Dip-peddy-doo-da!

I've decided to take a break from the rather heavy topics I've been writing about lately. There's a topic I've been had on the shelf that I wanted to write about and I think now is the perfect time to blog about the new addition to our family, Little Miss Dipping Dot!

First a little history; my seven year-old step daughter had been terrified of pets since I met her at the age of three. Less than a year ago, I came downstairs and found her in tears. When I asked her what was wrong, she cried harder and pointed in the general direction of the cat. Our cat Magic was just sitting calmly on the floor on the other side of the room. Once I got her to calm down I asked her what the cat had done to make her so upset.

"He's, he's, he's..." she choked through tears. ".... looking at me!!"

What do you say to something like that???

I said, "It's okay, he creeps me out sometimes too with those buggy little eyes!"

I gave her a hug and did my best to make light of the situation.

Around Christmas time, she got it into her head that she wanted a puppy. I thought this request was very out of character for her, but Minute Man and I gave it some consideration. After giving her several opportunities to interact with other dogs and puppies, we decided that she really just liked the idea of getting a puppy for Christmas.

On Christmas Eve Santa wrote a letter at our dining room table explaining that because he was always watching he could see that she wasn't quite ready for a puppy yet. However, Santa promised if she tried harder to get over her fear of the cat, he would bring her a puppy.

Recently, Minute Man's sister came to stay with us for a couple weeks and she brought with her a small dog. Girl Child did remarkably well with the dog and even showed affection to the cat as well.

I started thinking, maybe it was time to revisit the idea of getting a puppy. (I secretly wanted one too because I spend so many nights alone and the idea of a companion that didn't look like it was plotting against me from across the room seemed appealing.)

I started checking the local shelters and one day I came across this picture of a three-legged chihuahua terrier mix. I emailed it to Minute Man with little hope that he would respond.

To my surprise, he asked me about the email a few days later.

"I got that email you sent," he mentioned casually. "Why that dog?"

"I thought that dog would be perfect for your daughter because she'll need a dog that she doesn't feel threatened by and I figured how much less threatening could a three-legged chihuahua be?"

Minute Man didn't say much and I figured that was the end of that.

Wrong again!

A week later, I got home from work and Minute Man threw me into the car and sped me away to an undisclosed location. When we arrived at the shelter he looked at me and said, "They still have our dog."

I couldn't believe it! This little blond bombshell bounded out the door and into my arms. She covered my face with kisses, like I was her long lost friend. It was love at first sight!!

We took her for a walk and learned a little more about her. She was rescued from an over crowded shelter in Alabama after the tornadoes hit. Her front leg had been lost in the disaster, but this seven month old puppy was still quite in tack in spirit.

I wanted to take her home with us, but I knew she needed to win Girl Child over first. I still didn't want to get my hopes up, but it was getting harder and harder not to do after the visit.

A few days later I came home to a kitchen littered with puppy toys and a little girl's voice calling to me from in the living room.

"We have a surprise for you..."

Little Dipping Dot (the name the shelter gave her) came tearing around the corner, butt wiggling and prancing all around.

We thought about giving her a new name but we all agreed that Dipping Dot was pretty fitting, seeing she dips when she walks. Still wanting to give her a new name with her new home, we decided on Dippy. (Sometimes I call her Dip-peddy-doo-da! when we play)

Girl Child was a little shy to warm up to her but the key seemed to be to let her hold the leash when we went out on walks. I think it gave her a sense of control and helped build her confidence. Now she refers to Dippy as her "bestest friend" !!

I love happy endings to new beginnings!

Ripped Apart

As a little girl my father was indeed a hero. I like to think this is the case with most little girls. I remember trying to grab his beer when I was three and my mother quickly intercepted. Dad argued though. .. ....

"Just let her have a sip," he said.

He handed me the beer bottle and I took a giant swig. I made a this-tastes-yucky face and never asked for beer again - even now I still don't care for it.

I remember a camping trip we went on when I wasw four. I was working hard on my sticker book and when I went to peel a sticker off its sheet it ripped apart. I was distressed and felt tears welling up from inside knowing I only had myself to blame.

Dad told me not to worry, I watched as he carefully peiced the two ripped halves together in their designated spots. Any man that could fix something like that was obviously a hero in my book!

However, these are the only memories I have of my father before the age of five when my parents divorced. He worked nights and was genererally not around. For a while there, I was actually convinced that the reverend at churh was my father.

It wasn't until my father said good-bye to the family that I actually began to get to know him.

