It wasn’t planned nor intended, but man it felt great! Taking a week off from the computer - Yes! computer, not just blogging - was a Godsend. I have doe so much around the house and even more shopping to complete things in need of completing prior to The Baby’s arrival: mind you there is a boat load of more things to be completed, but I’m far better off then I was a week ago.

Nesting instincts have begun to rear their (ugly) head. It’s really a catch 22 because I am supposed to be off work early to be resting but instead I’ve been like a little worker bee and running my hinney off for 5 straight days. I’m exhausted. But I figure the more I get done more, the more I can rest after - before baby, of course.

I almost feel as though I should be doing stuff rather then sitting around relaxing all day with Carter still in daycare and Mike working. With today being the first day I haven’t filled with tasks taking me out of the house, I’ve watched about 20 minutes of television (since daytime TV bites The Big One) and this chair at my desktop is already killing my lady bits. (I HAVE to get a wireless router soon - since work let me keep my laptop while I’m off! *wOOt* Then I can blog and design from just about anywhere - like my backyard!) I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself aside from reading all the great books that have been suggested and blogging.

I just feel guilty and bored.

Already.

I’ve only been off work for four days.

Nothing really new here - baby’s not early and I’ve just been ‘playing’ the dutiful housewife for the past couple days. But! I will be blogging more regularly, promise!

Oh, and I HATE my cat. Utterly despise him.

But that’s a story for tomorrow.

* Prelude: There is a lot of mention of Big Brother at the beginning, but I swear this is a legitimate post! Just bare with it, m’kay? *

After wading through episode upon episode of DVR’d Dora, Diego and Thomas and Friends, I finally came upon my beloved Big Brother.

[Seriously, not even two yet and my kid's already dominating the DVR! It's! NOT! Fair!]

As I became engrossed in every episode (since I’m behind about a week = 6 episodes), train wreck after train wreck, I realized that from the 7 out of 8 seasons I’ve watched, this is the saddest bunch of fame hungry weirdos I’ve seen yet. They all drive me bat shit crazy. Seriously. There isn’t one person in that house I wouldn’t want to beat the crap out of. Except Nick and Mike, they could have beaten me. As long as they didn’t talk. I am so disenchanted with this season, but yet it’s so hard to look away!

The one person that drives me the most bat shit crazy (besides Jen because she’s a given.) is Amber. I’ve never seen someone cry so much!That weirdo cries over EVERYTHING. Everything being the wind is blowing and the sun is setting. *sniff* It’s just so beautiful and *sniff, sniff, sob, sob* I love it so much!

Gah!

Though, her fight with Dick about loving your pets as much as your children has resonated with me.

I thought I would side with her. Then Dick started asking questions like: “Would you risk your life to save your pet?”

I thought I would say yes, but hearing him say it out loud made me realize how odd it truly sounded.

A part of me said no.

No. I wouldn’t put my life on the line for my cat. (Sorry FatCat.) In fact, I’m just buying my time until he takes a dirtnap. (T-minus 10 years and counting. *sigh*) His quality of life has not wavered, he is still very well taken care of, but I just don’t care for him as much as I did (4.5 years ago).

When the dog came, she ruled the roost and was everything to us, the cat then became demoted to “FatCat” instead of “sweetpea”. With Carter’s arrival, Briggs was demoted too (as FatCat laughed in her face); she just wasn’t the baby anymore. I don’t think I’d sacrifice myself for her either now.

I have pets. They are no longer my babies. I have a human child, a dog and a cat.

I don’t compare their worth to that of my child.

That doesn’t mean that when my dog needs a $600 skin biopsy and specialty dog food (at $100 for a 20lb bag - for shit sakes!) that I won’t buy it. They are important, no question; but they are not comparable to my flesh and blood, but when I was without child, they were. I didn’t know the love of having a child.

So I can understand the people that walk their foo-foo little dogs in designer hand bags, the doggy strollers and all that jazz - since before children I would have probably done the same (though, getting a 50lb pit bull into a handbag would prove to be quite a feat).

I just have a hard time believing people that they love their animals just as much as their child.

Does that make me a bad pet “owner”? I don’t think so. Just realistic.

