Don't mind if I do...

I got my mojo back!

For the last few days, I've been moping around in a funk, not really wanting to do anything. I look at the projects ahead of me and think, "meh" and go back to moping. This kind of funk is normal for most people, I think, when you are in a state of transition. I can't really do anything productive here at the condo, and the new house isn't finished yet, so I'm stuck. I feel like I'm at loose ends for the next two weeks until we move, and then the real work can start. 

Hence, the moping. 

But today, I got up and decided today would be different. After the morning potties, the dogs went in their respective crates and I got on the mini trampoline for a workout. I ran so much with my Wii Fit that I unlocked a whole new running game, which is awesome. After my killer workout (ha!), I decided I wanted a tasty lunch, so I drove up the road to a little cafe and had beef stroganoff while I read a book. And then, I did one of my favorite things. I went to the grocery store and just bought everything that looked tasty. 

I don't do that very often because it can get expensive. (Case in point: I spent $60 today on four bags of groceries that will make maybe two meals.) But, when I do it, it always turns out really well. As we speak, I have a little cake baking in the oven, and I can't wait to frost it when it cools. I found a brand of frosting I didn't even think was manufactured any more. Yay! I bought three kinds of bread, two kinds of cheese, two bottles of red wine, hummus, sliced ham, cornmeal and some apples. I got coffee, tea, milk, sugar and eggs. 

The best part of the day came when I checked out - the adorable little checkout dude carded me! Yay! You see, I'm going to be 29 this year and that seems a lot older than I think I should be, so I'm happy to show my identification any- and everywhere. I even thanked him. 

Tonight, Tony and I are going to have a picnic at the new house, sitting on the floor in one of the rooms, drinking wine, eating apples and bread and cheese and just enjoying the place. Our first meal there will be my favorite, because I honestly believe nothing in the world tastes better than crusty bread, expensive cheese and cheap red wine. I think that combination of foods will be my last meal, if I am lucky enough to know when the end is nigh and to get to sneak in one more nosh. Just to be safe, I try to eat a meal of bread and cheese and wine at least once every two weeks, so I'm never too far from it if I kick the bucket unexpectedly.  

I'm not sure why this day restored my mojo, but I think the combination of exercise, good stroganoff and whimsy shopping had a soothing effect. I may not be able to cook up a huge meal the way I want, but that doesn't mean I have to resign myself to another night of takeout or icky frozen dinners for two. I'm talking to you, Steamfresh. 

I even got enough ingredients to make breakfast for dinner tomorrow night. Breakfast foods eaten for dinner make up my second-favorite meal. Juicy sausages, over-easy eggs, crunchy, buttery toast and fresh cornmeal pancakes drizzled with syrup are infinitely more tasty when eaten at night. For one, I'm not cooking in a just-woken-up haze and for two, it just feels forbidden, like staying in your jammies all day or blowing off the housework to read a really good book. 

I think that's half the charm of all my favorite meals - they are unconventional. While I enjoy a steak or a burger like anyone, the meals I love and choose to eat over and over are a little less predictable. I love a milkshake for lunch on a hot summer day. Just a shake, nothing else - back in the days before we had air conditioning, my mom used to drive Levi and I to the Diary Queen on really hot days for a milkshake lunch. 

I can't resist a dinner of chocolate chip cookies, freshly baked, accompanied by a glass of milk with one ice cube. (The one ice cube keeps the milk extra cold.) 

Hot, buttered toast, any time of the day, is a fantastic meal. (And a remarkable restorative. After every big fight in my family - and there were many - my mom would always make us chocolate milk and buttered toast. I can remember sitting on the countertop in my mom's kitchen, eating toast and drinking milk with Nestle Quik powder in it.) 

And buckwheat pancakes with jam are great for lunch in the summer. I remember making hay on my grandfather's farm when I was five or six and coming into the house to eat lunch with my grandmother. She usually made soup or sandwiches for us, but my favorite days were when she would make buckwheat pancakes for us. She always made them the size of the pan - which I thought was miraculous - and we got to have her homemade preserves on top, along with a big glass of milk. There is no better lunch for an overheated and itchy five-year-old, I'm convinced. 

