Not Quite as Planned

On the Sunday afternoon I had planned to be on the slopes of Mt. Snow in Vermont (or at least warming myself and my injured knee/ankle/what have you in the lodge), I am, instead, at my laptop, with a dog at my slippered feet. And I'm tired of working. That picture, mixed with a couple of movies and cold walks in the park, has consitituted my weekend. An intermediate deadline on Monday preceeds a week of tradeshows in my ill-fitting, though tailored, Company Shirts. Several deadlines are sprinkled through the week of boothsitting, including one at school, which I haven't yet attempted to begin.

The dog, Mosotos, is adorable and mostly well-behaved, but the transition to the new food has not been an easy one. He has been plauged, and thus plaguing us, with the most heinous farts in history for the past two days. I think this is his way of paying us back for giving him his anti-fungal and anti-bacterial ear and eye drops. He has two sets. And also, four sets of pills. Antihistamines, antibiotics. He hides under the dining room table. My mom can't hear my voice without laughing. I'm sitting at my desk, a can of Febreze Air Effects by one hand, a slobbery squeak toy by the other.

The Boy, after his third trip to Home Depot of the weekend, is out in the cold, building a yard on our cement rectangle. A retaining wall for Mosotos.

I'm somebody's mommy, using the word poop in public and writing about farts. Welcome, I have a feeling it's only the beginning.

Adoption Tips

Since last we chatted, I wrote a piece about the red car that saved my life and lost a bet that will result in my creating a toast at my own wedding for dear old Shade-- the friend from college who "saved my life." Tonight, the piece I wrote will be critiqued by the divorcees for 45 minutes. I'm not looking forward to it, but I'm wearing my cowboy boots for support. My face will flush spontaneously, even though I'm not nervous, but then I will become nervous because my face is flushed and everyone can tell. So if all that's going to happen, forcing me to stare at my shoes, they might as well be cute shoes.

In other news, we are the proud pre-parents of a puggle. Let me explain. Or, let me sum up.

We trekked to the Montgomery County animal shelter last week and discovered not one but two puggles. We, along with all of Rockville, submitted applications for both. We were fifth in line for the girl and fourth for the boy. Cheri, the office manager, assured us that stranger things have happened. "There's always a chance!" She sang. We did not get our hopes up. Until Friday at 5:00 when I learned that we had become #1 on the list for the male (seen above). I was advised that we meet him as soon as possible to avoid being bumped off the list by a Montgomery County resident. "Can you get here by 7?" I thought we could. Armed with peanut butter granola bars, water bottles and adrenaline, we raced down to Rockville. About half an hour into the trip, The Boy interrupted me.

"Do you smell that?" He asked. I had just popped in a piece of gum. Couldn't smell a thing. I kept talking.

""Do you hear that? " He asked, turning down the Jimmy Eat World cd I was happily singing along with. "I think my bearing is going." I didn't know what he was talking about, but I did know it was already 6:00. He pulled into an affluent neighborhood to inspect his tire-- rear passenger, flat, melting and shredded. I asked him if he need my help. He didn't. In a matter of minutes, I was tilting to the left, then seated flat and the new tire was on. Seriously, it took him a total of four minutes. Now that's a man you marry.

We managed to make it to the shelter to see Mosotos (no, The Boy still won't budge on that name). The dog couldn't really be bothered with either of us (except for the time The Boy swears he whispered, "Mosotos" to him, causing him to jump up to be pet. "He knows his name." Ugh.) The dog coughed and wheezed and we were assured he would get better as soon as he got out of the shelter. I just wanted to make sure he got neutered before he got out of the shelter. Later, I mentioned it to The Boy, who wasn't aware the dog was "unaltered." "How did you know?" He asked, and I told him I saw.

"Yes!" He said, "That's my little Mosotos. He's got big cajones."

Really, I don't have a chance.

The biggest lesson we've learned in all of this is never to compare this process to that of adopting a child. At dinner with our caterer the other night, we ran into acquaintances from The Boy's bartending days. "So, we're trying to adopt this dog," he says, making conversation, "but the process makes it harder than adopting a child!"

"Actually," Randi said, glancing at her husband, "we're trying to do that right now. And I guarantee you it's not harder."

Ouch. Anyone know where we can find an inner monologue electric fence?

Waiting for Vizzini

Hopefully, I can promise you that this will be the last time the word "Verizon" appears in this publication. I can offer no guarantees. After two weeks of insanity and rage (I ripped the bulletin board off the wall and threw it, kicked over the shredder and said some phrases not appropriate for pre-school toys.) Finally, Comcast came to the rescue, forcing me to reconsider my unofficial list of least favorite companies. Previously, Comcast had been #1, followed by Verizon (but not so much Verizon Wireless). But after Verizon proved that they actually never start working for me, they took top billing. Sometimes it's hard when two words start with the same letter.

I now have a (mostly) fully-functioning home office. I conducted my first conference call from said office today, and the dog barking in the background came from the other guy's side, not mine. Alas, the Puggles from Virginia were not destined for this couple. Based on the strenous nature of the adoption process, I kind of think the agency lied to us because they thought us unfit parents. I guess we'll never know.

As plan B, after much discussion over whether The Boy could handle walking away without a dog, we hit the MD SPCA this afternoon. In the first two kennels, Lucas, the fox terrier with one lazy ear competed for our attention with Ilmer, the Sharpei/Lab mix. They both sat at attention, wagging their tails. They were both adorable, and they both had holds placed on them. Of course, we "met" them both anyway. We decided on Lucas (although I like that name enough to give it to a child). We talked on the way back about whether we are ready, whether The Boy would regret Lucas if later he decided he should have looked around more.

"I think he's great," he said. "I think he looks like our Mosotos."

Over the last couple of weeks, "mosotos" has come to have a plethora of meanings. In actuality, it means nothing.

Less than an hour later, we learned that Lucas was not our "Mosotos." The Boy is furiously researching other avenues for adoption. At the shelter today, Irene asked us, in her brogue, if we were patient people. After a pause, The Boy said, "Well, she would have to be. She puts up with me." And that's why I chose him-- for his self-awareness.

Tomorrow I have my first deadline at "work," Thursday I have the next, and in between, Wednesday night, I turn in my first piece in my writing workshop. A caveat: I may have judged my class too quickly. It's better than I thought, and for the most part, so are my fellow "divorcees."