Willpower Had Forsaken Me

As I sit here listening to Devil Dog whine in his crate, I wonder.


I had a moment of extreme weakness, that’s why.

When I had 3 people ganging up on me with pictures of cute puppies, talking about all the memories we had of Maggie, our last dog and pretty much begging on their hands and knees, it is hard to say no.

Oh how I wish I had.

Note to self: say no more often!

Another note to self: Get ear plugs and wear them often.

They fail to remember the dog hair on the floor. The dog piss on the tile.

The forget the dog puke on the new carpeting, baking in the sun all day.

First week in our new house the dog pukes up her food 2 inches from the tile. Southern exposure sun…8 hours. Yeah.

Don’t ever listen to the carpet salesman when they tell you that Berber won’t stain. Call BULLSHIT on their ass.

BTW…we don’t have carpet anymore. We have hardwood. So now I just have to pray to the puppy gods or fairies or whatever rules that part of reality,  that he pees in the middle of the wood plank and not in the crack.

Let me tell you how many times THAT has happened…Yeah. You guessed right.

My office chair? Bite marks all over it. Ok, to be completely, gut wrenchingly honest? THAT I don’t give a damn about. I want a new chair any way. But still…it’s the principal of the thing. Right?

And who had the bright idea to get a puppy in the winter time? Seriously. I hate winter as it is. And now I have to take this puppy out and stand there while he decides where he wants to pee. IN THE COLD! Don’t even ask what happens when I shiver so much I drop his leash and he runs away. He hasn’t gotten the hang of listening to “come” very well. The only bright spot is that I am not responsible for the middle of the night pee breaks. That my dears is one place I stomped my foot on Rambo’s throat saying…

“I. WILL. NOT. GET. UP. IN. THE. MIDDLE. OF. THE. NIGHT”, that is all.

I need a vacation.


p.s. this was written yesterday…today he shit on my office floor.


Don’t Make Me Cry

I don’t cry.

Okay, I lied.

What I mean is: I don’t cry at work. I just don’t. It shows weakness and I am tough. I will not show people my weakness.

Well, maybe on Twitter.  Twitter people accept you, don’t care if you rant and give you support when you need it or give a smack upside the head as appropriate. And they are willing to order you pitchers of margaritas…or raise a glass in support. God, I love my Tweeps!

Do you ever have those weeks when it just overwhelms you and you try to get work done but the sheer size of the mountain is so big that you just can’t do anything?

That was this week.

And Friday I nearly cried.

I was on the phone with someone discussing work shit and I was getting so frustrated that I choked up and couldn’t talk. Worst, he is one of my superiors. Not really my boss, but still in that upper echelon of bossdom.

“Sassy, are you there? Did I drop you? Are you reading emails again and not paying attention?”

“No. I’m here. Just sitting here.” Trying not to let the tears drop out of my eyes, my throat closing off  sobs; so glad that I am not in the office.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing. Go on. Finish what you need to say.” I know he can hear it in my voice. I just pray he doesn’t ask me again.

He continues. “Blah, blah, blah, blah…smile sometime today.”

Fuck you…Yeah okay.”

And even though the tears pooled and threaten, I did not let them fall. They slowly drained away only to leave me without the satisfaction only a good cry can give you. My eyes feel like they have cried and my body feels exhausted just from the effort to not LET THEM SEE ME CRY. Or in this case…hear me cry.

I am at a crossroads in my job.

I have two titles and two job descriptions that are at odds. It hasn’t been made official to the rest of the staff and I am encouraged to keep on foot steady on each end of the teeter-totter.

It’s getting harder to balance.

I am suffering from TMSOMFP syndrome (see tags)…and I just know that I am going to move my foot and go crashing down. Either I will fall hard on my ass to the point of breaking an ass bone or get flipped on the other end and go sailing through the air only to land on my face, breaking my expensive orthodontia perfected teeth in the process.

So I am going to smash that plate and scatter the shit until it gathers dust and doesn’t smell anymore.

I will delegate more.

I will go on radio silent and not feel the need to be there at all times, for everyone.

Because dammit! I need to!


Birthday Wishes

We were on our way to Dairy Queen the other night to make the Chocolate Covered Strawberry Wafflebowl my bitch for the night and JC pipes up from the backseat.

“I know what you can get me for my birthday!!!”

Waiting for the request for the new Poppy Coach purse….hey, she has taste! Expensive taste, but taste nonetheless.

“I want a conceal carry permit.”

MJ pipes in, “Me too!!”

Um, what?!?!?

Now, this really shouldn’t be too out there for my family. Rambo and I keep talking about doing it ourselves.


Because we can.

A warning, we are a family with guns, both kids have had gun safety and can shoot a gun. We have a respect for them and the power they wield. But you never know…doomsday may be around the corner and we may need to boogie on out of here with our go bags. I am a prepper.

Just fucking kidding!!!!!!!!!!!!

I heard you going all…..”Shit. Damn. What the hell? How can she be a prepper?”


Scared you there for a minute didn’t I? (Really though? My BIL is…he scares me!)

I admit, her request did take me by surprise until she said, “Then, you can buy me a pink gun.”

There it was.

She just really wanted a pink handgun. A small one that would fit in her Coach purse. And because it’s cute. Pink with pearl handles. She saw it on TV.

Then we told her that she can’t get a conceal carry permit until she turns 21.

“Well, that’s dumb.”

Conversation over.

But damn, what do we get her now?


p.s. I ate the whole thing!