So, every chance I get, I whip up an unconventional meal to enjoy. I'll eat them by myself, but they are usually better with a co-conspirator. Someone else to giggle with as you break egg yolks and scoop them up with toast at 7 p.m. or sip chocolate malted milkshakes in the summer heat. 

Tonight, it's Tony - he'll be savoring his favorite Emmenthaler cheese while I try some new spanish cheese I found in the ridiculously expensive cheese section of Biggs. I can't wait. 

I could eat a buffet off my own pants.

I made a critical fashion error last night. I left the house looking like a homeless person. I should have known better. Every time I roll the dice and say, "Screw it, I'm just running down here and no one will see me," I end up seeing 42 people I know and at least one person with whom I've applied for a job. Every single time I went home from college and did this, I'd see the people I hated most from high school and would spend the rest of my break carefully coiffing and spit-shining myself so the rumor wouldn't start that I was a crack addict. 

Now, I didn't go full homeless last night - I had showered, my hair was sort of combed and earlier in the day, I'd put on a little makeup, most of which I had napped off by then - but I was definitely rocking some serious homeless-chic clothing. (And, let's be honest, my hair wasn't THAT combed.)

Here's how it happened. Tony took a half-day off yesterday and we were just hanging out. We took a walk downtown, had a gyro, took a nap. About 7:30, we decided to go see the new house. I just walked out the door in what I was wearing - a snappy ensemble of my scrubby jeans and a pirate shirt that used to be Tony's, but shrank too much in the wash for him to wear. It is still huge on me, though. Oh, and my FitFlops. Nothing matched, nothing fit, certainly nothing looked good. 

I figured we'd just walk out the door, get in the car, drive to the house and come home. I should have known better. 

The minute we walked out the door, it was obvious we weren't going anywhere soon. There were fire trucks, ambulances and strangely, an SPCA truck parked in front of our condo parking lot. Seems that a hawk had attacked a person on the street, leaving them both injured and in need of rescue. (I wish I could make this stuff up. I actually watched the hawk be transported off the scene in a cat-carrier.) While we were waiting to get out of the lot, we met two new neighbors and saw some of the people from our building. They, of course, were all wearing cute workout ensembles with shorts that fit and shirts free of bad screen-printing. 

Once we were on the road, I looked in my visor mirror to discover, to my horror, that none of my makeup had survived the nap and my hair looked like I'd slept on it after electrocuting myself. Great. 

At the new house, at least, I could dash from the car into the house and no one would see me, right? Wrong. Everyone was out in their front yards, watching as we drove s-l-o-w-l-y by, allowing them all to have a good, close look at my hair and makeup. Super. At least they couldn't see that I had to cuff my pants because they were too long to wear with the aforementioned FitFlops. 

Since the neighbors all knew now that we were moving from a shelter downtown, I threw caution to the wind and suggested we stop for ice cream. We don't know anyone, really, in Northern Kentucky, so how bad could it be?

Bad. 

At the ice cream shop, we had to wait in line 15 minutes, while cars on the highway slowed down to point and stare at my pirate shirt and crazy hair. Then, when we sat down to eat our cones, everyone got real chatty. I guess they'd never seen a homeless person up close and wanted to see how lucid I was. (Not very, since I came out in THAT outfit.) One guy wanted to know all about my Mini Cooper and another couple was trying to sell us landscaping and custom drapery. WHY WOULD YOU TRY TO SELL ANYTHING TO A WOMAN DRESSED LIKE ME? And Tony wasn't really any better - his shirt had holes in it from the dog chewing it. We looked insane. 

To make matters even worse, while I was talking to the custom-drapery couple, I dripped ice cream all over my jeans, leaving splatters of Chocolate Lovers Trash (I dumpster-dive even at the ice cream shop) up and down my leg. We got back in the car and I sunk low in the passenger seat to avoid more embarrassment.

But God was not on my side. When we got back to the condo, we had to take Beau, our Bouvier, out for his nightly pee. Normally, and I mean 99% of the time, we wouldn't see anyone else out there. Not last night! Oh, no. Three of our neighbors came home all at the same time, two from work and one from a jog, to see me standing the backyard, screaming at my dog, in my ice-cream stained scrubby clothes. 

