Date Night

The boy and I ventured out on a date night this weekend - I know, amazing, isn't it? What was even more amazing was that, it was the first date night in a while where we didn't spend $150 between dinner and a babysitter because the kid had a sleepover party to go to. Yee Haw!!

So we went back to a local favorite of ours, The Frog and Turtle, so I could very unsexily gorge myself on poutine again. This time, I didn't even have the advantage of company to distract the boy, so he got to cringe every time I shoved a forkful in my mouth.

I jest, sort of. He wasn't cringing, but I'm sure watching me not so delicately scarf down gravy and cheese laden fries was definitely not sexy at all.

Anyway, our experience there this time was not quite what it was the others. The last time we were there, the restaurant was celebrating their 1 year anniversary - it seems they went hoity-toity the very next day.

When we arrived, we were asked if we had reservations. What?!? I don't think I've ever MADE reservations, anywhere. We were put in to a tiny little table for two that barely had enough room for our drinks, much less our dinner, our waiter looked like Werewolfe from X-Men, and he was so incredibly condescending that I wanted to slap him.

I ordered the Banana Squash soup (after he told me what a rare thing a banana squash is) along with a fruit and cheese plate. My cheese plate had 3 little pieces of cheese on it, really. All in total, their weight probably did not add up to 1 oz. And my fruit plate was actually a tiny little plate with "accouterments" on it.

After it was delivered, he stopped by to ask if anyone had even bothered to explain the cheese and accouterments to me. Really? Do you think I need someone to explain to me the history of this apple and raisin compote? Probably not.

By then, I was so annoyed that I started looking at everyone else in the place. And it was busy. The blond girl who was really quite cute, but who was so busy shoveling bread in her mouth that she couldn't talk to her date. And when she did, she'd shove the bread to one side so it looked like she had a face tumor or something. The other couple sitting next to them - at a table for six I might add, where the girl was very chic and the boy was wearing a baseball cap at the table. She spent their entire meal telling him which fork to use, how to sit, and when to eat - it was horrifying.

All in all, the date was good because we had a night out to ourselves. On the downside, I think that we're over the Frog and Turtle. Not because the food was bad, but because our waiter was way too obnoxious for me to ever want to return. Oh yeah, and he wore a pinkie ring, so I can throw in "bad taste" as well.

Family Living Class

I remember being in 4th or 5th grade the first time we had a class about our bodies changing. In fact, I remember it vividly, being ushered into the school gym, one of those big projector screens looming above us up front, and then the screens with black backgrounds and white lettering.

Amazing how that first sex-ed class scars you for life, isn't it?

Several weeks ago, the kid brought home a permission slip to participate in "Family Living" class. When I was in school, there was never a permission slip, you just went. Your parents could come if they wanted to, but really, what kid wants their parents sitting with them while your instructor talks about growing pubic hair? I mean, really.

The kid swore up and down that she was absolutely not going. She threatened all sorts of things if I made her go. Here in our house, we're pretty open about the facts of life, so really, if she didn't go, it wasn't a huge deal. Then her teacher informed her that, for students who were not going to Family Living class, there would be a 5 page essay assigned.

In her mind, that settled it; she was going.

The first few classes weren't bad. They talked about the basics of hygiene, how your body would start changing, that sort of stuff. And then class 4 happened. On the way home from school that day, the kids says, "I had Family Living today."

"Oh yeah? What'd you learn about today?"

We're the only two people in the car, but she glances over her shoulder to make sure that no one is listening in on our conversation. Her voice begins quietly and then picks up steam. "We talked about....VAGINAS! Can you believe that? We talked about VAGINAS in a whole class full of boys."

"Well, it's part of the class."

"Do you know how embarrassing that was? To hear about my VAGINA in front of the boys?"

"Well, I'm sure they were embarrassed too."

"Actually, they looked scared. But when we talked about penises, the girls were laughing."

And then the conversation was over. She was done with it. So what did she learn in Family Living? Apparently that shouting the word vagina is acceptable, and to laugh whenever the word penis is uttered. Hm, maybe she's going to be a future cast member of The Vagina Monologues.

A Mini Van Mom Shows Her Thong

And no, this isn't going to be all x-rated and stuff.

But here's the deal. Last night I spent my evening at the pool, which is the same as almost every other night of the week. But last night, one of the mom's, who is notoriously snobby, and who just happens to drive a mini-van, flashed her thong.

And guess what? It was holey.

Not holy as in religious. Holey as in, her cotton Vicki's Secret thong had holes in it.

Now why do you think that is? We've all been guilty of letting our underwear drawer slide once in a while. Maybe we just don't get around to cleaning it out often enough, or maybe it just creeps up on us and we're like, "Holy Shit! This is holey!" And then we throw it away in disgust.

But this was a holey thong that could not have been mistaken for an acceptable pair of panties. I wouldn't even have noticed except she was wearing ill-fitting jeans that gaped in the back and I had a clear view. And I probably should have told her, maybe not about the obvious holes, but about the fact that she was flashing the masses.

But I didn't. Instead, I sat right there, clucked my tongue and thought, "that's what you get for being such a bitch."

