Terrifying or terrified?

Happy Halloween from the most humiliated little shark on the planet.

Thanks to Aunt Suz for passing along Hanny's old costume.

Hide yo' kids, hide yo' iPods

J recently had a break-in to her apartment. Thankfully, she wasn't there when it happened, but good lord that's freaky. Someone else. In your home. Taking your stuff. I kind of wanted to move her into my second bedroom for a while, but anyone who knows her knows that the offer would be met with a genuine smile and a "no thanks, you're being insane" eye roll.

Even though I've been locking all the doors I can possibly find ever since I heard this news, I don't think anyone would have an easy time getting into my particular apartment because of my gigantic dog...

As much of a lover as he is, he sounds like he could do some serious damage to your bones if he hears you outside.

Like my own little murdering alarm system.

But I realized something this morning.

If we ever buy a house -- like, with more than one story -- he'd let anyone in, as long as they break into a floor that he is not on.

Burglars above us, on the roof? "No biggie," he'd think.

Thieves below us, in the basement? "They probably belong there."

Roly-poly kleptos stealing all the food from the kitchen (while Roc rests in MY bed upstairs)? "I wonder if they'll drop anything for me..."

FAIL DOG.

(Yet another reason not to buy a single-family place.)

Anyway, stay safe out there, people. Lock your doors, lock your windows and let me know if you ever need to borrow The Roc.

Calm assertive state

I admit it: I've watched quite a bit of Dog Whisperer in my day.

I've learned a lot...namely, little dogs are huge assholes when you act like they are human babies, a swift "SHHHHHPPPPPT" noise will correct many behaviors and Cesar Millan really, really likes rollerblades.

A common theme in the show isn't just training dogs, but having the owners become the Pack Leeeeeeeader. In my house, I like to think I'm Pack Leader, but if we're being honest, this is the one the dogs listen to:

Spray bottle of doom.

[It's filled with water. I don't *actually* Febreze my dog(s)...]

Yep, that's the trick. When the spray bottle comes out, the dogs go right to a submissive state. Oh, you want to bark incessantly at nothing? SPRAY BOTTLE. You're going to play right after eating, so Rocco throws up? SPRAY BOTTLE. You're going to play on my awesome, new couch? SPRAY BOTTLE.

It's hardly parenting pioneering over here, but it works and that's all I care about. I am Mom. I am dominant. And I will spray the shit out of you if you act like a jerk in my house. And then I will cuddle you afterwards because I feel a little guilty. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

Decisions, decisions

When I was young, I wanted to get my ears pierced. I told my mom, who, surprisingly, told me that I could do it -- but that it would hurt. Even then, as a durable, injury-prone, bounce-back-from-anything gymnast, I wasn't good with pain. I started to reconsider...

Then, my mom and grandma told me to make a pros and cons list to help me decide. I thought of tons of pros (I'd look pretty, I liked jewelry, I'd be grown-up, etc.) and only one con: needle through ear hurts. A lot.

If pro-and-con lists were about length alone, the decision would have been easy. With far more pros than cons, I'd have done it instantly. But that one, singular, painful con carried much more weight for me. It took me ages to actually pull the trigger, no pun intended. But I finally did it. And now? I hardly wear earrings.

I thought about that little story in bed the other night when I was wondering whether or not we should keep this new dog in our house. There are plenty of pros and cons floating around, but once again this isn't a decision than can be boiled down to a few words on a piece of Lisa Frank paper.






This dog is sweet, smart and loving. She and Rocco get along so well. She likes to cuddle and sleep. She doesn't have a sensitive stomach. She's a pleaser.

But...

My house is more crowded. My floors have been peed on once a day. The dogs set each other off when one hears a noise. The playing is overkill.

We're all still adjusting, I know. Things have gotten better each day. If we didn't already have Rocco, this would be a no-brainer because this dog is just so awesome. But is it the right long-term living situation for the four of us?

As they say, time will tell.

Summer Updates

Well, it's summer. Bring on the beaches, beer gardens and barbecues. Chicago is an incredible city to live in during these few months, so I plan to take full advantage.