Oh, the indignity. It's a good thing we are moving because I just can't handle the pity I see in their eyes. 

So funny I forgot to laugh...

Tony turned to me last night and said, "Can I tell you a joke?"

"No."

This wasn't because I was being mean or because I hate jokes. Anyone who knows me knows that I love to laugh and hear jokes, tell funny stories, etc. It's because Tony actually CAN'T tell a joke. He tries, God bless him, but he can't. I think it is because his brain is always focused on 23 things at the same time. The minute he opens his mouth to start the joke, he's well past the punch line and bathing in my raucous laughter and wild applause in his head. 

Therefore, most of his joke-telling goes something like this:

"So this guy walks into a bar and says....umm. Wait, I'll remember it."

It doesn't help, either, that I've heard most of his jokes before (not from him, but from others - his joke sources, whoever they are, are kind of tired). I can finish the punch line for him, but I hate to crush his spirit. He tries so hard. 

Tony is much funnier when he's not trying to be. For instance, in a moment that will forever go down in our family holiday lore, one Thanksgiving we were playing Scene It, that DVD trivia game. Mom, her boyfriend Jack, my brother Levi, Tony and I were grouped around the TV, perspiring furiously. See, in my family, we are all in competition to see who is smarter and more trivia-savvy. Trivial Pursuit is a full-contact sport for us. Scene It is a little different, because it is all about movies, but we still try to be the smartest person in the room, no matter what. Jack, being a sports fanatic, is also fairly competitive and has watched a good many movies in his life, giving him a serious advantage of experience and memory. (Mom has stress-induced amnesia - the minute she needs to remember something, she forgets it.)

Tony, on the other hand, knows nothing about pop culture and isn't afraid to admit that. I don't know if it is because he grew up in a series of second-world countries (I'll be sure to tell you when the divorce papers arrive for that one, but the truth is the truth - Cyprus, Singapore and Saudi Arabia aren't exactly bastions of pop trivia knowledge) without access to western culture, or because he's crammed his brain so full of poorly-told jokes, but he really doesn't know. And don't try to tell me he's been busy educating himself about more important things. Right now, he's blowing up aliens on his X-box. If I want someone to think I'm witty with all my pop-culture references, I'm better off talking to the dogs. And forget any detailed conversations about celebrity scandal. Any conversation about Jennifer Aniston has to start with "you know, that girl who was in 'Friends' and was married to Brad Pitt - the guy who is now married to Angelina Jolie and has six kids? No, not the one with black hair, the other one." It is exhausting. 

So, here we are, screaming at the TV, giving our best, while Tony sits back and offers up absolutely ludicrous answers. At one point, a word clue came up, one of those where the words on the screen have the same meaning as a famous movie title and you have to figure it out. This clue was "Removed by a Breeze" or something similar. The answer was "Gone with the Wind." IT WAS NOT A CHALLENGING QUESTION.

Tony's answer was "Skydiver 4."

What the train of thought leading to this answer was, I'll never know. Notwithstanding the fact that there is NO SUCH MOVIE as "Skydiver 4," why would my dear husband skip the first three movies in this obviously hugely popular imaginary franchise and land at the fourth installment as the obvious answer? I still can't figure that out. 

But we laughed for about an hour, and still laugh about it. And to this day, whenever I don't know an answer in Scene It or life, I guess "Skydiver 4."

The only thing worse than watching Tony struggle through a joke is hanging out with him after we see a stand-up comedian. Tony and I both really enjoy stand-up. I secretly fantasize about a career in stand-up some day (I know, it will never happen, but a girl can dream) and Tony just likes to laugh. But when we are done watching, it starts. He thinks that everything that comes of out his mouth is just as funny as what we just watched. And it's painful. I'll ask him a simple question, like, "Hey babe, what do you want for dinner?" and he'll respond "DEEZ NUTS!" and laugh hysterically. It would be endearing if it weren't so damn irritating. 