Kind of the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?

I Think I Give Up.

So, after the skunking last Sunday, things really only got worse.

Is that possible?

Indeed, it is.

Animal control informed us on Sunday that they would not come pick up the skunk. "We only deal with domesticated animals and we only work on Tuesday's and Wednesday's." Ok, great. So what if Kujo is prancing around my neighborhood on a Monday morning, then what? They informed us that we could either put the skunk out with our trash on Friday, or bring it downtown and put it in the police departments dumpster.

When they said "out with the trash Friday," I laughed. Right there on the phone. One of those deep, throaty, sinister laughs. The guy on the other end must have known what was coming because that was when he offered up the dumpster option. But thank God we own a truck, because I sure as shit wasn't putting that thing in the back of the VW.

After leaving the dogs outside for the entire night, in which they howled, whined, barked, and were general assholes, our neighbors were kindly waiting for us in the driveway with pitchforks and torches the next morning. One would think that they would understand, given the fact that we have never left our dogs outside overnight, but since they're not dog people, it was pretty much a lost cause. In the end, I baked some pumpkin chocolate chip bread and tried to make nice.

We finally found a vet to make a house call, since a) I was not putting the smelly heathen beasts in my car, and b)Dodger gets car sick anyway and the thought of cleaning out not only skunk smell but doggie barf too was not high on my priority list. Well, lucky us, Dodger was two months over-due on his rabies vaccination. Guess what? Animal control actually DOES work on Monday's, because they were at our house faster than you can say "shittle skittles."

"Well, since he's two month over-due, and the skunk could potentially be rabid, we are recommending, and asking, that you euthanize your dog."

I might have slapped him. I'm not sure. I am pretty sure that I blacked out for a second.

"Well, sir, while I respect your information, that's not going to happen, so why don't you tell me what the next option might be."

Needless to say, we've been quarantined. The skunk wasn't rabid because it's been living under our shed for months. It's walked by Dan in the driveway. It wasn't acting rabid when the dogs bit it. The fact of the matter was, the fat skunk was just too damn slow to get out of the dogs way.

So, how could we have possibly ended such a fantastic week? Oh, this is classic. My ex-husband came in to town to visit with the kid for two days. Arriving on Thursday night, late, he took a cab to his motel, but when Sunday arrived, he asked me for a ride to the airport, because he wanted to save himself the extra $17.

I'm pretty sure you know what my answer was.

And so the boy stepped up to the plate. He offerred to take the ex to the airport. He says it was in an effort to show the kid that her dad and her step-dad could get along, maybe ease some anxiety. I think it was more likely that he was trying to prove something. Either way, I'm pretty sure that it was probably one of the most uncomfortable moments he's ever had.

I felt so sorry for him that I actually gave him permission to smoke in the car on the way home.

Murphy's Law

"When you think things can't get any worse, you're probably dead wrong."

And so was the story of yesterday. After the dogs were both sprayed by the skunk, we thought the day could not get any worse. We used some pet-store remedy twice on them and left them outside to dry off.

The boy left to run errands and the kid and I started painting her room.

But then I heard Zoe barking.....a bark I had never heard before......in my gut, I knew something was wrong.

So I run downstairs, paint roller still in my hand and poke my head out the kitchen window. And there lay the skunk, half-dead, with the two dogs standing over it, wagging their tails, wanting to play.

Needless to say, things went downhill from there pretty quickly. The stench of being sprayed by a skunk, not once, but twice, plus shoving their faces in it after they ripped open its belly, is almost too much to bear. Our entire neighborhood smells like skunk, my office smells like skunk, our skin smells like skunk, and our dogs are living outside on the deck until I can figure out how in the hell to get the smell off of them.

Dodger got it so bad that his normally white paws are yellow. Yellow for Christsakes!!

And so today I will try Rachel's method with the peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap. However, I did read online that if you don't treat it within twelve hours, your kind of effed and that the smell, at that point, will stay with them for two years. Yikes. I'm hoping the first, second, third, and fourth treatment of the Skunk-Off counts for something.

And here I thought I would get some work done today.

And We Dance Again

Two weeks ago, I talked about our friendly skunk and his love of the boy's shoes.

Well, he's arrived again.  In fact, he's living under our shed.  Which in the grand scheme of things is a nuisance,  but as long as he doesn't spray anything, I really don't care.

Keywords, "as long as."

This morning, when the boy let the dogs out, they immediately bee-lined for the back of the yard; at first, he thought there was just a dog on the other side of the fence.  But then he saw Dodger shaking something in his mouth.

Dear Sweet Gentle Jesus; it was the skunk. 

And so now, we've got two dogs that smell like a skunk.  And they're not happy to just be sprayed and then sit at the back door, begging to be let in.  No, they're instead laying in front of the shed, with their noses as far as possible underneath it.  Like, "please, just come back out to play. Please? We were having such fun."

Are dogs are such idiots that they're not even phased by the fact that they've been sprayed.  While my friend Rachel had this happen not so long ago, her dog apparently was upset at being sprayed; ours not so much.

And here I thought it was going to be a quiet day of painting the kid's room.