But, before we get to that, there are a few updates I should toss out here...

Goodbye to Oprah

While America said goodbye to their favorite afternoon talk show, I said goodbye to my beloved job. Working on the show was, by far, the greatest job I could have asked for. But, it's time to move on for many of us and I don't think there's a single person on staff who could say they were 100% happy to walk away from this job, these coworkers and this company. (Though, let me say, OW throws one hell of a farewell party.)

My dept -- best people ever.

Hello to Retirement

Where do you go from Oprah? I'm thinking the president...or retirement. You know, go out on a high note. I'm exploring both options right now but if there's ever a time to retire, it's Chicago in the summer. Plus, "retirement" sounds way better than "unemployment." This summer's retirement plans include:

• A trip to the West Coast to see a few friends like Billy, Joe and Dave's cousin.
• Many days spent at my fav beach -- Ohio Street. (Perhaps the only douche-free beach in the city.)
• Exercise. I'm less enthused about this, but it stays on the list.
• A drive to Memphis with the pup(s) to see my folks and all the new shit they're doing to their house.
• Our family vacation to Virginia Beach with my fam, my aunt/uncle and Dave's fam.
• Sleeping in, playing Call of Duty and drinking summery things like Vodka-Lemonades.

Welcoming Margie/Bella/Stella/Roger
Since Dave and I are both free from work this summer, we thought now would be the best time to bring another little furball into our home. So, we had Rocco meet his potential sister about a week ago and they adored each other! Her name is Margie but she responds to Bella, so we were hoping to keep a similar-sounding name. We're thinking "Stella," but my brother has already decided he will be calling her "Roger."

Now we'll be fostering her for two weeks starting on the 13th to see if she'll be a good fit in our home. If she's not, well, then we're never meant to get a second dog because this one is just awesome.

Aaaaand that's it! It's only June 6, but it's already shaping up to be a month of big changes... Hopefully all good.

OMG DADDY'S HOME

When Dave came back from China, I took (blurry) video of Rocco seeing his dad for the first time in 6 weeks.

Such a pea-brain.

Rocco! from David on Vimeo.

Also, the reason Roc ran away and took his Kong bone into the bedroom is because he's started ripping it apart instead of playing with it like a normal dog:


Again...

Pea-brain.

But we love him.

If his brain weren't the size of a pea, he'd be ashamed

I, like most dog parents, take an obscene amount of pictures of my dog. And, apparently, I take way, way more pictures of him when Dave is gone and not here to stop me.

Case in point:

Awkward cuddles with Aunt Suz

Playing video games

Almost setting himself on fire

Skyping with daddy

Parenthood FTW.

Comedy of errors

My brother came over tonight. Being the good sister I am, I offered to drive him home when he needed to leave. We left my apartment at 10:15pm. I got back home 2 hours later.

2 HOURS.

Here's how it went down...

We hop into the car with the dog at 10:15. Al gets Rocco settled, turns on the defrost and turns on the seat heaters, while I brush all the snow off the Jetta. The 3 of us have a leisurely ride to Wrigleyville and I drop him off without incident.

On my way home, Rocco jumps into the front seat as he always does. And sits down like a person as he always does. And triggers the PUT YOUR SEATBELT ON NOW beeping... as he always does. We ride back to the west side with that damn alert going off every 30 seconds.

We get home and I pull into my parking space. I grab my purse, toss Rocco's leash back on and get out of the car. My clumsy little bull tries to get out of the car, somehow gets his foot caught and yelps excessively.

I dropped to the ground to console him. After a few minutes, he's fine and I take him around the side of the apt to do his business before we go to bed -- which he does. As we're walking back to my place, I fish around in my purse for my keys.

No keys.

I fish around some more.

Where the shit are my keys??

I walk back to the car and start digging through the seats. No keys. I put the dog back in the car so I don't have to worry about him while I'm searching. Still no keys. Maybe I dropped them when I took him to poo, I think.