Three hours later, we'll be headed for bed and he'll still be at it. "Do you have clean pants for work tomorrow" "DEEZ NUTS" "What time do you need to get up in the morning?" "DEEZ NUTS" and so on. It is enough to make me take a vow of silence. 

Now Tony gets a little touchy when these blogs are about him, so when he asks, let's all just pinky swear we'll answer "DEEZ NUTS!" Thanks. 

Getting...weak...need...bread

Dieting stinks. No, that's not strong enough language. Dieting, especially dieting that involves cutting out all your favorite foods, is worse than having your toenails removed while someone stabs needles into your tear ducts. Yeah, that's about it.

If you can't tell, I've been dieting. FOR A WHOLE WEEK! I'm nearly unconscious with hunger, frustration and crankiness. I don't care what Fitness magazine says, there is no way to cut bad fats, starchy carbs, dairy and sugar from your diet and still have any reason to live. Unless, I guess, you are stronger than I.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I love food. I love talking about food, reading about food, shopping for food, cooking food and my personal favorite, eating food. Until about a year ago, I was okay doing this and still fitting in to my clothes. I wasn't a super model, but I was a reasonable size 4-6. Then, I did a couple of things wrong. I started some medication that lists weight gain as a side effect. And I started spending a lot of time in my car, eating fast food. Some days, I'd have fast food two or three meals. And not grilled chicken sandwiches, either, which I believe are for people who like to punish themselves. I'm more a fan of the high-octane stuff - burgers, fries, chocolate shakes, etc. For one month, I basically lived on chocolate malted milkshakes, the ultimate in portable food. You don't even have to chew!

At then end of about eight months of that routine, I'd put on 20 pounds. Add that to the five or so I gained when I moved in with Tony and started eating something other than Lean Cuisines and Diet Coke for dinner, and I was staring at a number I'd never before seen on the scale. And more depressing, a closet full of clothes I couldn't wear. And if I have room in my heart for a love besides food, it is fashion. And, to add injury to insult, have you ever tried to wear stilettos for 16 hours carrying 25 extra pounds? Not comfortable. I started growing a bunion, for God's sake. I was so fat, I had old lady feet.

And I don't want to hear any equivocating from people about how fat they are compared to me. This isn't a competition, folks, and it isn't about you. It's about me, my tubby butt and my ever-climbing blood sugar numbers. Oh, and my shrinking self-esteem. It is really hard to feel hot with a new muffin top. Or fat rolls. Or walking around in your fat jeans every day. Or, God forbid, buying even fatter jeans so you don't have to walk around in your fat jammies.

So, sick of flab, sick of rolls and really sick of self-recrimination (which only makes you eat more, I find), I decided to get a trainer. For three months, I saw him, working out somewhat diligently three days a week and spending the other four days so sore I could barely walk or shampoo my own hair. (This is where having an assistant with a loose concept of personal space comes in handy - just have her wash your hair. Save your arm strength for lifting the fork.) I lunged, squatted, curled, pressed and grunted through every workout. Sweat ran from my forehead and puddled in my sports bra. Breakfasts heaved from my stomach and into the toilet bowl during killer cardio sessions. I cried several times from the strain and my own frustration at my body not being able to do the things it used to do with ease. I even held off weighing myself (something I used to do every day, if just to torture myself) so I could see massive improvement and stay motivated.

When weigh-in day came, I had gained two pounds.

Spare me chatter about muscle weighing more than fat, etc. I'm not an East German power-lifter. I don't put on muscle that fast. The only thing I put on that fast is fat. I won't detail the horrible things I said to myself on the way home from the gym that day, but suffice it say it was negative. I said things to myself I wouldn't say to someone I really hated. And isn't that sad - I'm a great, smart, funny, interesting and still pretty attractive person, but the number on the scale can negate all of that. It reduces me to a single accomplishment.

So, if the training wasn't working, it must be my diet. Sigh. I hate going on diets. I am a stubborn person who really hates being told what to do, even by myself, and diets play on that part of my personality. But, it had to be done. My weight had pretty much stabilized at an astoundingly high number, but I really wanted to lose some weight. Especially if Tony and I were planning on getting pregnant. It is always easier to stay in good shape when you are pregnant if you are in good shape to begin with. So, a diet it was.

