed to hear him compliment my hair and talk about how different I looked. I just kept going, “Seventeen! Seventeen!” over and over again in my head. Oh well. I don’t think he noticed, because Dr. Hotstuff? Not so much with the patient/doctor relationship. Which is fine, because seriously? Seventeen is the best number EVER.

I've got the fever!

Let’s talk about babies, shall we? I’ve never liked them. I’ve always been immune to their chubby cheeks and thighs, tiny toes, and big, wondering eyes. Usually, I see a kid and go, “Eh.” They’ve never been my cup of tea. Partially because I’m scared of breaking the small ones and partially because I’m annoyed by the older ones. And I’ve always felt like this....those tiny curls could not melt my cold, stone heart. I didn’t watch commercials and go, “What a cute kid!” Whenever I'm around children talking and screaming and running and whatever it is that children do, I get annoyed. I hate sitting by kids in restaurants because they're obnoxious. I want to tell them to stop moving around and get a life already. I’ve never been openly mean to them, don’t get me wrong. I’m not THAT evil. But I’ve never sought out children’s attention and pretty much ignored them when I saw them.

Until now.

I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it is the neverending string of pregnancies in the office. Perhaps it’s my biological clock finally starting to tick-tock. Perhaps my parents’ prayers have finally been answered. But I want BABIES. I want to smother little faces with kisses and tickle their bellies and goo goo and gah gah all over them. I want to buy tiny shoes and cute little onesies. I want to pack 20 pounds of extra baggage, just so a kid can go places with me. And it is FREAKING ME OUT.

What in the world? There is no good reason for this sudden infatuation I have with little ones. But now when I see kids....I’m sighing, y’all. SIGHING. I’m like, “Look at the cute kid! Isn’t she adorable?” And then I immediately begin dressing my imaginary kid with ruffles and bows and other things that she'll roll her eyes at when she gets older. I want curls! I want bangs! I want diapers for crying out loud. I think cheerios are cute and I think it’s fun to feed babies. I get excited when I see BGF’s nephew because he likes me and so then I do everything in my power to make that little boy smile ALL THE TIME. Gah!

And the worst part is, I can’t stop it. I can’t control it. It’s getting WORSE. Soon, I’m going to be wandering over to the baby section of Target, just to “browse.” I’m going to start tracking down strollers instead of running far, far away from them. I'm going to start enjoying the company of children! Nooooo! This can't be happenning!

But you know...wouldn't it be so cute if my kids had red hair?

Play Ball

I went to a Dragon's game tonight courtesy of my employer. I love it when my bosses decide to not use their tickets because then I get to feel like a pimp because they always get good seats every season. And then I get to go and bask in the glory of being front and center for all the action. It's a tough job, but someone has to do it.
My personal favorite of the night was stalking a particular outfielder who, as I learned from my Dayton Dragon magazine thingy, was in the military, but just so darn good in sports that they let him out of active duty. Which...fair? Not so much. Good for my eyes? Definitely. I spent at least an hour trying to get a good shot of his butt. Boy needed to get more hits, obviously. Anyway, this shot (of Number 9) will have to do until I can meet him in person and can then obnoxiously take pictures from behind at a very close range. Because I'm prone to doing that kind of a thing. Seriously. That's how I roll.
We spent most of the night trying to NOT be on camera, and were pretty successful at our goal. It's hard work avoiding the spotlight when you're this gorgeous.
My poor co-worker next to me was not so lucky. She's approximately 18 months pregnant, so the look on her face when he shined the camera on her was priceless. I'm surprised he was willing to risk and life and limb for that kind of a shot. Apparently he has not spent a lot of time around hormonal women. Poor guy. He'll learn. Someday. I didn't get a shot of them on the big screen, but just pretend there is a pissed off pregnant lady on the jumbo screen.
But, of course, the best part of the evening were the Dippin' Dots in the Dragon's ball cap. Tasty chocoately morsels of frozen ice cream goodness. What more could a girl possibly want?
:sigh: What more could a girl need, you say? A hot date, possibly? Well good thing I had that too!

Historic sunburning

My company was filmed for a television show on the History Channel today. Which is cool because I've always wanted to be a star on the History Channel. Except not at all. The girl who sits next to me was shocked that the people behind the cameras were young. She told me that her boyfriend makes her watch all this stuff on that channel and she expected everyone who worked for them to be old. I smiled and nodded because this was right after she asked me who invented ticks. (The bloodsucking, parasitic kind, not the Taylor Hicks quirky kind.)

Anyway, the entire experience was something of a letdown because I didn't get filmed. At all. They were avoiding my part of the office like the plague...as if watching a bunch of people sending e-mails and pretending it's work isn't compelling telelvision! In the end, it turned out okay that I wasn't given my big media break. Not because I wasn't prepared, oh no. I had purposefully gone to bed early last night, with a very cute and business-like outfit picked out and carefully hung in my bathroom to insure lack of wrinklage. I even switched purses so that I would match and look highly professional, yet sexy and young. And then I woke up this morning and realized that my scalp had revolted.

Except I didn't notice immediately. And as I mentioned before, I managed to miss a very critical section of skin right at my hairline. So I went to put make up on it to help cover up the redness and then realized that skin was sort of (gross, I know) hanging off of it. And by then it was too late and the dead skin had become Cliniqe-i-fied and so there was no going back. I was going to have dead skin the color of my foundation laughing at me all day. What do you do? I mean, what do you do? Do you let it naturally leave you as all things in this world will one day? Or do you force it from your body in an act of power over nature?

I decided to just let it go its own way because it wasn't a battle I felt fighting. I did, however, comb my hair over in my best possible Donald Trump impression. It was awesome. And you will never see it because I will not be on TV. Bummer. But it must have look slightly different because the president of the company passed by me and said, "Your hair's different." Yes, thank you for noticing the haircut I got A MONTH ago.

In other news,

Parsnip didn't give me these.