I get out of the car (Rocco still in) and walk over to his spot. Of course, no keys there either. So I walk back to the car and go to open the driver's side door.

It is locked.

It is locked with my dog in the car.

My stomach churns. I look at Rocco. He looks at me. I try the door again. Locked. Oh good god. Now is the time when I regret getting a keyless, auto-lock vehicle.

I go around to the passenger side door and by some miracle, it is not locked. I have no idea how, nor do I care. I get in the car, call my brother and tell him I'm driving all the way back to Wrigleyville to get his set of keys to my place.

And so we set off again.

During the drive, Rocco once again sits in the passenger seat and triggers the seatbelt alert for the next 20 minutes. Another fun thing is that I turned right onto a street while the light was yellow and alllllll sorts of flashes went off. So, I'm probably getting a $100 ticket too.

At this point, it's about midnight and the dog and I are both exhausted. (Him more than me because I'd slipped him a Benadryl in his dinner earlier.) I grab my keys from Al, drive back home and manage to avoid any more issues.

Let's recap my night:
Drive Al home.
Get back, freak out like the dog broke his leg.
Realize I lost my apt keys.
Almost lock the dog in the car.
Get caught by an intersection camera.
All within a 2 hour period.

And now I must go to bed. Roc passed out the second we got home while I relayed these events to Dave over Skype. Tomorrow, I bet I find those damn keys in the bottom of my purse.

Stupid China

Dave's gone. It's sad. Been taking care of myself. Kitchen has yet to catch fire.

That's basically the gist of it. I mean, it's only been a few days... But it's going well, I guess.

Anyway, with this time difference, Dave and I been relying on short Skype convos and emails to communicate. He is 14 hours ahead of us here, so when it's lunchtime in Beijing, it's bedtime in Chicago. (Also, I'm old and go to bed around 10.)

But tonight? Tonight I'm staying up until 11 so he can Skype me during his lunch. This is what he will see:


HAWT. Who doesn't like seeing their wife with makeup smudges, flat hair and a double chin?

Also, the pup and I are both a little doped up (him on Benadryl, me on Sleep II), so having a conversation in 90 minutes should be extra fun.

Zai jian, friends.

Snuggle-butt

We're a little co-dependent.

Happy Friday

The (real) face-off

THIS DOG.



You can't tell in the photo, but moments ago, we had a face-off on the sidewalk after he nabbed an entire bread roll before I even noticed it. With my rapid, gymnast-like reflexes, I hit the ground and threw my hand in his mouth so he couldn't chew.

He stared at me.

I stared back.

I wrapped my fingers around the bread roll and tried to pry it away, but his teeth were already wedged in there. It was not good.

I glared.

He blinked.

I told him to "drop it," as if he would have magically learned that command on his own today. (We haven't taught it.) I told him to "leave it," like we make him do with his food. I took a stern tone of voice. I told him he was a bad boy. I pushed his jaw to get him to unlock. I touched his tongue to freak him out. I yelled "UH OH" to startle him into dropping it.

Nothing.

So I waited. I sat there in the cold, staring at my dog as cars drove by and stared at us. We both held onto that bread roll as if our lives depended on it. Finally, it started to get soggy, at which point I saw my golden opportunity. I dug my nails into the roll and broke it apart, moving swiftly to swat crumbly pieces out of Rocco's mouth.

SUCCESS!

I held tight on the leash and kicked the bread pieces into the snow as they fell. I felt triumphant. I wanted to throw a fist pump in the air or something. Within 2 seconds, Rocco forgot all about the bread and promptly pissed on a tree.

Sigh. Such are the glamours of puppy parenthood.

How accurate ARE breed tests?

I'd be the first to say that my dog is not what we'd call "handsome."

He's a stocky (62-lb), meaty little thing with beady eyes and a butt that will NOT stop shaking. He hates cats, loves food and takes up way too much space in the bed. But, as his mom, I also think he's the Cutest Damn Thing In The World. The brindle coat, the awkward ears, the white socks on his paws -- that's my baby boy.


But, aside from being adorable, what IS he?