Tony first suggested this protein-shake plan, where you drink five shakes a day and take some fiber supplements and that's that. We ordered all the hideously expensive shakes and supplements and cleared our cupboards of any real food. (We are packing to move anyhow, so it served two purposes to box it all up.) I even packed the salt and pepper. We wouldn't need any of it - this diet lasts 28 days and you only eat 4 solid meals the whole time, so we could go out for those meals. We started the plan on a Wednesday morning, weighing in, measuring each other and taking truly brutal "before" pictures. We were going to do this! We were going to lose 20 pounds in a month! We were going to be hot, sexy beach-people by May 14th!

We lasted three days before ordering Chinese.

The shakes tasted terrible. I don't eat artificial sweeteners because I can't stand the taste, and the low-carb, sugar-free protein powders were packed with them. I honestly think they were made with artificially sweetened dehydrated alfalfa mixed with the powdered carcasses of thos bugs Survivorman eats on his show. (That guy eats some seriously awful stuff, but he's always talking about how it is packed with protein, just like those shakes.) Whatever it was, it tasted awful. And when we had to add the ground flaxseed, it got even worse - it was chewy and awful. The only way I could choke it down was to use a straw and stick the it as far back into my mouth as I could without gagging. I basically constructed a feeding tube for myself. If I could have rigged it up to never touch the inside of my mouth, I would have. The one highlight of the day was the tablespoon of all-natural unsweetened peanut butter we got in our last shake. By the end of the second day, I was sobbing. At the end of the third day, Tony was sobbing.

When I called the company that manufactures the diet stuff, I told them I was pregnant and couldn't do the diet anymore. I didn't have the heart to tell them their product tasted like dead things. Powdered dead things.

Without the structure of the five shakes a day, we had a few options. We could just go back to our old way of eating, try to work something out on our own, or we had another diet plan that I had ordered - at one-tenth the cost of the original one - that involved one drink a day and two meals without starchy carbs, high-fat food, dairy or added sugars. We tried that.

So far, it has been okay. I get hungry all the time and I crave bread and cheese (my two favorite foods) like crazy, but so far, I haven't had to insert a feeding tube or order Chinese. Last night, we had a moment and devoured a pan of brownies, but the damage on the scale was negligible for me. Tony even still lost a pound. We've lost between five and six pounds each, which is great. The biggest issue is being cranky from being hungry. That, coupled with the new puppy, has given us some fodder for our counseling session tonight, I'm sure.

I'm not sure how long we'll keep on this plan, but I'd really like to see a number on the scale closer to the one I saw a year ago. And I'd REALLY like to not have to buy a new fat summer wardrobe. I'm a fifth of the way there already, so I guess I can keep this up for five or six more weeks. Not eating carbs doesn't even bother me that much.

Oh, who am I kidding? I want a grilled cheese sandwich and a brownie sundae, stat!

Alert Level Orange

This new puppy is refocusing my definition of readiness. This morning, instead of crawling out of bed into my bathrobe (or, more specifically, Tony's bathrobe), I leaped from my warm sheets into an outfit suitable for taking puppies to the parking lot. A not fashionable, but functional ensemble of warm-up pants and bulky sweatshirt to combat the Ohio April morning chill. Sure enough, as Tony was leaving, we had to make our third potty exit of the day. Thank God it wasn't raining this time.

When we got back in the house, I took advantage of the 30 minutes or so I had until the next potty run to dash through a quick shower. First, though, I had to coax a roiling mass of dog flesh into the bathroom with me. (Sarge and Beauregard have been "playing" with a rope toy. Sarge steals it, Beau chases him, there is much snarling from Sarge, it's ugly. And you better not be standing in the way of either of them. Sarge can't bowl you over, but Beau sure can. I can't wait until he weighs 120 pounds. This is going to be awesome!) Once the dogs were safely shut in the bathroom with me, I showered with one eye open, to the soothing sounds of thrashing and snarling outside the steamy shower door. Seriously, I thought I was at the spa. But, I figure even if Beau pees in there, at least it is on tile instead of hardwood or slate.

