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Would it be okay if I crashed his “All ME All the time” weekend with my parents.

Issue Date: Monday, Oct. 16, 2006

“If my phone hangs up on you, it’s not because I think you’re stupid.”

The above quote courtesy of my sister as I was just telling her a heartfelt and tear jerking story about clipping my baby’s toenails last night.

And…. Scene.

Seriously, I typed that last Thursday afternoon, saved it for some reason then ran off for the weekend with my beloved to my parents' house for a golf and gumbo hoopla.

I’ll back up a bit so you won’t think me completely mad. (Also, I have been cheating on all of you. For the past few weeks I have been rummaging through the archives of Julia’s Journal - Here be Hippogriffs; ok, ok, ok… yes, I did start at her very first entry and have been reading them in consecutive order since the very first word. I am very Type A [read: Crazy] like that. So I have not had time to write entries for you. For the love of all that is Holy… ya’ll, I am only at July of 2006. JULY! And, I may secretly be a little in love with her. Okay, a LOT.)

Originally this past weekend was supposed to be a complete riot with women, wine, whooping and hollering. Or, um. Some sort of alliteration that has to do with a bunch of my girlfriends getting together for a small weekend, at a lake or ocean somewhere with a bunch of booze. Here’s how that went down. “Oh, I’m pregnant.” “Me too.” “Oh, there is a draught in Texas, no water, poooh.” “My… spleen (?) is swollen.” “I just had meningitis.” “I have seventeen kids and no child care.” “Ok, um… then we’ll put it off for a couple of weeks? Months? How about next year?”

So it was down to Stacey and I. (Hi Stacey!) And we were all, “We’re gonna go to San Antonio and drink on the Riverwalk and cause a ruckus and have strange men try to buy us drinks and give us small very luxurious countries just because we are hot.” And Stacey was all, “YAY! I have child care, I will escape!” And I was all, “Rock and roll!... Yes, I am old, shut up please.”

Then it was, “Well, I can actually only get child care for Saturday.” And I replied to Stacey, whom I love, “Stacey my darling, we can stay at the Dallas Westin Galleria and get pedicures and manicures and eat great food and go shopping and get a great room rate because I know people.” And again, we rejoiced.

And then on Monday of this past week…. Dum DUM DUUUUUUMMM! I got a call from Stacey. (Hi Stacey!) “Sue? Uh, [husband] has to have periodontal surgery on four wisdom teeth and two of them are impacted… because he hasn’t been to the dentist… EVER.” Me, thinking… “But he has such pretty teeth.” But saying, “Let me guess… Your child care has been thwarted.” And she replied, “Yes. Woe is me.”

Ya’ll, I had planned this weekend for months. I had even made plans for Mister to go to my parents’ house for the weekend so that the girls could all come stay at my house if we needed that option. My parents were all, “Yay! We will golf and make gumbo and have [Mister] work on our computer! Do not come with him Susan, we love him… you are second only in our love for our incredible son in law.” So I huffed, “Fine.” And then made plans for Galen to stay at the Puppy Palace so I could go have the girls’ weekend. Of DOOM.

Fast forward to Monday when all of my girl plans were foiled again, (“…And I would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for you meddling kids.” – said Mr. Witherspoon) I called Mister to see if it would be okay if I crashed his “All ME* All the time” weekend with my parents.

*And by ME, I mean HIM.

Gamely, he was totally fine with the prospect of me joining him. So I called my folks and asked if I could join their, “[Mister] Is Awesome!” weekend. They said, “Of course, we’d love to see you too… just make sure that [Mister] walks in the door first. You can wait in the car for a while, can’t you? It won’t be too much trouble, right?”

I kid, I kid. Sort of.

Holy shit. I haven’t even told you guys about our anniversary trip have I? Slacker, slacker… geeze. What the hell have I been up to?

I told you, reading her.

You guys need some attention, some love, some soft core cursing… am I right?

Next entry, the anniversary trip. With pictures maybe. Or something. Remind me.


So the weekend of my anniversary trip my parents went to the Georgia vs. Ol’ Miss game (*ahem* Sick Em DAWGS!) and before they left my mother went to drop off some food for some friends of theirs. The friends have a year old (correct me if this is wrong) Schnorkie. (?) A schnauzer-yorkie mix. And the fucking schnorkie punctured a hole in my mother’s leg when it jumped up on her. The wound bled for three days. Stupid dog.

Three days.

My mother is not a big fan of dogs anyway… or animals of any kind. Chickens? Or any type of bird? She will literally run from them. But BUT… she was so awesome to me as a child, she let me have snakes, lizards, cats, dogs, mice (my first two mice were named Donnie and Marie… shut up), a guinea pig, hamsters, gerbils, tadpoles, frogs, insects of all kinds, turtles, you name it. As long as it wasn’t a bird? I could have it in the house. (Well, the exception to the rule was, if it was a snake in the house and my father was home, it had better be dead, or soon would be.)

So, mom = awesome. But. BUT she is not a fan of dogs. Dogs jump, they scratch her and try to hump her and … for some reason, because my mother has no great love for dogs? They love her. They want to sit in her lap and lick her perfectly applied lipstick straight off of her face. And also, the stupid leg wound wasn’t reinforcing the love affair she has not been having with those of the canine persuasion.

My father? Has always wanted a black lab named Booker T. Inappropriate? Maybe. Funny? Hells to the yes.

So they are luke warm when it comes to animals. We, as a family, have had several cats that have been like family members. Katie the first family cat, and the last was Lucy… my parent’s cat when they were first married was initially named Snatch. That right there? Is a story in itself. Again, remind me later. I will tell you the family secrets.