What do you think? Would you compare your love for your animal to the love of your child? Are they even comparable?

 :::

Know what totally sucks? Hitting “Mark All As Read” on my Google Homepage Reader section. Now I have no idea what’s new and what’s not. If I haven’t visited and commented, that’s why. (Even though it’s a HUGe relief not to see that GINORMOUS list waiting for me!

My challenge to you: Hug a Pitbull

really? what’s there to be afraid of?

We’ve all heard it before. Pet ownership can have many benefits for people, including reduction in stress. I believe it to be true, for the most part.

Greeting from my beautiful pit bull, Briggs; her tail wagging wholeheartedly, whipping the walls as she waits patiently (as possible) to smother us in kisses is a wonderful way to end a stressful day at work. Her warm kisses and gentle nuzzling are very much welcomed as we sit down together after evening chores are complete.
Life without pets is just not the same to me. The unconditional love, even on the bitchiest of days; their complete and udder lack for the ability to judge us bodes well on the days I decide to let Carter sit in front of the TV with a box of Corn Pops while I read USWeekly. (Don’t judge. It’s only happened once a couple times. )
Even Connor (the cat) has his affectionate moments, when he’s not scared shitless of his own shadow; he will jump up on the desk for some belly rubs as I read blogs. After his futile attempts at suffocating me in my sleep with his fat ass, he curls up at the end of the bed at night. It’s enough to make your heart melt.

Where am I going with this you wonder.

Were all the facts considered while conducting these studies? I don’t think so because their judgments are slightly skewed considering the tremendous stress and anxiety I endure trying to take these animals to the vet.

Hunting down Connor has become a two day event in preparation for his yearly visit. The cat box comes out the night before so he can investigate. Check it out for traps and poison. After he’s given it the all clear, he’ll embark on the task of cramming his fat ass in. He’ll turn, ever so slightly trying to keep even a whisker from touching the side of the box. Once his attempts are foiled by his fat ass, he slowly backs out of the crate and bolts like there’s a chance I’m going to strap him in there and hang him as bait in front of cat hating rabid dogs.

The next morning, I walk around the house meowing like a cat, which sounds vaguely similar to the raccoon fight in my backyard last summer that woke me from a deep sleep; as I’m calling his name I’m cursing him to no end. Most times he will appear, maybe I sound like a cat in heat to him; I dunno. This cat is a boarder line circus freak. A pet store special. He’s so inbred, he doesn’t know his ass from his head most days. I love him so.
If all else fails, I can usually find him huddled in the farthest corner beneath the bed in the spare room. Nothing can coax that fat bastard out like a bowl of dry cat food shaken slightly in a metal bowl. He’s then crammed into the cat carrier, ass first so he doesn’t have to endure the ride trying to turn around. Thoughtful, I know.

The dog. She loves the vet. So much so as soon as we pull down his road she’s bounding all over the back like her ass is on fire. Crying, panting and jumping at the window hoping that, just once, if she hits the glass at the right angle it will set her free. She bounces, whimpers and whines as we walk through the door, gasping for air since she’s tugged her collar so tight, which doesn’t phase her in the slightest, as she makes a bee line for the reception.

What’s so bad about this you say? Well, throw in an 18 month old toddler who turns in to a blubbering mess because he wants to hold the carrier and the dog’s leash; all the while getting into everything in sight. Carter’s to the point where putting him in a stroller is like subjecting him to a straight jacket. (Which I’ve never thought about doing. Not even once.)

Where’s his father? Sitting on his ass reading a fucking magazine.

As Briggs is trying to sniff the ass of the chocolate lab, Carter is running in behind the reception desk and the cat is shaking the shit out of the carrier. I see Mike out of the corner of my eye, reading this fuckin’ magazine; not a care in the world. My lasers of death searing a hole through his temple don’t even phase him. I politely (as possible) say. “Mike? A little help?” His gaze meets mine. “What? What do you need help with?”

Nothing asshole, just wanted you to critique my ability to balance awkwardly on one foot as the cat shakes the shit out of my arm, the dog pulls in the other direction, and I try to corral our child who’s embarked on his own little journey.

Men. I wish life was always as simple as theirs.