Before you start thinking I'm delusional, yes, I know that he's definitely a Pit Bull. But Pit Bull and what? Full Pit? Pit-Boxer? Pit-Lab?

I was starting to feel like a bad mama who just swooped up some pup from the slums and never bothered to figure out what the heck he is. I care! I want to know! So, Dave and I did what any neurotic parents would do: We ordered a breed test.

We swabbed Rocco's mouth, popped the swab into a packet and mailed it in to WisdomPanel. And as of a few weeks ago, we got the results.

Are you ready?

Rocco is...

...a...

...Pit Bull (American Staffordshire)...

...and...

...wait for it...

...a...

...fucking...

...DACHSHUND!...

...

I'll let that sink in for a moment.

...

Back? Okay. Let's resume.

My dog is a Pit Bull/Dachshund mix. And we have the paperwork to prove it:


So, mystery solved. Now, the only mystery is why Rocco's grandpa raped a doxie, but I don't think we'll ever know the true answer to that.

Instead, I've put my energies into keeping a straight face when we go on our walks and I say, "Oh, him? He's a dachshund mix. No, I'm sure. We had him breed-tested. This is my precious little doxie boy!"

I think I speak for all of us when I say, the fuck?

No, really, I love going to the vet

As you guys know, I love my dog. He is my first child, he's a little cuddle monster and I call him embarrassing things like boogie-woogie, pop-rocks, Rocco-Paco-Taco and pumpkin-head. It's nonsensical, shameful and adoring all at once.

You also know that he is going through his jerky teenage years, which makes me want to rip my hair out.

What you don't know is that he's been to the vet way too many times in the last six months.


Vet Visit 1: Rocco gets checked out and up-to-date on his shots. Harmless, necessary and pricey.

Vet Visit 2: Rocco has been shitting and puking pink stuff, which turns out to be blood. UM WHAT!?

Vet Visit 3: Rocco starts wheezing/coughing, like it's hard for him to breathe -- and it's not kennel cough...

Vet Visit 4: Rocco gets his next round of shots and tears apart my legs while I try to hold him down for the bordetella. Fun.


At this rate, we should be seeing the vet again by Halloween for something equally random and distressing. I think this last visit was enough to traumatize him though, so maybe he'll stop, you know, getting sick all the time. Fingers crossed.

Also, right about now, I'm wishing he was 50 pounds lighter and 1,000 times weaker so I could actually control him during vaccinations. It took Dave, me, a vet tech and the vet cornering the poor dog and holding him with all our might just to do the bordetella -- which is an up-the-nose injection. (Yeah, I'd freak too.) After several attempts and various struggles, we gave up and just gave him the skin shot version. And after that? Rocco plopped on the floor and sprawled out, all smiles. Me? I went and nursed my wounds.

Oh, Rocco-Paco-Taco.

I guess this is my payback for the humiliating nicknames.

I'm a parent to a teenager

Rocco's family reunion was this past weekend, so we threw him in the car like good parents and took him to the crazed event.

I say "crazed" because there were, oh, 20-something dogs running around like maniacs, sniffing each other's butts, barking loudly and generally spazzing out. There was even a hump or two. For Roc, it was heaven.

Pups everywhere

Sitting contest -- we're on the right

Me, surrounded by dogs

With all that stimulation, I guess it's not reasonable to expect your 18-month-old pup to be on his best behavior... and he wasn't. Yes, he almost won the sitting contest, but good lord, does my boy have a mouth on him. He kept barking every time another dog barked and even when everyone was silent.

In fact, during the raffle announcements, they announced the winning ticket for one prize and whose dog decided to bark? Mine. "No, Roc, you didn't win anything," I told him. He slumped down as if he understood English. But I know he doesn't because otherwise he would understand "GET THAT SLOBBERY TOY AWAY FROM MOMMY BECAUSE IT'S GROSS AND I DON'T PLAY."

Anyway, he was a bit of a hellion at the reunion, but so many other dogs were too. Seeing his behavior, we cornered the trainer who was there and bombarded her with questions to help figure out why he is an ass.

