What the Heck is This????

So, like the complete narcissist I am I was googling “Blog of Becky” to see if anyone had talked about me.

Yes. I’m stuck up. WHATEVER. Y’all know you do it, too. There’s just something so gratifying about it…

At any rate, I found this WEIRD mirror site of my blog… it’s kind of my blog… but not quite…. It’s the same content, only it’s now in weird, semi-illiterate Jane Eyre/Pride and Prejudice type English.

Can anyone tell me what this is?

My REAL blog post

Strange, vaguely mesmerizing version of my blog post

Ugh. Now that I’ve reread both of them, I think the weird version is actually more fun to read. How sad is that?

James spent the terminal digit hours of my agitate hollering out, “You dislike black people! You told me you wouldn’t help me any beverage because I’m BLACK!” at the crowning of his lungs to anyone who happened to stray nearby him. Ha, ha, ha. I guess it serves me correct for making the jape in the prototypal place. Karma had its revenge, and I scholarly a rattling priceless lesson.

It did serve me right for making the jape, and in such a prototypal place. SIGH. I definitely scholarly a rattling, priceless lesson.

Advertisements

The Reality of Sex

Attention non-18 year old, innocent readers of this blog:

Here is a baby unicorn. Please stare at that and read no further.

Okay, now that I’ve successfully thwarted the underage….

Do you know what I wish Hollywood would show?

I wish they would show the reality of sex.

I wish they would show one of those actresses with her perfect body trying to peel off her too-tight jeans before getting all jiggy with her lover.

Is there a sexy way to do this I don’t know about?

Hollywood always shows them sexily peeling off their shirt (I can do that):

Then they show them arching their backs and sliding their jeans slowly over their rear (I can do that, too)….

And then the camera cuts away to something else. When the camera pans back… voila! They are instantly depantsed and posing all sexy in their underwear.

I want to know what happens in between! How did they get their pants past their knees and completely off without looking like a moron? Did they have to do that weird one-legged hopping thing? I mean, if the pants are baggy that’s one thing, but has anyone else out there tried to be sexy when stripping out of their too-tight jeans?

You can only try to be sexy and slide them down so far before things start to go wrong.

They can get stuck around your big bum and then you have to do that side-to-side wriggle to get them off.

They can pool up around your ankles and trap you. This is always the worst.  When this happens, you really only have two options:

  1. If you are close enough to a chair/bed, then you can sit down and try to suck in your belly as you lean over to pull them off like thick, clunky, pantyhose.
  2. If there’s nowhere convenient to sit you can try to use one foot to step on the pants while pulling the other leg free. Sometimes this works.

Sometimes it doesn’t.

In fact, most of the time it doesn’t.

Even though it’s easy to do this when you’re by yourself, once someone is staring at you the pants leg INEVITABLY sticks to your foot.

Now, instead of sexily sliding your legs free and pretending you’re Salma Hayek, you’ve got an inside-out pant leg clamped tightly to your ankle. Good luck trying to be sexy while escaping from THAT prison. At this point it’s best to give up all pretense at being sexy/attractive and just do your best to free yourself.

No longer are you the romantic heroine in your own person fantasy— now you’re one of the Three Stooges.

Am I the only one that has problems with this?

Don’t even get me started on those Hollywood scenes where the two young lovers lie down fully clothed, start making out, gently tug at each other’s waistbands, AND THEN IN THE NEXT SCENE THEY’RE NAKED.

NO.

IT DOES NOT HAPPEN LIKE THAT.

HOLLYWOOD, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF. YOU ARE SELLING LIES.

If I can’t even manage to escape from my big, baggy, plaid pajama pants without fumbling, there is NO WAY IN THE WORLD both movie stars managed to remove shoes, socks, belts, shirts, bra, tight jeans and underwear without losing their rhythm at least once.

Uh-uh.  Nope.

I’m not buying it.

Once, just ONCE, I would like to see the truth.

Guy kisses girl.

