Mommy and New Daddy

Our animals are fascinated by New Daddy. He's the first person to arrive home from work everyday, where he typically finds the pets waiting at the door for him.

He's recounted how Harvey will follow him from room to room, Spottswood will follow Harvey, and Winnie will follow Spottswood, until he has a conga line of pets walking behind him as he putters around the house. 

Due to his surgery, Ian has spent the past two weeks at home. He works quietly around the house, trying to finish the painting. Spottswood and Winnie watch Ian as he works, enthralled.

Winnie appears both captivated and terrified of New Daddy: anxious he may raise his voice, but eager to sit near him.

Ian: "It's strange that Winnie has become so attached to me."

Laura: "Not really. Young kids usually crave their parents' attention. A child may have a drunken father or an abusive mother, but he'll still long for his parents' attention. I remember reading about a girl with a messed-up mother. Child services came to take her away, but the girl put up a fight because she didn't want to leave her mom. It's primal."

Ian: "Wow."

Laura: "Yeah. You're like Winnie's abusive father, and Winnie's like your adoring child."

Ian: "Gee. Thanks."

With Winnie, I'm the sentimental softie.

Everyday when I arrive home from work, I scoop up Winnie, nuzzle her head, and coo how much I missed her. I think I've greeted Ian this way once. Maybe twice.

Throughout the evening, I'll spontaneously pick up Winnie and cradle her. Winnie turns into a rag-doll when held. You can hold her for as long as you want, without any resistance.

Watching me hold Winnie, Ian will attempt to cradle Harvey or Spottswood. The cat will inevitably struggle and let out a wounded, "Mrrrrrrrrrrrow."

When I moved in with Ian, I worried over only one thing: I use baby-talk with the dog constantly. I'd covered it up until that point. Eventually, Ian discovered the woman I am:

Laura: "Winnie, I looove you. Mommy looooves you. New Daddy loves you, too. Yes, he does; yes, he does. You're the cutest wittle doggie in the whole wide world. Yes, you are. Yes, you are."

Ian: <Tries manfully to ignore this nonsense>

And Then We Went to the Hospital

If you read the last post, you know Ian and I were struggling a little bit.

Ian kept developing strange health ailments: chiggers, poison ivy, a sinus infection accompanied by a fever and an insistence that he might die at any moment, so could I please get him some popsicles? The kind made with real fruit? The cherry, grape, and lime ones? Oh, and a sandwich?

Meanwhile, we had wrecked the entire house, as we attempted to finish renovating the kitchen and den.

Then things got really awesome. First, I came down with Ian's allergy flair-up and subsequent sinus infection.

5:00pm on Wednesday Evening:

Laura: "My throat is so sore. I can't stand it. Owww."

Ian: "I feel better! I feel like running laps, while running with bulls, while chasing a cheetah! Hurrah! Hurrah for good health!"

7:00pm 

Laura: "My throat is on fire. Owww."

Ian: "Hey, you know what? My stomach hurts. I have a sharp pain on my right side."

Laura: "There's Mylanta in the fridge. Try some of that."

Ian: "Okay."

10:00pm:

Laura: "I have super legit throat pain."

Ian: "I have super legit stomach pain."

Midnight:

Laura: "I can't sleep. My throats hurts."

Ian: "I can't sleep. My stomach hurts."

Laura: "You should take more Mylanta."

Ian: "I will."

2:00am:

Ian: "I can't sleep. There's something really wrong with my stomach. I'm going to google appendicitis."

Laura: "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ."

3:00am:

Ian: "I think I might need to go to the hospital. Hey, wake up. I think I might need to go to the hospital."

Laura: "ZZZZZ...whaaa? Zaa? Buuu... Mylanta? Tase Mylanta?"

3:30am: 

Ian: "Laura, wake up. I need to go to the hospital."

Laura: "But didn't you take Mylanta?"

Ian: "Yes."

Laura: "Okay. Maybe the ER doctor can give me antibiotics or pain killers while we're there. My throat has hatched a fire-breathing monster."

3:45am: 

Laura: "What if the ER is crowded full of bloodied people? You know? Like that show? ER?"

Ian: "I'm scared we'll have a long wait."

4:00am: 

We walk into a deserted ER. Even the receptionist is gone.

Laura: "Hellorrrrrrrr?"

<Wow, what an echo!>

4:01am: 

The receptionist checks us in. Ian meets clinician #1. He will meet 53,485,189,532,190 more clinicians during his stay.

4:20am:

Ian: "I think my adrenaline has kicked up, because I feel okay now. I'm afraid the doctor will say, "Ian, I'm sorry to tell you this. But you have gas."

