Worse than getting rained on

The Hubbs and I are parents to an adorable dog, who we admittedly treat more like a child. Her name is Lola (go ahead, you closet Fanilow, start singing, you know you want to), and other than being an affectionate, shedding ball of love, she's also petrified of water. We learned early on to send her to a groomer for baths, to take her out before rain starts to fall, and that a squirt bottle is the best weapon against bad behavior.

A few weeks ago, we took her to a dog park by our house. She ran, she frolicked, she...got peed on pretty extensively by a Great Dane.

Trust me, yellow urine really stands out on a white coat. And the stupid thing kept standing there.

We tried to hose her off in the parking lot with one of the various bottles of water I always have around (not fun) and then took her home to give her a real bath.

I'm hoping the scratches heal eventually.

Double-blogging

So if you are interested in cool jewelry, or if you want to see what I do with my time, check out my other blog, Bejeweled Bliss. It's kind of a work in progress, and I'm still working on my etsy store, but there's a link there.

Anyway, enough shameless promotion for today.

No longer newlyweds

The Hubbs and I celebrated the big 1 year this past weekend. This means several things:
1. If we split, I don't have to return any of my gifts, including my cherry red Kitchen-Aid that has basically become a status symbol/paperweight due to my lack of kitchen prowess.
2. Those of you who owe us wedding presents (and we know who you are) are now officially late and will have a 10 percent fee added to your gift (clock's ticking, people).
3. No one can ooh and ahh at us, asking us how it feels to be married (answer: depending on the day, either freakin' cool or what-have-I-done?).

Happy Anniversary, dollface. Here's to six or seven more:)

Awkward conversation = my specialty

I stopped in to get a hot cup o' joe and my local coffee spot the other day, and while I was chatting with the barista/owner, an older guy sitting at one of the tables compliments my fabulous engagement ring.

Strange Dude: That's a really sparkly ring.
Me: Thanks. I like it.
SD: Looks a lot like the one I gave my girlfriend last week, the one that she gave back to me.
Me: *Giggles nervously*

The conversation spiraled downward from there, and I soon found out things they'd only shared with their therapist (which I also heard all about).

One more reason perhaps I should give up coffee?

Public servant = no ears?

So I'm sitting at work today, hanging out at the reference desk, and all is fairly quiet. Usually, there's the sound of kids shrieking, but it's oddly silent, except for these two moms who are sitting at one of the little mini-tables, loudly discussing the ins and outs of their sex lives. Graphically.

Because even though I'm three feet away, I have no ears.

If I wanted to hear the pitter-patter of little feet...

I'd hire a dwarf to tap dance in my kitchen.

Seriously. The hubbs and I are nearing the 1-year mark, and I still haven't figured out the best response to the "when are you guys going to have children?" question.

Normally, I'll demurely smile, bat my eyes and reply, "When it becomes socially acceptable for me to leave the little hellspawn in a crate while I am at work."

That typically ends the conversation pretty quickly.

Not that I have anything against kids. I mean, geez, I work around them all day long. Usually, I don't end up wanting to punch them in the face. Nor do I harbor any ill-will to people who have had children. I mean, my parents did, and I'm pretty glad of that.

But there are some folks who just assume you can't wait to start poppin' 'em out as soon as the ring is on your finger. And to them I say: Eff that. I would much rather spend my money on shoes and fancy coffee beverages than diapers and formula, and old-ladyish as my cardigans are, I'd really rather they not be covered in baby regurgitation.

So to answer their question, we will have a child when the Hubbs can carry it, nourish it, and most importantly, deliver it. As soon as we win the lottery and can hire a full-time nursery staff. As soon as infants start being born potty trained. As soon I can trade a baby for Manolos. As soon as they make babies with "off" buttons, and as soon as I stop wanting to throw wadded up balls of wrapping paper at ever gurgling babe I see.

Spring-ish cleaning

Shopping with my 21-year-old, 5-foot-8 and 110-pound sister is often more like a lesson in self-esteem destruction than a fun afternoon out. But every now and again, I subject myself to the resulting self-loathing, in hopes that either her skinniness, her height or her style will rub off on me.

The good thing about hitting the shops with Dear Sister is that I usually get pretty good advice about what to try. The bad thing is no matter what it is, I either end up looking like a pregnant milkmaid, an out-of-work stripper or the ultimate in soccer mom chic, and resort to buying my 35th cardigan or my 410th plain tank top.

Keeping this in mind, I was more than a little apprehensive when Dear Sister offered to help me clean out my closet.

Dear Sister: Come on, it will be fun. And you will look like you are 26 again.
Me: I'm only 25.
DS: But you're still pushing 30.

I tried on every. article. of. clothing. I. owned.

DS: Um, you need to get rid of all the Mr. Rogers sweaters. You look like a librarian.

M: I am a librarian.

DS: But you don't have to look like it.

It was an uphill battle, and needless to say, I now have a half-empty closet. At least she couldn't touch my shoes.