Night time temperatures are dipping again this week, but Jerry the Rhodesian Fridgesnack has great pyjamas…

Almostgotit’s friend Deb heard of Wubby II’s recent demise, and came by to deliver Wubby III.  Wasn’t that kind of her?

SURPRISE, JERRY!

Deb is pretty sure that mean old Mr. Gomez won’t come out and kill this Wubby.  Look how fierce this Wubby is! 

Deb did not know it, but she brought Wubby III over on Jerry’s birthday.  Jerry the Rhodesian Fridgesnack is now three years old.  And he LOVES his new Wubby!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JERRY!  

And THANK YOU, DEB!

Martha Stewart I am not, but for weeks I’ve been occupied with rearranging or throwing out everything in my house that isn’t bolted down.  Pathological or no, it has been an empowering experience.

We’ve been exploring power a lot in our house lately.  My 12-year-old was tickled to no end to discover a website that proves how lame her parents are.  First it was the reading glasses, and now she knows I’m losing my hearing, too. 

Mr. Almostgotit and I have been discussing and rearranging the household chores, too, in light of his increasing hours, my decreasing ones, and certain, less-measurable feelings about who has to wear the apron in the family vs. who gets to wear the pants.

Even the dog is getting in on the action, having suddenly decided that his beloved minion, Wubby, no longer deserved to have either a nose or eyes.  Wubby intends to sue. 

Jerry lending aid and comfort

I am so glad January is over.

First I was sick, then my daughter was sick, then my husband was sick, then I got sick AGAIN.  Our house was like a giant TB ward with hacking, miserable bodies laying around everywhere, including the floor. 

In the midst of which I had two enormous deadlines.  I never have deadlines.  Why would I? Unemployed people don’t have deadlines!

Except when they are on their death beds, apparently.

I also had these terrible dreams, like the one where I had two hours to pack my entire house into a few suitcases and NO ONE would help me.  Or the other one where I was late for work but I had NO IDEA where my job was or what I was supposed to do once I got there–even if I COULD ever get my house packed into those suitcases.

I was so glad when my husband finally got sick.  Not because he was sick, but because (if you follow me here) it meant I’d really been sick, too.  

Fortunately though, I was a great comfort to him in his time of trial.  For instance, I looked at him one day when he was coughing his lungs out and clearly dying, and said brightly:  ”Wow, I really feel validated now.  You are really SICK.  I guess I was not just a MALINGERER last week after all!!” 

Overcome by my great sensitivity and understanding, he was immediately healed.  He then jumped up and made me a cup of tea, rubbed my back for several hours, brought me chocolate and made reservations for the two of us to have a romantic recuperation in Hawaii.   

Ha.

Hey. You blog for your reasons.  I’ll blog for mine.

Now I ask you.  Is this any way to treat a poor, stoned dog? 

I leave the helpless animal alone with my 12-year-old daughter for ten minutes, and this is what happens. 

This is why mothers have such mixed feelings about childcare. 

Where was my Nanny-Cam when I needed it? 

This is the pitiful, drugged-out creature parked in a chair next to my computer today.  Jerry had surgery on his paw this morning, and doesn’t want to eat, or drink, or move.  Just gives a pitiful little whine every now and then.

It’s just a wee bit hard to concentrate on my work.

Do you want a drink? A popsicle?  Should I turn up the heat?  Can I get you something to read?  I keep asking him, as I plump up his pillows.  I have several bottles of pills for him, too, which he can’t have until he eats something.

Are you ready to eat yet?  A sausage sandwich, maybe?  Would you like one of the cats?

Pitiful.

I have a deadline in two days, too.  So what do I do… take him to childcare?  Hire a sitter? 

Maybe I should just tell him to snap out of it.  Hey! Come on, Buddy!  You think your life is tough?!?  It was just a glorified HANGnail, for goodness sake.  Get over yourself already!  Hey!  Up and at ‘em!!

Aww, shucks…

January has drizzled and dripped into the Almostgotit home. 

Knoxville’s paper announced today that several hundred more people in our city are about to lose their jobs as more companies go under. 

Tennessee’s economy gets worse and worse, as does the nation’s economy in general, while outside it rains and rains and RAINS.

We were so fortunate to be able to travel West to spend a long holiday with family, though, and have been so blessed to spend many recent evenings in front of the fire here, as well, with good friends. 

I still don’t have a JOB-job, though this month I do have some editing work.  My husband’s job is reasonably secure.  We have enough to eat, and the world’s most wonderful woodstove to keep us warm. 

Plus also a loveable, very naughty dog who WILL not stay off the furniture.

(Translation: YUM.)

I had a tiny bite, and admit it was better than the other place, at least.  But I’m just never going to be a cupcake fan.  In fact, I think we all just need to face the fact that

Says Ms. Manifesto, who has been reading my blog again.  And on a final note:

Indeed.  Now give me back my camera, kid.

The tattooed guy leaning out of his pick-up to admire my dog surely meant well.  Not that I actually saw his tattoo, but I know he had one.  The problem was, he was talking about my dog, and see: I would never own a pit bull!

My friends told me to get a dog.  It had been a hard year, and I’d never felt more alone in my life.  It seems I wasn’t alone in this feeling, though, as several of my friends had also been similarly abandoned in various ways (by husbands for instance, or employers, or a little of both.)  “Get a dog,”  they advised. “It will love you unconditionally, and help plug the holes.” 

I was a little skeptical.

I grew up with dogs.  (And cats.  And birds.  Also nice little rodents, chickens, ducks, and a very large goose.  A one-winged seagull, for a while.  We were one of the weirder families in our subdivision….)

In my house now, we have two cats already, and the nice thing about them is they come already basically trained.   But I knew that dogs had to be housebroken, and trained to sit, and that you can’t just leave them alone for a couple of days with a dish of food and a litter box.  Also,  you  never quite know what you’re getting with a dog.  I knew that, too.  Once upon a time, many years ago, we had Steve.  Steve was a pound puppy and there was something wrong with him (besides his name, I mean).  I swear we didn’t beat him or anything, but he started biting people.  I’m sure it didn’t help that we had one neighbor who teased him with a stick, and another who once tried to shoot him when he got out of our fence (YES.  WE’VE MOVED.)  We had small kids though, so Steve couldn’t stay.  That broke my heart, and shook my confidence as well.  So no more dogs.

But last fall we got Jerry (so named by family committee, which should say a lot about committees in general).  I thought about getting a real dog this time, from a breeder, but was unable to resist my own inbred preference for lost-cause animals.  I told the humane society folks that I wanted a medium-sized, mellow dog.  We discussed getting an adult dog, but I was worried about dealing with an unknown history.  Besides, our kids wanted a puppy, and there was this wriggling little pile of “boxer-mix” pups that were too hard to resist.  Thence came Jerry.

He’s already past the “medium-sized” category, and still growing.  He jumps on people. He jumps on everything.  He eats everything, too, including the kitchen floor.  He’s hard to walk on a leash, even with a prong collar.  We’ve consulted with dog trainers.  We’ve tried the “gentle leader” collar that people swear by.  We’ve tried saying “no” (doesn’t work) kneeing him in the chest (doesn’t work) and ignoring him (doesn’t work either).   The dog trainer smiles weakly and tells us she’s sure he’ll get better when he’s older.  The vet just laughs. 

He’s a boxer mix, though.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.