The kissing gets passionate, and pretty soon guy and girl start looking for a place to lay down for some Bow-Chicka-Wow-Wow time:

One thing leads to another, and the clothes start flying off. (Sorry, I know in the photo I chose James Bond already has his shirt off… but that’s because it’s James Bond. He’s not ever allowed to wear a shirt.)

The girl laughs as she struggles with her pants, and the button of his dress shirt gets caught on his ear as he tries to pull it off.

Things are at a fever pitch and the passion is hot.

Bow-Chicka—- SCREEEECH! (The soundtrack stops).

“Hold on. My underwear’s caught on my ankles.”

Mrs. Girl looks sheepish, but that’s the honest truth. She wasn’t wiggling because she was so into it.  Well, she was, but mostly she was just trying to free herself from her cottony ankle trap.

“Oh, sure. No problem.” Mr. Guy leans back, and does his best to pick at this remaining sock with his free toe. After all, one sock off, one sock on? That’s not sexy. But then again, his feet are kind of cold. Hmm. Dilemmas. Oh, well. No time for that! After a few moments of embarrassed wriggling, Mrs. Girl is free.

Bow-ChickaWo—- SCREEECH! (The music comes to a halt again.)

“Wait… where’s the condom? It was just right here. Crap. It’s hiding. Where is it?” Search, search, search…. Blankets are thrown back, pillows are moved around. “Huh. Well, I’ve got extras in the medicine cabinet.” They both stare at each other, willing the other to get up and go get them. Finally one of them capitulates. Anti-baby device is installed.

Bow-Chicka-Wow-Wo —- SCREEECH!

“OW! My eye! You just hit my eye with your elbow!”

“SORRY! I don’t have my glasses on! I’ve got bad depth perception without my glasses!”

“OW!”

“You’re the one that wanted to change positions!”

Bow-Chicka-Wow-Wow
! (Finally!)

And then comes the best part. Do you know what else Hollywood never shows? The awkward post Bow-Chicka-Wow-Wow moments.

You know what I’m talking about – those fun little moments after the cuddling is done but there’s still clean-up to be done?

It’s cold. Where’s my underwear? Here’s yours, where are mine? Do you want your pants? I have to pee, do you want me to get you a glass of water while I’m up? Ewww, you sleep in the wet spot. I had to last time.

These are the realities of sex, not that perfect lie sold to us by the camera panning back and forth and editing out all the weird parts. Let’s all unite, raise our fists, and holler out the truth! Sex can be kind of…well, awkward!

Oh, never mind.  That’s a terrible rallying cry, even if it’s the truth.  And the truth is… sex can be tons o’ fun (well, DUH), passionate, and a beautiful, emotionally-bonding experience… but it’s not exactly effortless. You can be the best dancer in the world, but even dancers have their off days and step on each other’s toes, or get out of breath, or they just plain can’t figure out what in the world their partner is asking them to do (“You want me to do WHAT? Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how LATE it is?“)

And don’t EVEN get me started on the weird noises that sometimes happen. I double-DOG dare Hollywood to show some of that in one of their oh-so-perfect movies.

Where I Am Now: Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

The first thing to decide was who to tell.

Thankfully, The Bean and I both agreed: the less people that knew, the better. It’s hard enough to make tough decisions without the clamoring voices of your family spitting out a waterfall of loving advice.

Besides, if I knew that if I were to miscarry I would want to deal with my grief in private. There are many ways to describe a large, loving Mexican family. “Private” is definitely not one of them.

The Bean had mentioned to his parents that he had been seeing someone but hadn’t really gone into much detail. With the news of our pregnancy, we decided that it might be nice to give them a chance to meet me before they found out they were going to have a grandchild.

Besides, I wanted them to be able to give an honest opinion to the Bean in case they hated me. I figured that if they knew I was pregnant they would never be able to do that.

As for my side of the family… well, I hadn’t even told my mom that I was seeing anybody. While I had dragged the Bean with me to their house one evening for dinner, it had been done under the guise of friendship. I knew that she would never guess that we were dating because of one simple fact: The Bean is shorter than me.

Okay, maybe it’s not that bad.