One day, when I was five my mother asked me who I wanted to live with; her or my father. Of course, I picked her because she was the only parent I really knew.

Dad was waiting for me out in the shed. He told me to come sit on his lap and I did. He seemed different that day from any other day that I had known him and when I looked at him I saw tears welling up in his deep blue eyes for the first time. I was confused and nervous.

I don't think he said much. The only thing I remember him saying was good-bye as he held me close. I felt his body shake with sobs as he squeezed my body against his chest.  He let me go and I wiped the tears from his face.

"Good-bye daddy," I told him and walked away very unsure of what was happening to my family.

 It was clear we were being ripped apart like the stickers in my book, but I knew he would find a way to peice us back together again.

Braving the Storm

It took me a long time to even be able to start putting down words on this matter. As I struggled against the walls that withheld access to the emotions regarding my deceased father, I started to feel angry at my sister for asking me to write his story. She had years of therapy to deal with the trauma he put her through. Me though? Nah, I don't talk about it much. Maybe I should write it down though because writing is the only therapy that's ever really helped me - and maybe writing his story will better help me understand my own:

Dad worked the night shift at the mill when I was a little girl. He slept through most of the days and departed early in the evening. I never saw much of him really. He never joined us at family outings and he spent a lot of time with his friends on the weekends.

My memories of him before the divorce were pretty limited.

I remember great big bonfires in our backyard on Maple Street, where all the neighbors were invited. It was like a small community. We ate the vegetables directly out of the garden and everyone brought something to share. All the neighborhood kids would run free, playing hide and seek or capture the flag in the shadowy summer nights, while the adults would swizzle beer and smoke the other “vegetables” that grew in the garden.

Days weren’t much different. The neighborhood children were governed by the oldest kids and all ran together in one big unbridled pack of dirt smeared faces and grass-stained knees.

(Still notice how I have failed to mention Dad? Don’t worry, I’m warming up to it.)

One late summer afternoon, my brother Shawn and I were out digging holes in the neighbors garden. However dark clouds overthrew a sunny summer sky within a matter of seconds without any warning. Thunder clapped and Shawn bolted like lightning back toward the house. Because I was only three and lacked a general sense of direction, and because my dim witted brother didn’t bother himself with making sure I was able to keep up with him, I quickly lost my bearings and didn’t know how to get back to our house.

Under a blackened sky, my wind and rain pelted body shook with each increasingly loud crack from the sky. Lightning flashed inches in front of my face and I became paralyzed with fear.

I stood under an apple tree, wailing along with the storm, hopeless and deserted. The rain came down in thick sheets making it difficult to see, but within minutes I was able to make out a white tee-shirt and a familiar mullet-shaped head running in my direction!

My father dashed through the field and snatched me up into his arms. He was enormous, by the way, and my little body was wrapped up completely within his long lean arms.

“Don’t worry, I gotcha!” he said.

I guess it might not sound like much, but I remember that moment as the first time I knew no matter how severe the weather, my father would always brave the storm for me.    

Resurrecting the Dead

My sister called me early this morning with a request that leaves me feeling smack dab in the middle of a moral dilemma.

"My son wants to know who his grandfather really was," she explained. "He was only six when Dad died and I want you to write down a few stories about him so I can put together a scrap book for Justin's wedding present."

*Awkward silence*

"Hello?"

"I don't know if I can do that," I answered. "I mean really Stacy, what am I supposed to write about? How about the time Dad got me high when I was twelve? Or how about that time he brought the bar home with him when it closed and I woke up to strangers fornicating in my bed? Or maybe you would like me to write about the time I witnessed him pissing into a box on the kitchen floor??"

"He wants to know who his grandfaher Really was," Stacy persisted. "and you're the writer in the family. Please, I want you to tell his story through your eyes."

"Okay, but I'm not sugar-coating anything," I told her.

"I'm not asking you to," she replied. "Just write down a few stories."

"Alright." I agreed softly.

The writer in me says tell the story, the good, the bad, the ugly. The aunt, the sister, and the daughter in me says I should not defile the dead.

Now here I am, staring at another blank page wondering what events I should bring back to life and which ones should stay buried.

Wordly Wednesday!

 

Welcome to another inconsistent episode of Wordly Wednesday!! I started putting this post together last week but it never got posted. To refresh your memory, last week I posted “Boobies on the Brain” and it was SO inspiring that my dear hubby decided to weigh in on the matter.