***We now return to this blog after our regularly-unscheduled potty break, preceded by Beau starting to pee on the floor, after which I grabbed him, ran outside in the cold and waited 10 minutes for him to...do nothing. My toes are going to freeze off.***

I sprang from the shower, moisturized in record time, jammed my legs into some jeans, pulled on a tank and a hoodie and reported back to puppy-patrol. Out in the kitchen, I stuffed dog-treats of various sizes and states of decomposition into my jeans pockets (God knows how long my pants are going to smell like Beefy Grill Bites. I'm expecting neighborhood dogs to chase me long into my 30's.) I put plastic bags and house keys in my sweatshirt pockets because there is nothing worse than trying to grab all that when you are simultaneously hoisting a 25-pound pile of limp dog into your arms and trying to open a door, with another, smaller, infinitely more savage dog attached to your leg, desperately trying to dash out the door the first time you look the other way. And I keep my flipflops on constantly, just in case we have a pee-mergency.

In my one-dog days, I used to lounge around the house, balancing the checkbook and writing in my robe until about 10, at which point I'd take a leisurely shower and spend about 30 minutes on my hair and makeup. Those were the days. Now, I'm lucky to get my wet hair pinned back before I have to dash outside in the cold. Forget makeup. Today I'm counting on doing it when Tony gets home from work at noon, since he has a half-day vacation.

This is, I think, preparing me for motherhood. Everyone keeps saying that, so I guess I'll believe them. I don't think I've ever appreciated diapers more than in the past three days. If only the doggy could wear them, it would be so much easier. I could just change him whenever he squats on my fireplace hearth or hardwood floors.

But for now, I'm going to try to sneak in a few loads of laundry, get feeling back to my icicle toes and dig broken bits of puppy treat out of my pockets. Don't want my washer smelling like Beefy Grill Bites.

Puppies. Pee. Poop.

Okay, I'm typing quickly today, trying to watch the dog with one eye and the computer screen with another. You see, we got a new puppy this weekend and today is the first day I'm home alone with him. It is a little like having a toddler, but with less warning when they decide to defecate explosively all over your precious hardwood flooring.

Tony and I already had one dog, an eight-pound Yorkshire Terrier we got the same day we got married a year and a half ago. Sargent York is a beautiful, well-trained dog. He's a little high-strung, but that's a small price to pay for never having to chase him around with paper towels and a bottle of Lysol, screaming "NO NO BAD DOG!" Of course, we had a few issues when he was first home, but now he uses his puppy pads religiously, also saving us from having to go outside in the freezing cold, rain or blistering heat, all of which are surprising common in Cincinnati. Also, because we live on the third floor of a condominium building, a potty break is a bit more time-consuming than in a house where you just open the door and toss them in the backyard. Here, you have to grab them or get them to go out in the hall on their own, then get them on the elevator, then off the elevator, then out the back door into the parking lot. We have one tiny strip of mulched flowerbeds at the back of the parking lot, which is quickly becoming a mulched bed of doggie do from the neighbors who don't clean up after their dogs. (People, take a bag with you. It is not that hard.)

Anyhow, Sarge has been trained to his pads since the middle of the first week we had him. Rarely, he'll mistake the bathmat for a puppy pad and take a rogue tinkie, but beyond that, he's good.

Enter Beauregard, our new 11-week-old Bouvier des Flanders puppy. I picked him up from the airport on Friday afternoon, and I should have just sent him back then. He'd messed, understandably, in his kennel. It was the worst smell I've ever smelled in my life. I had to drive home with all the windows and the sunroof open in my Mini Cooper. Thank God it was sunny. I made a call on the way home to Tony:

ME: "YOU HAVE TO LEAVE WORK NOW!!!"
Tony: "Why, babe? Is the dog hurt?"
Me: "SOMEONE HAS TO GIVE THIS THING A SHOWER AND IT ISN'T GOING TO BE ME!"
T: "Okay, babe, stop screaming. I'll see if I can leave."
Me: "IF YOU DON'T LEAVE, I'M BRINGING HIM TO YOUR OFFICE AND LEAVING HIM IN THE PARKING LOT!!!! HE SMELLS LIKE THINGS THAT HAVE BEEN DEAD FOR A WEEK!"