"How old is he?" she asked.

"About a year-and-a-half," I told her.

"Oh yikes," she said. "Worst age ever."

"Yeah... Wait, what?"

"Yep, this is a HORRIBLE age for a dog. You're basically raising a 15-year-old."

Oh. My. God. I hate teenagers so much. I don't want one! As I was absorbing this info (and some of her great training tips), I kept an eye on my little monster. Of course, he behaved like an angel when the trainer was near. Go figure.

When we got home, it was a different story. He did something that he has NEVER, EVER done. Something I never thought he would do in his lifetime.

He peed on my bed.

On purpose.

Right in front of me.

Fucking teens! I just know it was a spite-pee. I wouldn't play with him while I was eating dinner and when I went to go fold laundry in the bedroom afterward, he came with. He sat next to the bed, waiting for permission to come up.

What a good boy, I thought. Permission granted!

He got up there, started pawing and kicking the covers to create his own little "bed" and then promptly started peeing. Peeing!

I screeched, startled him enough to make him stop mid-pee and threw him off the bed while shouting obscenities. (My neighbors love me.) Roc knew he was in deep shit. He crawled out of the room with his ears back and his tail between his legs. I continued to rage. I told Dave what happened and he joined in on the rage with me. BAD BOY, ROCCO.

And to top off the evening, he decided he didn't want to go in his crate. Oh, sure, Roc, why don't you just sleep with us, since you've been soooo good. Guess again, jerkface. It was a bit of a battle, but he eventually accepted his fate.

But seriously, where is this behavior coming from?? I will not tolerate it in my house. I used to only have two house rules: No biting and no rapes. He obeys those. But it looks like I'll have to amend the rule to: No biting, no raping, no peeing.

Gah, I thought that was a given, but I guess not.

Welcome to the teenage years. They suck.

Happy Father's Day, Pop-Pop

After calling my dad and wishing him a happy Father's Day, I decided to humiliate my dog and make him wish "Pop-Pop" one as well.


Note the homemade hat, "hugs and kisses" balloon, sign and shameful reluctance. Each day, I'm shocked that this pup still loves me.

Anyway, happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. :-)

I'm not above fighting with old men

I have what's called a "short temper." Some days, it's shorter than others. I know this. You know this. It's just a fact.

Today, my short temper reared it's ugly head and I got into a fight with a 70-year-old man.

Don't judge me.

You see, I was walking my DEADLY MURDEROUS PIT BULL KILLING MACHINE through the neighborhood after work. As we passed one of the small parks, a child almost walked into him. Rocco halfway glanced at the kid and we kept walking... Until the kid's grandpa grabbed him and said, "That dog almost got you!"

Uh, slow reaction time aside, Gramps, I assure you, your kid was in no danger. So, because he's old and I'm trying to control my temper, I let it go.

But he didn't.

He said to the child, "That's a pit bull. That's a dangerous dog."

OH, NO YOU DIDN'T.

I whipped around and walked back to him.

"Excuse me, what did you say?" I asked in that tone.

"That's a pit bull," he said.

"Yeah, and?" I challenged.

"That's a dangerous dog, not a pet."

Well, folks, I kinda lost it on this old man. I mouthed off about how this is most certainly NOT a dangerous dog and threw in a few are-you-KIDDING-me's and dramatic eye rolls every time he tried to correct me. However, you'll be pleased to know that I did not say bad words because the kids were there. That said, it was still not a pretty scene.

He even told be how back in Mexico, he saw a pit bull attack a German Shepherd.

"That's great," I said snidely, "but you know chihuahuas and tiny dogs attack like that too. All dogs can, not just pit bulls! It's ridiculous to think otherwise, come ON."

Our exchange went on until I walked off calling him an asshole under my breath.

Meanwhile, my dog? Sat down and waited until Mommy was done arguing with an old dude.

For the rest of the walk, I was ranting and raving about the ignorance of some people and how absolutely disgusting it is that adults actually TEACH their children to fear a dog because of its breed. I was in the middle of my not-so-quiet rage when I heard a tiny voice.