In regards to cup size he wrote: “B's are good when you’re in grade school or when you want to make honey. C's are just average according to wifey’s research …. That would make D's above average. I’m above average.”

Great comment Minute Man! You know what? You inspire me too, which brings me to my first hand chosen Urban Dictionary word:

boob monger - A term used only by women and gay men to denote men who are highly attracted to breasts.

Urban Dictionary rating: like

My rating: like

I like this term because it adds a prehistoric feel to the term that describes man’s primitive obsession with boobies. (I bet Captain Caveman was a boob monger.)

Next we have:

egotwistical – 1.) A hybrid of the words egotistical and twisted. 2.) An adjective describing one who has become so ultimately consumed by their ego, that their entire view of the world and everyone in it is twisted. They usually perceive themselves as 'God's Gift to Women’, or are just plain sick as well as cocky.
                        

Urban Dictionary rating: like

My rating: what’s not to like?

This is a great play on words! I love the hybrids I find on this site that stimulates creative use of everyday vocabulary.   

Tittilicious – Marked by the effect of great titties.

Urban Dictionary rating: like

My rating: ok

I’ll admit this word does hold demeaning qualities but it is kinda cute. (Just like Minute Man!)

Fuckwit - A person who is not only lacking in clue but is apparently unable or unwilling to acquire clue even when handed it on a plate in generous portions.

Urban Dictionary rating: like

My rating: like

I just really felt a deep appreciation for this word emanating right from the core of my being. It’s one of those words that just meshes easily with one’s soul. Oh yes, fuckwit is a word that immediately bonded with my permanent vocabulary.

Tittie Hangover - When you are unexpectedly flashed an amazing pair of titties so early in the day that by the end of the night you're stuck longing for more and they're nowhere to be found.

Now it’s time for the Wordly Wednesday Challenge, where I attempt to use all of the featured words together in harmony.

Once upon a time there was a little fuckwit who believed anything she was told because her brain was basically empty and unable to retain permanent information.

Fortunately, she was tittilicious and no man could resist her amazing set of perky boobies. She was told that she could make a living stripping on stage for the boob mongers.

Not long after little fuckwit hit the club scene; she fell in love with a sleazy egotwistical politician that tricked her into giving him all of her money. (It was the easiest job he ever had.)

However, little fuckwit learned well from the egotwistical politician’s conniving ways and she used his weakness for amazing boobies against him by putting him on Tittie Lockdown. She refused to give the politician access to her titties until he gave her all her money back and signed a contract that we would never cheat her out of her hard earned money ever again.  

The End

Genius or Jerk?

I feel sad because I've had so little time for Blogger these past weeks. Work has been crazy. My staff has gone from six employees to twenty two! I've been at the Inn every day for the past three weeks with little to no time for myself.

I"m starting to feel severe Blogger withdrawal symptoms... sweaty palms, shortness of breath, not enough alcohol intake. I've got it bad for Bloggy! So tonight I thought I would squeeze off a quickie - work related of course!

I want my fellow bloggers to weigh in on this applicant that had me wondering if he was a genius or a jerk.

This fella shows up in my boss's office and informs her that he has an interview with me. So she called me to tell me my applicant was here for an interview.

"I don't have an interview scheduled for this time," I told her.

I could hear her talking to him on the other end telling him what I had just told her. She quickly gets back on the phone.

"He says he spoke to someone here that wanted to meet with him for an interview," she said.

"Well, it wasn't me," I told her.

I could hear her asking him for the name of the person that asked him to come in. She got back on the phone with me.

"He doesn't know who he spoke to but seeing he is here now can you just come up and speak to him?"

I can't say no to the boss, so I went to meet with this guy whose name doesn't even ring the fainest of bells. I took a few minutes to speak with the young man from Brazil and actually really like him.

When our meeting was over I started shifting through my applications to see if he had indeed applied. I found his application in with the newest collection of papers on my desk. He had applied two days before and I'm positive, by the location of his application, that nobody else had seen it, which MEANS nobody had called this young man for an interview, which MEANS.... HE LIED!!

This guy blatantly walked into my boss's office and virtually demanded an interview - and he got it!

On one hand I'm very annoyed with his tactics and on the other hand I'm sorta impressed. It was underhanded, but it also showed great determination. In the end, I decided I didn't want any dishonest employees working in my department.

Would you have made the same decision?

Boobies on the Brain

Why are men obsessed with big boobies? My husband's boss's wife recently got a boob job. It seemed Minute Man couldn't wait to tell me all about it. She's Asian and she felt her boobies were too small and she wanted bigger boobies. Ok, I get that.