Its only about 2 or so inches, but the height difference is still there. I’m tall for a woman (5’9 for my American readers, and 175 centimeters for all you weird people who don’t base your units of measurement on the smelly foot of a deceased British king). My mom, on the other hand, is 5’2″ (157 cm).  I don’t think it even crossed her mind I would date someone who wasn’t at least as tall as me.

Height has never interested me when choosing a guy. I’m more interested in the size of their big, sexy brains. Still, I knew that The Bean wouldn’t even cross my mother’s radar. He was short. Of course he was just a friend!

(Admit it. You guys are jealous of my mad photoshop skiiiillz!)

The next day, while The Bean arranged the whole “Hey, you should come down and meet my new girlfriend” visit, I went over to my mom’s house to start the process of breaking the news that I was pregnant. I mean, you can’t just go drop a bomb like that. You have to start slooowly.

After the din of the yelping ratdogs announcing my arrival quieted down, I grabbed a basket of laundry and started nervously folding. “So, how’ve you been?”

“Busy. Here, Becky, give me a corner of the sheet, I’ll help. Hey, are you busy at the end of the month? I need a hand taking people out on the boat and your stepdad is busy.”

“Huh? Sure. No problem,” I said absently. “So, guess what?” I said in my most enthusiastic and totally not-pregnant voice.

“What?”

“I don’t think I’ve told you,” (Ha-ha. We both knew I hadn’t told her), “but I’m kind of seeing someone.”

My mom dropped her corner of the sheet and honed in on me. “Seeing someone? What? Who? When? How long? Who is it?”

“Oh, remember The Bean? You met him, remember?”

I watched her reach back into the recesses of her memory. “No…. No I don’t think I have.”

“Yes you did, remember? I brought him by here for dinner one night? He’s the guy who sells cars and likes to sail?”

It took awhile. “Wait. The short guy?”

“He’s not that short,” I said defensively. “Yeah. Him. He’s really nice. I like him.” Enough to make babies with him. Speaking of babies, I literally have one in my uterus. Right now.  Your grandchild is about 2 feet in front of you.

She picked the sheet back up, folding it slowly. “So, you like him?” I could see her searching for the right words. “He’s, uh, nice?”

“Really nice. He’s got a great sense of humor, and he’s so comfortable to be with.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” She continued folding, disapproval radiating off of her in waves. Her youngest daughter broke up with the good-looking, well-off, 6’2″ Christian boyfriend to start hanging with a short car salesman she knew nothing about?

Still, I have to give her points for trying to filter her feelings.

“So, this, uh, Bean…. It’s going well? How long has it been?”

Long enough to get knocked up. “Oh, a bit. Couple of months.” That sounded respectable, right? “And it’s going great!” I tried for that enthusiastic tone again. I mean, if I was going to break the news in a couple of weeks I had to build a firm foundation, right?

“Really.” Fold, fold, fold. “So, do you really think it’s going to go somewhere? I mean, is this serious? Do you think you could see yourself with this guy for the rest of your life?” She fixed her eyes on me again, eyebrows raised.

“Well, yes, actually. I dunno, I just have this gut instinct that this might be a pretty long-term relationship.”

That wasn’t a lie, right? I mean, your gut and your uterus are pretty close together, right?

The rest of the afternoon went off without anything serious happening. I hugged her goodbye, bending down to kiss her cheek. I drove home and met up with The Bean to compare notes. So far, so good!

The next morning I woke up and did my best to feel pregnant. Aside from being constantly sleepy I had no outward signs of pregnancy. I called up my sister to gloat, pleased that I had somehow managed to escape the whole morning sickness thing. She asked me how far along I was. When I told her 5 weeks, she laughed at me and told me to quit jinxing myself.

That evening I went out and bought What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I curled up on the couch, reading it in fascination as the delicious scent of my neighbor’s cooking floated gently into my windows. Mmmmm! One of these days I was going to have to go downstairs and become friends with my neighbor. He always made what smelled like the most delicious meals! What was tonight’s? Teriyaki chicken? MMMMmMm!