The parents love Max and my father is excited about Galen, but they had always had a “No Pets in the House” rule so imagine my surprise when my mother called me and said that it was Ok to bring Galen with us to their house this past weekend.

I was floored. They just had new carpet put in and it was supposed to rain.

No matter, bring him.

So, I cancelled his reservations at the Puppy Palace and went and got him a new harness and a retractable leash for his walks around their yard. I was picturing us walking through the neighborhood, my faithful dog (ahem, Mister’s faithful dog) trotting and heeling perfectly by my side.

Ha ha ha. Oh my.

Wednesday evening I was home from work hanging out with Galen on the back porch of our little house. He was happy, tail wagging, tongue hanging out happy. He kept putting his little paws on my knees. I was planning on cutting Galen’s toenails that evening when Mister got home (it takes two of us to normally do it because Galen is Squirmy McBitesAlot), but he was so happy and content with me playing with his paws that I popped inside for a brief second and got the toenail clippers.

He put his little feet on my knees and I took his left paw in my hand. I clipped the middle clear toenail and then went for his black pointer toenail. He pulled away and yipped a little. I decided to wait until Mister got home to finish them so we went inside. I sat on the floor and went to give him a treat and I noticed these tiny little spots of blood on the carpet.

Yes, I cut his toenail too short and got the quick… or whatever that part is.

The poor baby. I picked him up and ran his little paw under the water faucet in the sink, that is when Mister came in the door to find me wailing and the dog in my arms looking petrified and blood all over (exaggeration) my sweater. Mister calmly took that styptic stuff and put it on the puppy’s little toenail for a few minutes while the dog looked at me reproachfully and I felt like a worm.

It was awful.

I had Friday off, and Galen still needed his toenails clipped (see also: Momma’s punctured leg wound) so I called the Puppy Palace place and they filed them down for me. Best ten bucks I have ever spent. It took them like thirty-four seconds.

Anyway, we got there with little or no incident, stopping in Canton to let Galen tinkle at the Burger King. (That sounds like he used their restroom. He did.) And arrived at my parents’ house at like 9:30 on Friday night.

As soon as we arrived we went to take Galen out of his little travel thingy and found that he had chewed through the new little harness thingy, in like less than 45 minutes. We had just stopped to let him out in Canton. He, alas, is Houdini. And my mother? Is a genius with the sewing so she had some nylon thread and fixed up his collar toute suite.

Mister and my father at an 8:40 am tee time at the country club so they got up early to go get breakfast before golfing. Oh, and can I tell ya’ll? Mister actually typed out and sent, via email, his gumbo recipe to my father… who has been knighted in the Gumbo Brother’s Circle and will reap death upon sharing the recipe with anyone who is not Mister. So, yeah, it is a very small circle, but exclusivity is the name of the game here… that and keeping the recipe a secret.

So my mother and I got up early, I basically put my pajamas on, threw some socks and tennis shoes on, put my hair in a bun and took the dog out for a walk. My mother had yet to put her make up on either so of course we started running into neighbors. When we got back to the house we fed Galen on the porch (not inside, on the porch or in the garage… just NOT INSIDE (you could see her getting anxious as I suggested putting his food dishes in the corner of the kitchen. Heh.)) and then got ready.

The guys would be back by one o’clock or so, so we waited on them in the front yard. We took Galen off of his leash, took a drink or two out front and put our lawn chairs on the drive way. We started happy hour at noon ya’ll.

My mother and I got to talk about everyone and everything and I even found this little morsel (nugget) of wisdom in our friendly banter.

Oh. My. God. My sister totally told my mother about my journal.


I made my mother swear to never try to find it because it never mentions anyone by name (Hi Stacey!) and the language is fucking** dreadful.

**Mister wants us to quit talking like sailors because he had to talk to one of his employees about her filthy mouth last week and he feels all hypocritical for telling her that her yelling, “FUCK THAT SHIT!” is not professional, when I quote Erin by saying, “You have got to be tongue-jacking my shit box!” at least twice a weekend (three times this past Sunday)… but only to him… and you all. Because I love you.

It did rain, for about twenty minutes and while it was raining the guys got back from golfing. We moved our chairs out of the way and followed them inside to have lunch and to offer our help with the gumbo preparations. We were shooed out of the kitchen so we took a drink or two more and the puppy and went back out on the driveway when it stopped raining.

Ya’ll? (And I know it is supposed to be spelled y’all, a conjunction of You and All… but my fingers just won’t do anything but ya’ll. Will you all give me this small concession and not tell the grammar Nazis? Love you, mean it.)

Ya’ll? Neighbors started coming by. I swear. I met (or got reacquainted with) six pairs of neighbors. Three of them had their dogs with them so Galen got to visit as well. We would send the men in to check on Mister and Daddy because you could smell the gumbo from Shreveport. The women would stand (we eventually just brought out more chairs and some more drinks for the ladies) and gossip. Ya’ll we had Happy Hour until 6:30 pm. Neighbors coming and going, neighbors and their dogs coming and going, I even met that shitty little schnorkie and did not (ya’ll should be proud) kick that thing square in the butt.

We finally walked around back with our little troop of neighborhood women, me and Galen so we could see how far down the lake is and found the men all sitting on the porch smoking and laughing.

When everyone left, momma, Galen and I went in and we all had dinner. It was lovely and the gumbo was delicious. My father made roux for the very first time and it was a complete success.

The dog was an angel and slept with his little paws crossed and hanging out of his little travel kennel on the way home (trick for a happy boy? Just open the door, he’ll stay in there, he just likes to know he can get out if he wants to… easy peasy.).

I love weekends like that. Visiting with friends and family. I am so looking forward to Thanksgiving.

Much love and stories on my anniversary trip… and uh, stories about Snatch later too.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

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