Laura: "That's what I thought it was. I mean, I told you to take Mylanta."

4:30am:

Ian: <Receives IV bag of pain killers, plus another pain-killing cocktail>

Nurse: "This should numb anything that hurts. Anything at all. Even your throat will feel numb."

Laura: "!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Ian: "Okay."

Laura: "Can I drink some? Just a little?"

Ian: "No."

Laura: "Please?"

Ian: "No."

Laura: "Pleeeeeeease?"

Ian: "No."

Laura: <Pretends to lick IV bag>

5:00am- 9:00am:

Run tests.

Take pictures.

Smile, Ian!

Smile bigger!

That's the spirit!

9:30am:

A random doctor strolls in, wearing an enormous smile.

Smiling doctor: "Guess what, man!? You have appendicitis!"

Laura: "Ian, you won!"

Ian: "Yay!"

11:00am:

Another random person wheels away Ian for surgery.

11:20am:

I make a mad dash for the Kroger clinic up the road. I'm immediately given antibiotics. Without any testing. Because I demanded them.

Welcome to America! Home of antibiotic resistance and the world's most powerful super-bugs!

1:30pm:

One of Ian's 9 million nurses calls me to tell me that surgery went great, and Ian's doing great, and everything's great. But I can't see him because they're out of private hospital rooms.

4:00pm:

One of Ian's 9 million nurses takes pity on me and lets me sneak into the recovery room for twenty minutes.

Ian later tells me that this particular nurse is the "hot blonde one with the aging tan lines and the smoker's laugh." She's worked at this particular hospital for 30 years. She could easily be Ian's grandma.

In the recovery room

6:00pm:

Ian gets a private room. I stay with him until past 9:00, when severe sleep deprivation catches up with me.

9:30pm: 

I drive home and stagger into bed.

10:30pm:

Ian calls to say good night. I promise to return early in the morning.

11:00pm:

I fall into a dead sleep for eleven hours. I slip into Ian's hospital room the next day at 11:00am. Bright and early! Just in time for lunch!

1:30pm:

Ian's discharged from the hospital. We go home.

In light of an infected appendix likely caused by poor diet, Ian vows to only eat healthy, organic whole foods from now on.

Twenty-Four Hours Later:

Ian insists on buying Kentucky Fried Chicken for lunch.

We eat greasy, fried, antibiotic-soaked chicken, nuclear macaroni and cheese, and bionic biscuits with extra Crisco.

And that's when I knew everything was going to be all right.

Obssession

Ian and I are working on something that will serve as a gargantuan blog post someday: we're redecorating the house. The entire house. All of it.

We're a little bit poor, so we're subscribing to the school of thought that the best way to renovate a house is to slap paint on it. Varnished wood paneling? Crumbling bricks? Horrible floors? Put paint on it! Paint is the key to everything!

Why do rich people waste their money on things like stone and tile and hardwood? Folks, there's this thing called paint, and it only costs 20 bucks a can, and HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT IT CAN DO TO A ROOM? WOW.

Frankly, paint is to my adulthood what scotch tape was to my childhood.

I'm documenting the redecorating as we go, and I can't wait to post about it. In the meantime, I'm left with very little writing material. Because I'm currently obsessed with home decorating.

Obsessed. Obsessed. Obsessed. 

Ian and I have spent all of our free time working on the house. When we we're not working on the house, I'm googling design ideas.

When I'm at work, I visualize the house, thinking of decorating ideas, until I'm amped up on designer endorphins and can't wait to go home so I can run up the driveway screaming, "The shutters, Ian! The shutters!"

When I was a child, my parents insisted on painting everything tan. Likewise, Ian grew up with a lot of white and cream. My rule for the house: absolutely NO tan. Ian's rule for the house: absolutely NO cream.

We're going as bold and colorful as possible with the decorating.  

Because we can. 

I AM WOMAN; HEAR ME ROAR.

Update:

Ian and I are currently living in a wood paneling nightmare. I mean, have you ever tried painting over wood paneling? We started painting the wood paneling in the kitchen and den on Friday.

It's Tuesday, and the kitchen is still in shambles, the refrigerator and microwave are still in the bedroom, and the washing machine is still unplugged. I JUST WANT TO CLEAN MY CLOTHES AND NUKE A DINNER, YOU KNOW?

The wood paneling requires an ungodly amount of paint, and it takes an ungodly amount of time to apply. Yesterday I caught Ian staring at the walls in resigned defeat, so I clutched his hand and whispered, "Courage, brother."

Just in the nick of time, Ian discovered chigger bites all over his body.

Then he discovered poison ivy all over his arms.

Then he came down with sore throat, incessant sneezing, and extreme misery.