The next morning I woke up and tried to feel pregnant again. Nope. I still felt like plain ol‘ me. I worked a long day shift at the bar, and came home in exhaustion. Curling up on my ancient, creaky Murphy bed, I wrinkled my nose. Tonight my neighbor seemed to be experimenting with his food. What was that smell? Curry? Onion? Oh well.

The next morning I woke up and felt vaguely queasy. Yaay! I really was pregnant! Cool! It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I went through my day, vaguely aware of a low-lying state of nausea, but that was about it.

Until I came home that night and discovered that my downstairs neighbor had apparently cooked up sweaty feet for dinner.

disgusting smell Pictures, Images and Photos

Gagging, I bolted for the toilet, hugging it for about an hour. I never managed to throw up. I just hovered riiiiight on the edge. You know that feeling you get when you are about to throw up? The one that happens as you lift the toilet seat, lean over, and prepare to make a call on the porcelain telephone?

A cold chill runs up your spine, and every single hair on your arms and legs stands up as if you’re trying to frighten away a predator. Your mouth suddenly becomes very full of spit, and your forehead beads up with a hot, nervous sweat.

Yeah, that feeling.

For the record, from that morning on I felt like that. All day. All night. I even dreamed about vomit. For 8 weeks straight, I lived right on that edge of puking.

 The only respite I got was if I actually managed to throw up. If I threw up (and how I looked forward to actually throwing up!) then I would have about 15 minutes of feeling “alright”. I’m convinced that the pregnancy glow people talk about is really just a farce. It’s just that you’re so used to seeing the woman tinged green during the first trimester that when she regains a bit of normalcy she looks FANTASTIC!

I tried everything. I tried sea bands, ginger pills, crackers, ginger ale, 7-up, wrist-pressure techniques, ice cubes, nibbling, starving, drinking, standing on my head…. I TRIED EVERYTHING. If I constantly nibbled (NEVER STOPPING, AND NEVER ALLOWING MY STOMACH TO GET EVEN REMOTELY EMPTY), chewed ice, wore my sea bands, and sipped 7-Up then I could keep the puking down to about 2 times a day. (Nausea plagued me all the way through my pregnancy, but it was only that first trimester that was unlivable.)

I grew to hate my stupid, ugly, downstairs, constantly-cooking neighbor. I mean, I REALLY hated my neighbor. As far as I could tell, every night he boiled gym socks and horse pee for dinner. The Bean assures me that wasn’t the case, but I think he’s lying. I know what I smelled.

It was about 2 weeks into this hell that I realized I had promised my mother I would help her go sailing. I also knew that she would immediately know that I was pregnant if I threw up. I’ve never had a history of nausea out on the water, and you can’t beat the intuition of a mother, specifically my mother.

Armed with sea bands, crackers, and a whole bunch of nervous prayer, I drove my way down to the docks….

Where I am Now: Part 2

Part 1

Tell him?

Not tell him?

Wait until I hit the 12th week “probably no miscarriage” mark and then tell him?

Call him up right now, sobbing with the news?

Never talk to him again?

Frankly, I’m not sure how I managed to drive the car back to my apartment without getting in a huge wreck. My mind was racing, but in a slow, steady, muddled kind of a way. Every time it started to rev up and get going, that whole “YOU’RE PREGNANT” thing would get in the way and shock it into stopping.

Skip forward a couple of hours.

Skip forward past me breaking the news in desperation to my sister, and her telling me I’d be an idiot if I didn’t tell The Bean the truth, that very night.

Skip past his phone call telling me he was on his way over, his tired voice complaining about the flu I had passed on to him and how very long his day had been.

Buddy, you have no idea how long your day is about to become.

Fast forward to The Bean plopping himself down in a fever-ridden exhaustion on my couch, eyes closed and neck lolling.

“I feel awful. Unnnngggh….” He groaned theatrically, only half-joking, and blinked over at me wearily as I perched awkwardly on the couch beside him, back uncomfortably straight.

“Yeah? You’re still sick?” I picked at the corner of the pillow beside me, the knees of my jeans, my own fingernails.

“I think I have a fever.” He tipped his head back again, eyes closed. “Is that soup I smell?”

“Huh?” Pick, pick. “Oh. Yeah. Soup. Yeah, I made soup today.”