"Hey, can we pet your dog?"

I turned and saw three young children behind their fence, smiling eagerly.

My heart softened and I walked The Killing Machine over to the kids. He sat down while they pet him, asked his name, giggled and single-handedly erased my anger. They were so sweet to him, blissfully unaware of the stereotypes and prejudice that we face nearly every day we walk. They made me smile, too. I almost didn't want to leave.

As Roc and I turned around to finish our walk, I was happily gearing up for Round 2 with the old man, but, alas, he had departed. (No doubt whisking his grandkids away before they had a chance to be murdered by my dog on our return route.)

Oh well, I shrugged. Can't win 'em all.

So, when enraged, go find some cute neighborhood kids to hang out with, grab a much-needed beer, cuddle with your pup and thank God you are so lucky to have such a well-behaved, gentle creature in your life.

My dog is not a killing machine

Never in a million years did I think I would get a boy dog, much less a boy pit bull. But here I am, a happy mommy with the sweetest pup on the planet, full of cuddles and love.

Those of you who know him know that he will hurl all 55 pounds of himself onto you as soon as you sit down. He'll rest his head right in your lap while we talk. He'll give you kisses if you want them. He'll nudge closer and closer until he's practically on top of you. He is the very definition of sweet.

Yet, whenever I walk this people-loving, dog-friendly pit bull, people act as if I'm walking Hannibal Lecter on a leash.

They cross to the other side of the street to avoid him.

They plaster themselves against a fence to stay out of our way.

They stare, wide-eyed and terrified as they pass.

It. Is. Infuriating.

Most people don't even give him a chance. One girl, while waiting for her bus, actually walked into the street so she wouldn't be too close to us. Seriously. She'd rather get hit by a car than risk getting sniffed by this obedient, leashed dog.

On that same walk, an old man didn't even give us the opportunity to move out of his way; instead, he immediately started walking on ice to avoid Rocco. In case you don't know, old man + ice = DANGER. But again, he'd rather break some bones that risk getting a glance from my pup.

Now, I understand that some people are scared of dogs. But this happens far too often for that many people to have a canine complex. No, this is pure, unadulterated pit-bull prejudice.

It really disgusts me how many people give us that "look," the one that says, "Ugh, how dare you bring a vicious, fighting beast into this neighborhood and have the nerve to walk him within 20 feet of my personal space." Is Rocco stronger than most dogs? Yes. Is he aggressive? Absolutely not. You'd know that if you didn't sprint into oncoming traffic to avoid us.

But because he's a pit bull, he is deemed dangerous. And it's bullshit.

I don't know every single pit bull in the world, so yeah, there are some shitty pits out there. (Just like there are shitty labs, greyhounds, poodles, etc.) There's even one pit bull in my neighborhood that always tries to attack Roc for no discernible reason. It's true that these dogs were originally bred for fighting, and, unfortunately, some ignorant people still follow that tradition, giving all pits a bad name.

That said, stereotyping every pit bull you see as a murderous killing machine is just wrong. Not just morally or ethically, but logically.

According to the American Temperament Test Society, pit bulls have an average temperament score that even beats out the "ultimate family dog," the Golden Retriever -- not to mention many, many more. Generally speaking, they are not the carnivorous little devils that you see in the media.

Speaking of the media, if you want to read some stories about heroic pit bulls, click here.

I couldn't be happier that Rocco is in our lives and I don't know what we did to be lucky enough to end up with such a well-trained, kind-hearted little love machine. What I do know is that I keep hoping we're helping change the unfair stereotype about pit bulls. And in the meantime, if you live in Chicago and want a little extra puppy love, you know where to find us.

My baby boy

I've been working like a fucking madwoman on the weekdays and freelancing on the weekends, so this dear blog of mine is being neglected more than a ginger stepchild. I do have some things I want to say though. It's just a matter of finding the time to get it out.

Sooo, in the meantime, here are some picture of the newest love of my life, Rocco.