Tony was remarkable all weekend, giving Beau not one, but two showers, the next on Saturday when we dared leave for more than 10 minutes and he had an accident in his kennel again, and cleaning up two accidents on the floor. (The dog is having digestive issues, which I understand because he just left his pack and travelled halfway across the country in a plane, which is not a natural form of transportation for a Bouvier.)

Every time we took him out, we had to pick him up and carry him out the door. Did I mention he weighs 25 pounds and his head comes to our knees when he's standing still? He's...large. So, we haul him outside, where he does a pretty good job of pottying. And manages to stay near without the leash.

Friday night, he slept in his kennel, but we didn't sleep much because he was whining a lot. Saturday night, he had to go out at 2, which was not that big a deal until he came back in and Sarge lost his mind, barking ferociously at this "intruder." I think the entire condo complex probably appreciated that. Last night, he slept for seven hours straight, which was wonderful. Tony took him out twice this morning, once before and once during breakfast. When Tony left, I mistakenly thought we were okay on the potty front. Tony called 10 minutes after he left to check in.

"We're good, babe. He's been playing with Sarge and is doing really well. I think we are going to be okay until NO BEAU NO NO NO NO! HE'S POOPING IN THE FIREPLACE, ALL OVER THE SLATE HEARTH!!! NO NO NO!!!"

Ten minutes of scrubbing, self-recrimination and crying later, we'd cleaned up. After that, he didn't leave my sight. I got in the shower, locking him in the bathroom with me and sticking my head out the door every 20 seconds to see if he was pooping. We were clear. I got dressed, fixed my makeup and hair, never letting him out of my site.

I loaded some laundry up, calling him to me every time he wandered away. Then I made my critical error. I went in the bedroom for 30 seconds to put on my watch and wedding ring. By the time I came out, he'd peed all over the hardwood. Time for the Lysol and the self-abuse.

We went outside right after that, but he had done all his business. When we came in, I got on IM to talk to Tony.

Me: THIS DOG JUST PEED ON THE FLOOR. I'M GETTING RID OF HIM.
Tony: Babe, it will be fine, just give him two weeks and he'll be all trained.
Me: IN TWO WEEKS, THIS HOUSE WON'T BE WORTH LIVING IN!
Tony: Oh, that's right - two people at work are interested in buying the place - I sent the link.
Me: BE SURE TO TELL THEM THAT IT WILL BE SOAKED IN PEE AND POOP BY THE TIME THEY GET IT!
Tony: Babe, it will be fine. Stop.
Me: WELL, YOU BETTER MAKE SOME ******* MONEY. IF YOU CAN'T BE HERE SCRUBBING **** and ****** OFF THE FLOOR WITH ME, YOU BETTER EARN A LOT.

And so on. He has the patience of a saint. And he knows he's got the better end of the deal, getting to run off to work while my day is broken by potty breaks, Lysol and shame.

See, the problem is, I take every potty accident as a commentary on my ability as a doggie-mom. Beauregard poops or pees on the house, it is my fault. I should be more vigilant, more on it than I am. The truth is, he's a puppy with serious stomach issues in a new house. None of it is anyone's fault. All I can do is take him out once an hour, in the pouring rain (no joke - it rained yesterday and is supposed to rain for the next four days) and see if he needs to go. Anything beyond that is just accidental.

Speaking of which, time to go out. Where are those galoshes?

Let me give you my card....

I ordered business cards today. I guess, though, since I'm not in business for myself or anyone else anymore, they are considered "Calling Cards." How very elegantly antique of me. A breeze through the Crane Stationary site shows that I'm very on-trend with my non-business cards. 