Silence.

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again.

Silence.

I picked at the cushion some more, watching him from beneath my eyelashes. C’mon, already. Ask me what’s wrong….

Silence.

Heavy breathing.

Wait a second… was he asleep? Seriously? I looked over at him, at his slightly gaping mouth and even breathing. Asleep? Couldn’t he see the anxiety radiating off of me in waves?

I opened my mouth and took the plunge.

“So, I got some news today,” I stated loudly, watching him jump slightly as he jolted back to consciousness. I waited for him to open his eyes and focus on me. It took a few seconds (I found out later that his fever really was well over 102), but I finally had his attention, or as much of his attention as he was able to give me.

“Hmm?” He made an effort to sit up slightly and appear vaguely interested.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty decent news. Um. Fairly big, I mean. News, that is. Um. I guess, well…” I trailed off, trying to come up with an angle to soften the blow. Ah-hah! Appeal to his financial side! “Uh, well, you know how you were just complaining about taxes?”

“Hmmmm.”

“Well, maybe, uh, I might have a way for you to save money next year.”

“Hmmm?”

“Uh, yeah. Like, maybe in October? A tax break? You know?” I sat there, staring at him, willing him to count the months, do the math, figure it out.

“Hmmm.”

His eyes began closing again. Frustrated, I tried to be a little more direct. “Yeah. You know. Like, a third party tax write-off. As in, ANOTHER PERSON. A tiny, loud tax write-off. In October.” I sat there and watched him try to figure it out…. and watched him fail.

Sigh. “I’m pregnant.”

That got his attention. “Wait. What? Pregnant?” He sat up, staring at me. I edged closer to the end of the couch, putting more space between us.

“Yeah. In October,” I said, gesturing, emphatically. “Plenty of time for the next tax season,” I joked lamely.

He stared at me in fever-ridden confusion, and then said something truly stupid. “But I didn’t even know you in October.”

“The baby will be BORN in October,” I said coldly. Visions of butcher knives being slammed into his eyeballs calmed me slightly, but not by much. “And what do you mean, you didn’t know me in October? Are you trying insinuate something?”

Standing, I began pacing the room, clutching my pillow to my chest as I waited for his answer. I could throw this pillow at him first, and then head for the kitchen… there’s plenty of things that could do some damage if I actually managed to make contact with that STUPID head of his… pots… pans…the refrigerator…

“No, no, no,” The Bean backpedaled, “I was, uh, just confused. I mean, uh. Wow. Pregnant.” He shook his head from side to side, looking puzzled.

Slightly mollified, I sat down lightly on the couch again. “Pregnant.” I’m pretty sure I said it in the same tone of voice as one might say “Head Lice” or “Overdue Parking ticket”.

I buried my face in my hands, looking up as I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, Becky, it’s okay. This is a good thing.” He paused, searching my face. “It’s a good thing, right?”

“I guess,” I said sullenly, glaring at him. I didn’t even know you in October? STUPID MAN. “What are we going to do?”

He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

I pulled away from him and angrily swiped at the fat tears rolling down my face. “Sure. I guess. Whatever.” Pregnancy hormones— they are truly frightening.

The Bean sighed, and grabbed my hand, holding it. “It’s a good thing,” he reminded me in the calm, easy tones you’d use on crazy people and rabid dogs.

His knee bumped against mine, the heat and weight of it somehow reassuring.

“We don’t have to figure this out right now, Becky. We’ll figure it out as we go.” He paused, took a deep breath, and blew it out shakily. “Pregnant.”

“Yeah. I know. Pregnant.”

His hand tightened, fingers interlacing with mine. We both leaned back, sitting side by side and silent on the beige couch. It was a good thing.

Somebody call Child Protection Services

The DragonMonkey tugs at my knees, whining.

“Meeeeh! MEEEhhhhhbwaaaat bwaaaaat MEEEH!” He doesn’t exactly say words yet, but the face and the tone say it all. Pick me up! Play with me! I’m bored!