MY, WHAT PERFECT TIMING!

Then I realized Winnie had stepped in paint and had globs of yellow all over her feet, legs, and tummy.

I tend to laugh hysterically when everything starts to fall apart, so I spent the majority of last night giggling furiously.

Last Night:

Ian: "Sneeze! Sneeze! Sneeze! Sneeze! Sneeze! Sneeze! Sneeze! Sneeze!"

Laura: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Winnie: <Looks yellow>

House: <Looks destroyed>

The house is in shambles, Ian feels like dying, and my brain is cracked out on home decorating.

Due to our insistence on bold and colorful, we may very well turn the house into a Candy Land nightmare. Stay tuned, y'all!

How Redbox Nearly Destroyed Our Lives (And How Netflix Saved Us)

December 2010 marked a traumatic time in the Winiferd household. Blockbuster, our only source of movies, went out of business. Ian and I turned our sights to Redbox as an alternative.

Sunday Night:

Ian: "Want to get a Redbox movie?"

Laura: "Sure. It's only a dollar."

Ian: "And we get to keep the movie for 24 hours."

Laura: "And Redboxes are all over the place."

Ian: "And we're always out anyways."

Laura: "WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?"

Monday Night:

8:47:  "Uh, Ian? This Redbox movie's due at 9."

8:48: "Crap! I forgot we even had that."

8:49: Run to car; screech tires on pavement.

8:50: Roar to Walgreens.

8:53: Realize Walgreens has no Redbox.

8:54: Roar to Schnucks grocery store.

8:56: Ian yells, "THERE'S NO STOP SIGN!"

8:57: Screech into parking spot; run wildly inside.

8:58: Realize man is fiddling with Redbox, trying to decide between She's All That or Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel.

8:59: Loudly tell Ian, "Just drop it in the return slot... Just drop it in the return slot... Just drop it in the return slot... Just drop it in the return slot."

9:00: Man gets subtle message. Man lets us go ahead. Return DVD. Redbox spits back DVD. Return DVD. Success.

9:01: Triumph. Victory. The peasants rejoice.

9:02: Am completely amped up on adrenaline and endorphins.

9:03: Reenact.

9:04: Karate chop invisible people.

9:05: Kick invisible people.

9:06: Swing purse at invisible people.

9:07: Run in circles. Jump up and down.

9:08: Vow to get Netflix.

9:09: Fin.

In May 2011, Ian and I signed up for Netflix. We also bought Apple T.V, to stream movies and television directly from Netflix.

The process went something like this:

Friday night at 7:31: We order Netflix.

Friday night at 7:32: We live happily ever after.

Our Milo and Otis

Since we moved in with Ian, Winiferd and Spottswood have become inseparable.

Spottswood, always cautious and sensitive, had refused to come near high-energy Winnie for months and months. He slowly warmed to her. These days, they're best friends.

When I get ready for work in the mornings, Winnie and Spottswood pound up and down the hall, chasing each other wildly. 

When I leave the house, they sit in the center of the living room together, looking forlorn as I walk out the door.

When Ian and I watch T.V. in the living room, they play together on the rug, rolling around and swatting at each other.

They do everything together. It's rare to see one without the other.

Below: Winnie and Spottswood share a feather, melting even New Daddy's heart.

Spending all their time together has brought some interesting changes. Winnie has learned how to play like a cat. And we've heard some interesting noises escape her mouth.

In the Kitchen:

Laura: "I think Winnie's starting to morph into a half-dog, half-cat creature."

Winnie: "Meow."

Ian: "Oh my God. Did you hear that?"

Winnie has always displayed an intense love for cat food. But then this happened:

Laura: "Uh, Ian? Spottswood's eating dog food."

Ian: "Gross."

Laura: "I'm going to put the dog food on top of the fridge. Because I find this disturbing."

Ian: "Good call."

Laura: "Now Spottswood's licking the spare dog food Winnie dropped on the floor."

Dear Ian,
This morning I awoke to Winnie standing on the counter eating cat food, so the cat food is on the dryer.
Love, 
Laura 

Dear Laura,
I think Winnie wants to be a cat, and Spottswood wants to be a dog.
Love, 
Ian

Dear Ian, 
I also saw Spottswood lapping up the dog's water. Don't worry. It was clear. I hadn't added her doggie tooth paste yet. God knows, the cat would want some of that, too.
Love, 
Laura 

Dear Laura,
They are apparently species queer. Winnie is a cat-identified dog, and Spottswood is a dog-identified cat. Their marriage would only be recognized in a few states.
Love, 
Ian

Laura's Seven Beauty Tips

When it comes to fashion, it pays to follow the advice of renowned beauty stylists and hair dressers.