A snippet from Crane's propaganda (and no, I didn't buy my cards from them. I'm a House Wife, not a Vanderbilt. Although, I did buy Tony personalized stationary from Crane for his birthday two years ago. I spent nearly $400 on cards and envelopes and he's used it exactly twice.) - Steeped in the ultra-formal Victorian code of social etiquette, calling cards have made a fashionable resurgence in our fast-paced 21st-century lives. They are the perfect personal introduction for those occasions when a business card is too business-like.

The hardest part of the process of creating my Calling Cards (I say that in my head with a snotty accent and I suggest you do, too. Makes it much more...important sounding.) was deciding what information to include. Obviously, my name and phone number. But do I put my home address? Who will be receiving these? I got them mostly for situations when people need my contact information and spelling it all out for them seems too tedious. You try spelling Coutsoftides to a salesperson you just met for the first time 10 minutes earlier. Then try spelling it three more times, because that's about how long it takes for people to get it right. For instance, when I was furniture shopping for the new house, I needed to give salespeople all sorts of information for purchases, credit applications and delivery scheduling. A personal card would have made that so much easier. As it is, I did hand out some old business cards from my days in the cosmetics biz, along with the sheepish explanation that "I don't do that anymore," which really made me sound more like a former exotic dancer or prostitute than successful business owner, but that's all on me. 

According to the Crane site (and these people seem to know their stuff), calling cards are also useful for job hunters who don't want to use the cards from their current or previous position. Hopefully I won't be job searching anytime soon, but it never hurts to be prepared. They are also good, it says, for recent college grads who don't have a job that comes with business cards (Hello, Starbucks!) or retirees who are no longer in the workplace or are working part-time to just keep busy (Hello, Starbucks!) They don't mention housewives, but I bet we make up a certain percentage of the population who purchases calling cards - how could we not? We make up a certain percentage of the population who buys everything else in the world.  

What Crane does mention is how helpful these cards are on the dating scene, which I find interesting. I've been out of the dating/mating loop about three years now and was only ever intermittently part of it (you can't get married three times in six years and have dated all that much) but I can't decide if giving someone a card would be more or less dorky than writing your number on their palm or a damp cocktail napkin. I love cards, so I think that would be fabulous, but that raises another question - when all you have room to carry is lipstick and cab fare, where do you put the cards? I can foresee a whole new accessory segment popping up around glittery cocktail card holders. OOOH, you could even re-brand calling cards as "cocktail cards" specifically for dating. Design them in fashion-forward colors with glitter and foil inks, print lists of turn-ons and turn-offs on the back, only include information that can't be used to stalk you, like a cell phone number or email. I think someone could make a fortune on this. If only the Gossip Girls started carrying cocktail cards...we'd be made. 

But, back to reality, where high school students don't carry thousand-dollar handbags. (Do you remember what YOU carried in high school? I carried a backpack. My Prada hobo bag simply wasn't big enough for my biology AND American history text books at the same time.) 

Anyhow, after loading up my favorite cheap business-card site, the one that uses business cards as a loss leader for car door magnets, Web sites and pricey third-world adoptions, I had many tough decisions to make. Do I go horizontal or vertical? (It's amazing to me how many times a day I have to answer that question.) Bright colors? Something more elegant? Monogrammed? Do I put a "message" on them? And if so, what would it be? "Actually, I don't have children." "Call me anytime, I'm always available!" "I do lunch..or dinner...or tea...please, just get me out of my house!" Forget the message. 

In the end, I decided on a lovely pink and brown design with a bird on it (my middle name is Starling, after all) and a monogram. I included my full address and phone number, as well as cell phone, email and the web address for this blog. I think that should be enough information to keep anyone going. As a bonus, I got address labels for the new address, too, for only $1.49 extra. The third-world orphans at $25,000 a pop were a bit out of my price range, though. 

As for how I'm going to use them, first I'm going to distribute them to my girlfriends who need to know my new home address and personal (not business) email. Then, who knows? I'll keep them in my purse and fling them wildly at new acquaintances, folks at cocktail parties and networking mixers, my new neighbors, anyone who holds still long enough. All of Northern Kentucky should soon know who I am and where I live. Maybe they'll stop by and eat some of these cupcakes I've been obsessively baking. 

Now if I could just find a suitably glittery card holder, I'd be set.