Sighing, I push away from the computer desk, taking care not to trip over the Expensive Toy #37 that he never actually plays with, frowning at the explosion of torn paper, kitchen utensils and clean diapers that now coat my floor. Maybe I should just give up and buy diapers as toys? What’s the point of buying all the brightly-colored, bilingual, brain-building toys if he never actually touches them?

“Upsy-daisy!” I cry in a falsely cheerful voice as I swoop him into the air. I may be bored of playing toss-the-baby but he doesn’t need to know that.

The DragonMonkey immediately giggles.

“Upsy-daisy! Whoop! Up-Up! Arriba! Yip!” I throw him in the air time after time, smiling as his giggles turn into deep belly laughter. He could do this all day and never get tired of it.

Me? My arms are screaming at me to put him down, triceps doing their tell-tale tremble that lets me know I’ll pay for this tomorrow morning.

I try to lower him to the ground, and his good mood vanishes instantly. Laughter turns to a high-pitched squeal, and he draws his knees up to his chest, avoiding the ground.

I sigh, and lift him back up to my hip. I know I’m probably creating a whiny little brat, but it’s been a long day and I’m just too tired to deal with disciplining him at the moment.

I make a couple of faces at him, and he stares back at me blandly.

Tough crowd.

“DragonMonkey, Mama can’t toss you all day. She’s got flabby old lady arms. It hurts.”

He stares at me pointedly, lip trembling.

This is going south, fast.

On a whim I hold him close to my body and spin in a tight circle, stopping to watch his reaction.

He grins widely, then flaps his arms in excitement.

“Baaat! BWAAT!” Apparently “bwat” is toddler-ese for “Yes, mother, that was a very enjoyable experience. Please, shall we do it again? I would be ever so thankful.”

Obediently, I tuck him close to my body and spin in several circles. This time even I get a little dizzy. As soon as I stop I place him on his hands and knees to watch his reaction.

He’s grinning widely, eyes wide in wonder. I laugh out loud as I watch him swivel his head around in a vague circle as he does his best to follow the spinning room. When his own personal roller coaster stops he stands up slowly, waits to regain his balance, and then dashes to me as fast as his chubby legs will toddle him. “BWAT. BWAAAAT,” he orders imperiously, tugging at my pants again.

Ever obedient, I pick him up, tuck him in, and proceed to spin. I decide to push things a little further this time, spinning faster and longer, until I’m almost too dizzy to stand. Grinning in anticipation, I place him carefully on his hands and knees.

“MwaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAH!” He bursts into terrified tears, head spinning wildly on his scrawny neck.

Ooops. Too much. I’ve spun the baby too much.

Before I can reach down to grab him, he pushes himself into a standing position and (still howling) bolts straight into the corner of the fridge. He knocks himself so hard on his forehead that his feet fly out from underneath him and he hits the back of his head on the linoleum floor.

Oh yeah. It’s mine. Don’t even argue about this one.

Noisy Cocker Spaniel for Sale

Would anyone like to buy my noisy, noisy, oh-so-noisy cocker spaniel?

He’s a very nice dog.

He only pees in the house when he feels neglected or left out.

He’s crate-trained, but unfortunately he’s not very stoic. He’ll wake you up, whining in the middle of the night.

You’ll stagger out of bed to let him out of the kennel, and he dart out, slamming against door frames and walls, claws skittering against the wood floors. He’ll scramble for the door like his tail stump is on fire, body tense and eager as he bolts straight outside—- to take a drink of water.

When you’re thirsty, you’re thirsty, I guess.

Oh, and if he drinks water, you’ll be woken up in about 2 hours for him to go pee.

When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. I guess.

(Note: Do not ignore his whining, or you will be doing laundry and washing a dog the next morning.)

He’s sweet, but not very bright. He’s great with cats, kids, and babies, but did I mention he’s not very bright at all?

He’s not very bright. AT ALL.

In fact, would anyone like to buy my sweet, but very stupid cocker spaniel? He’s for sale! The first person who can promise me a full nights sleep can have him for a nickel!

Last night the DragonMonkey slept through the night. This is a rare occurrence in this household, and is usually accompanied the following morning by much cheering and celebration.