I started feeling a bit jealous though - not because she got a boob job. Well, yes because she got a boob job but I wasn't jealous about the boobies. I was jealous that her man would splurge on her when my man works his ass off for the bar and I get stuck mowing the lawn, weeding the garden, doing the laundry, washing the dishes all by myself while he is out busting his ass for the American dollar. Most wives that sacrifice time with their husbands and take on the household and family obligations of their man usually get compensated with jewelry, a lawn boy, or - a boob job! I get none of that!! All I get is, "Hey honey can you take the trash to the dump today??"

After letting this fester for a few days, I asked him: "Where's my boob job!"

This was my first mistake. Of course, I didn't really mean "boob job". I meant bling-bling, perks, compensation!!

Clearly, I lost him on boob job. His face lit up as he entered into a fantasy imagination playground while his eyes danced across my chest.

"We can make them bigger..." he said.

"That's not what I meant!" I said but he had begun to foam at the mouth and I realized the conservation was a lost cause.

Two days later, he sent me a link to a breast augmentation doctor in a text message!!

Now I was Really pissed. My boobies are great! They're not big and they're not small. They're nice middle of the road boobies with an above average level of perkiness. These boobies have even inspired poetry from men than have only been lucky even to glimpse at my phenomenal cleavage. I wish I saved it actually, it was quite good something about "nascent rubies sit upon round firm boobies"

Actually! I DID save it!! AND... I found it!! Here it is in its entirety:

Rabbit girl, cute and petite
Makes me think you are so sweet.
You are smart, and write so well,
This poem may send me right to hell.

Next week I’m gone—three days it’s true
No email, phone, or lunch with you.
I’ll go away, it’s true I must
But I still crave your naked bust.

Pinkish nips, like nascent rubies,
Sit upon firm round boobies?
I’ve not seen such; that much is true
And you tell me not to think so of you.

You blush, you frown, you’re worried now
Creases form upon your brow.
And sparks might be emerging soon
Should I hide, run for the moon?

And me, I wonder if this time
I’ve gone too far, you’ll drop a dime.
Or be real mad and stomp my feet
Or even worse refuse to eat

Lunch with me; those could be over
I’m out to pasture—but not in clover.
Taking a chance with this poem to you
Could cause my life to be more blue.

But even though it could be insane
To forward you this long refrain,
It seems I still should say, I must
T’wood be sublime to see your bust.

My response to the Boobie Poet:

To my friend I must request,
You refrain from thoughts of my breast,
Round and firm they may be,
But never for your eyes to see,
Perhaps you think this too much to ask,
Indeed it will be a trying task,
To banish my boobies from your mind,
Will surely indeed take some time,
But in between now and then,
No more booby poems should you send,

Okay, I got a bit off course there. Back to the real issue at hand...

I slept with a slut once (I didn't know he was a slut until after BTW) and he even commented on what perfect (and yes he used the word perfect) nipples I had. Now, when I found out just how many women this man whore had banged and thought about all the boobies he must have seen in his lifetime and he thought mine were "perfect" well, let's just say my chest swelled with pride.

Even women stare. When Jane had a little too much to drink at last year's company Christmas party I caught her staring at my cleavage. She then openly admitted that my boobies were "amazing."

So we have a recorded collection of "perfect" and "amazing" and let's not forget "nascent rubies" and my husband has the nerve to suggest I tamper with perfection??

There were three words that came to mind when I read that text: Dead Man Walking. However, I wanted to make sure I gave him enough rope to hang himself with so I texted him back...

"Oh you're kidding right?"

Now he still has time to save himself here if he starts back pedaling right now which he does....

"I thought you were serious the other day when you asked about getting a boob job..."

"No! Not serious! But if you think they need to be bigger I can put some thought into it."

Here's the moment of truth people. His fate depends greatly on his next text message.

"(smoochy face) boobies ! Bigger (OMG face) hmmm (light bulb) yes (ok hand signal) please (praying hands) with me on top (lovey face)"

My response to Dead Man Walking:

"I've put some thought into it and I've decided you're a DOG. You belong in the DOG HOUSE... with a very short leash...and one of those electric zap collars that shocks you every time you're about to cross the line and say something stupid!!"

Ok, so I baited him. It was like giving a loaded gun to a child and expecting them not to shoot themselves. I'm not saying it was fair. All I'm saying is by the end of the week I had jewelry and a new riding lawn mower!