I get haircuts once a year (twice if I'm feeling fancy), never go clothes shopping, and my beauty regime consists of washing my hair every four days (if I'm feeling fancy).

Clearly, a person of my knowledge and graces holds the secrets of beauty. The following are Laura' seven beauty tips:

1. Whenever you feel self-conscious about your appearance, layer on extra eye-liner and mascara.

Don't hold back. Thick and gunky is the key.

If you wake up feeling fat or unattractive, subtle eye makeup won't help the situation. I find the amount of eyeliner and mascara I wear directly corresponds to my self esteem.

So layer it on and strut, for you will look like a happy, healthy woman with high self-esteem.

Your significant others may claim you don't need the extra eye makeup. Don't listen to them. 

For instance, Ian claims I look beautiful without makeup. He says things like, "When you don't wear makeup, your eyes look extra blue."

Folks, Ian is a liar who clearly suffers from vision impairment. 

Don't let your loved ones sway you. Dark, thick eye makeup may not make you look beautiful, but it will make you feel beautiful. And that's what really matters, right?  

2. Let your Mom buy your clothes. 

Preferably at thrift shops or yard sales. 

My Mom, aware that I hate shopping, gleefully prows through yard sales every Saturday, searching for clothes. 

My Mom and I have very different tastes in clothes. For instance, she has the taste of someone thirty years older than me. Surprising, really. Sometimes she finds nice clothes. Sometimes she finds, ahem, interesting clothes. 

I embrace the yard sales finds, because it means I spend next to nothing on clothes, I don't have to go shopping, and I don't have to go naked. 

Ian: "Your mom still dresses you. You're like her human Barbie doll."

Laura: "As long as the clothes don't have too many kittens or lambs on them, I'm cool with it."

We knew my parents had embraced Ian into the family when Mom started buying him yard sale clothes. 

Child-sized Batman Lego shirt. Yes, please!

Every hippie wants his own NRA t-shirt.

3. Wear your boyfriend's old clothes.

Doing so screams, "I am faithful to my relationship." For NO ONE would ever look twice at a girl wearing her boyfriend's cast-offs. Which might make you look more sexy to your significant other. 

I wouldn't know. Ian barely notices my clothes. 

4. Coordinate outfits with your dog.

Wearing matching clothes with a canine sends the message, "I am a sexy and intelligent woman."

5. Embrace the frizz.

When I started dating Ian, I flat-ironed the hell out of my hair. For seven months, I showed off perfectly crafted, straight, shiny hair that elongated my perpetual baby cheeks and pumpkin head. 

But, as everyone knows, flat-ironing your hair is a monumental pain in the ass. I grew comfortable around Ian (i.e. "let myself go") and opted to forgo the hair torturing device. 

After flat-ironing my hair for seven months, I found my hair had developed into a permanently frizzy Bozo the Clown 'do. In other words, I murdered my hair. 

All my frizzy-haired companions: embrace it. And find a man who seems oblivious to female hair styles.

Laura: "Does my hair look frizzy?"

Ian: "Umm. What?"

Laura: "Does my hair look frizzy?"

Ian: "Umm. What do you mean?"

Laura: "My hair. Does it look frizzy?"

Ian: "Umm. I dunno. Why does it matter?"

Laura: "I guess it doesn't."  <Kicks herself for wasting seven months flat-ironing hair, destroying follicles>

6. Keep your eyebrows unkempt. 

A singular fashion magazine once informed me that bushy eyebrows are in. I choose to believe this. 

Wildly untamed eyebrows are "edgy." Also, free.

7. Use Photoshop. 

Facebook is important. For one reason only. 

Ladies, we all know Facebook functions solely to show off how hot we look. Particularly how hot we look in carefully-angled, darkly-lit bathroom photos. 

Go one step further. Use Photoshop. It's what all the supermodels are doing.

Monday Night Musings: The X-Men Edition

A while ago, I bought Winnie a purple harness. Shortly afterwords, I bought her a red leash.

I hadn't thought of the weird clash of colors until I slipped on both the harness and leash for her evening walk.

Laura: "Wow. She's colorful, isn't she?"

Ian felt excited about the inadvertent color mix of doom.

Ian: "She looks like Magneto! From the X-Men! His colors were red and purple!"
 

It's like looking in a mirror, isn't it, Winnie?

Laura: "Ian, who was that X-Man? The one Winnie looks like?"

Ian: "Magneto. He was the super-villain."

Laura: "Winnie's super-villain name is Boner Shrinker."

Ian: "That name's definitely more accurate."

Laura: "To the bat cave, Boner Shrinker!"