This morning I did not feel rested.

This is due in no small part to Max, the world’s nosiest dog with the world’s tiniest bladder.

After my third time getting up out of bed to meet his drinking and peeing needs, I decided to just leave the back door open and let him roam around the living room. I knew I was taking a chance that he might get into the baby’s toy box (also known as THE BOX THAT HOLDS ALL OF THE TASTIEST DOG TOYS IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE), but after my third time up I really didn’t care.

He could have eaten the sofa and I wouldn’t have minded, so long as I could get some sleep.

Surprisingly, he was very good about not chewing on anything. In fact, he didn’t make any messes at all.

What he did was become extremely depressed that he was stuck out in the cold, desolate, people-abandoned land known formerly known as the living room.

Here is a photo of Max and the DragonMonkey in the living room during the day:

Here is the living room at night, as it appears to Max:

Apparently, without humans the living room is a barren wasteland.

Apparently, without humans the living room is a torturous, depressing place to be.

Apparently, without humans, the only way you can survive the desperate, frightening feeling of being abandoned in the living room is to SIGH.

A lot.

Big, deep, gusty, riddled-with-depression SIIIIIIIIIIIGHs.

Seriously, how do you yell at a dog for sighing? You can’t, really, especially when they’re as dumb as Max is. All you can do is hope for it go away.

So I did that. I lay in my bed, pressing my pillow over my head, and listened to the symphony of noises that Max made all night long.

Tick, tick, tick, tick! (<— the enthusiastic sound of his nails on the hardwood floors as he approached our bedroom door. I try to keep them trimmed, but they grow at an absurdly fast rate.) Pause. (<— I swear I could actively hear him STRAINING to hear the sound of us waking up.) SNIIIIIIFFFF SNUUUUUFLE SCHLUUUFFF SNIFFFF. (<— the sound of him sniffing beneath the crack of the door, making sure we were still in there.) SIIIIIIIIIIGH. (The sound of him sinking into a depression. Apparently Mistress Becky and that guy who follows her around were still in the bedroom. But the door was closed. That must mean that they don’t love him. At all. They must hate him. They’ve abandoned him. The whole woooorld has abandoned him. He’s all alone, now. Forever. He’ll probably get eaten by wolves, but it won’t really matter, because he has no reason to live anymore.)

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. (<—the slow, melancholy sound of him returning to The Barren Wasteland Formerly Known As The Living Room.) Once there, he would completely ignore the $50 dog bed with its orthopedic mattress and fluffy cover. Who can sleep on a comfortable bed when there's no point in even living anymore? SIIIIIGH.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick (<— the sound of him making about 37 circles as he tries to fluff up the hardwood floors into something comfortable.) THUMP! (Flopping down onto the floor.)

SIIIIIGH.

Pause.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Pause.

Realize the floor is actually uncomfortable. Perhaps he didn’t circle enough.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, FLOP! SIIIIIIIIGH!

I raise my head off the pillow, hopeful at the 30 seconds of silence from the living room. Sleep! At last! I turn over to my side, and steal back some of the covers from The Bean.

The sound of me rolling over echoes into the living room like a gunshot.

Tick, tick, tick, tick! Max trots down the hallway, enthusiastic. He heard something! He heard something in the cave that Mistress Becky has hidden herself in! He will be there to greet her as she comes out! She is testing his loyalty, and he will not be found wanting!

Pause. (The sound of his ear-muscles cracking and popping as he strains them.)

SIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH.

Repeat previous actions. ALL NIGHT LONG.

Does anyone want a noisy, tick-ticking, sighing cocker spaniel? Please?

Yaaaay!

I’m cooking poop!

It smells GREAT in here!

I’m so glad that I’m here, at home with my clogged toilet… and not out there working one of those real, office-type jobs where I’d have to worry about a paycheck, or Casual Fridays, or office birthday parties where people bring in yard-long cakes with butter cream frosting.

Nope!

I get to be bitten by a teething DragonMonkey and boil water to cook the poop in my ferociously stinky, almost-overflowing toilet!

Yaaaay!