The Day of 1000 Tears

That was maybe a little melodramatic.  I mean, maybe there were only 500 tears.

If you haven't noticed from reading this little blog, I am a little bit into my dog.  A few weeks after Charlie was born, I was talking to Matt about how I didn't feel that overwhelming gushy love for him yet--that I loved Charlie, of course, but didn't have that heart swelling goofy love yet.  "I love him like I love you," I told Matt, to which he replied, "So you love Charlie the way you love me, but you don't love either of us the way you love Mitch?"  Yeah, kind of.

That sounds awful, doesn't it?  Shoot.  I think that I probably love them all equally, but Mitch and I are soulmates.  Plus, Mitch is like 99% positive.  He greets me at the door when I get home, he drops his furbody into the crook of my knees when we're on the couch.  He sings songs with me and eats yogurt dots with me and licks the tears off my face when I'm crying.

Oh, the crying.  I've been a little bit of a hot mess ever since I found out my Mitch needed surgery.  And it wasn't really because I feared the surgery, but it was more because I know how much he gets stressed out at the vet, and it broke my heart to think of him in some cold metal kennel without me, how he wouldn't know what was going on.  The dog is neurotic and a big weenie anyway--I mean, he cowers when you close the lid of his treat jar too loudly.

And then I did a very stupid thing and started looking up his little tumor thing online and got myself all scared and nervous about what this could mean.  Even though I know that he'll probably be fine, and I know that the vet seemed to think this was pretty routine, I didn't do a very good job of keeping my mind from going places I shouldn't let it go.

So there were some tears.

And then I got up this morning and dropped off my baby dog at the vet, and there were more tears.

And then I came home and told Matt about dropping my baby dog off at the vet, and there were more tears.

And then I got it together, went to work for 2 hours (dream work day), came home and called the vet to see how the surgery had gone.  The vet put me on hold, and this was the song that was playing as their on-hold music.



Are you f'ing kidding me?  That was the song I used to listen to when I was in high school and wanted to cry.  Great.  Also, vet, don't let that song come on ever again.

So, duh, more tears.

And then Matt tried to cheer me up by having me look at these 21 Pictures That Will Restore Your Faith in Humanity.  He said they'd cheered him up earlier.  And they were quite heartwarming, but in a sad happy kind of way.  Like, the second one was about Japanese senior citizens who volunteered to go into the nuclear plant so that young people wouldn't expose themselves to radiation.

Cue the waterworks.

So Matt showed me this commercial.



More tears.

And then Matt had to call the vet to check on Mitch because I was too much of a mess.

Mitch was fine, but groggy.  More tears.   This time just because.

So while until the time that I could go get him, we watched part of the HBO documentary about George H.W. Bush.  What part did we catch?  Oh, just the part about how his 4-year old daughter died from leukemia.  Jesus H. Christ!

Finally, I got to go get my pup, and when they brought him out he was wobbly and pitiful.  He immediately plopped down on the floor and his vision must've been fuzzy because he didn't really respond to me at first, but then after about minute he smelled me and stood up and his tail started wagging and he seemed happier.  Still the most pitiful thing you've ever seen, with his light whimpers and lampshade and watery eyes.  He was crying, too!

I told you were are soulmates!

I'm so grateful that I have time off work to spend at home with my sweet furbaby, and the 10 days that he'll have to wear his cone collar can't go by fast enough.

Please send him your love and happiest of thoughts!

Mitchouette

Brace yourself, because you're about to see something that rivals the porcelain roller skate for the title of greatest thing of all time.

Last week I posted about how obsessed I've become with Fire Hydrant Press on Etsy.  After communicating with the shopkeeper (Is that what you call people who have Etsy shops?  If not, it should be.) about American Dingo/Husky silhouettes, I realized that there didn't exist a stock photo that looked exactly like my little Mitchell, my dog dream come true, the E.T. to my Elliott.

[source]

Except that this would never happen because Mitch hates bicycles. 

So I decided to go the route of the custom silhouette, where I could send in a picture of Mitch that she would use to create the silhouette.

I sent in this picture (taken the day I found a special surprise on the picnic table).

And she made this.

And I love it with my heart and with my soul. 

What do you think?  Do you kind of want to steal this image and put it on a tshirt?  Or a tote bag? 

We need a nap.

We're not sad, just tired.

We have had a long week, and the self-improvement plan permits naps on Fridays and Saturdays.

See you in about three hours.

XOXO

Mandy and Mitch (a.k.a. E.T. and Elliot)

Coma Naps

Today I had a terrifying experience. I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing at 7:35 (I have to be at school by 7:30 a.m.). I panicked, jumped out of bed, and began to get ready for school. Of course, I woke up at 7:35 p.m., and I was just coming out of one of my famous coma naps.

The coma nap is one of my favorite things to do. I'm a good sleeper, and I sleep best between the hours of 3-10 p.m.

And let's not forget, people, that we're in a recession. Naps are free!

My coma naps usually go something like this: I get home from school around 3:00, tired.

And then I look at Mitch and see that he is also tired. (We are E.T. and Elliot.)

Then we lay down in the bed for a snuggle nap. First Mitch has to retrieve a bone he's buried somewhere in my bed.

And then we sleep, usually for 3-4 hours. If you try to call me between 3:30 and 8:30, and I don't answer, there's a good chance that I am in a coma.

Naps have been an important part of my daily routine since I was in high school. My body likes them, and they make me very, very happy. When Matt and I have the "to-have-kids or not-to-have-kids" discussion, one of my many reasons not to have them is because I would no longer enjoy these naps. I know that it sounds selfish or dumb, but I don't care.

So unless someone can guarantee me a child with narcolepsy (who also comes out potty-trained, intelligent, well-adjusted, and cleaning the house), it's a no go.