Showing posts with label Winnie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Winnie. Show all posts

Thursday, March 21, 2013

33 Weeks

I would have updated sooner but...you know.


Ian takes great delight in snapping photos of me looking like Jabba the Hut while passed out on the couch, with the dog firmly wedged into the crook of my knee. 

Which happens every evening.  


Look at the baby grow.


 It's all very exciting.


 Winnie finds pregnancy beautiful.


Occasionally, I do leave the couch and venture into the real world. It's shocking, I know. 

At my latest appointment, last week, my doc determined the baby is in the 48th percentile for weight. Neither Ian or I can remember the exact weight he gave, but I think it was 4 pounds, 4 ounces. Or something. 

Based on that, she's projected to weigh around 7 pounds, 6 ounces at term. 

My doc also announced I had lost two pounds. 

I have no idea how such a thing is possible since I consume about 10 enormous meals a day. Breakfast is definitely my favorite meal of the morning. 

By my calculations, I have gained about 22 pounds total so far. 

Baby is also head-down, like the nice, obedient child we know she will be.

Pictured: delusional future parents


And with that, it's nearly time for my pre-bedtime nap. Good night, everyone. For lo, it is almost 6:30.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

The Third Trimester

Holy crap, I'm pregnant.


Holy crap, I'm in the third trimester.



Here's an awkward photo of my third trimester belly. Also pictured: my work shirt paired with my fat pants. 

Look fast; I'm liable to delete this soon.


And here's a third trimester photo of Winnie, whose world will be rocked in three months. That's the face of a dog mentally preparing for emotional trauma.


Here's an obligatory prom style belly photo:


Hang on to the memories; hang on to the moments. 

The Snowflake Formal

Winiferd High School

 February 2013

Here's a creepy photo, as Ian clings to life and leers at the camera while Winnie examines Ian's butt. 


I sent Ian off on a daycare tour this morning at my top daycare choice since he had the day off. As he looked through the infant room window at six babies, he was greeted by six gummy smiles.

He sent me a text: "Place looks fine."

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Lots and Lots of Updates

Howdy. I took a little break from the blog. This was an "I'm tired and have way too many things to think about right now" type thing. No biggie.

But someone did ask what happened to Winiferd so here's a slew of updates:

1. Spottswood's a late bloomer. 

The cat we considered physically perfect came down with a raging case of zits a few weeks ago.

Ian thought it was flea dirt but I'm a champ at detecting fleas and flea dirt (God almighty, Winnie, stop traumatizing your poor mother), and I knew it couldn't be fleas.


After 1.5 seconds of Googling, I realized it was feline acne. Our little boy has become a man.

And that's the story of why "Spottswood's acne medication" now sits on our grocery list.


Harvey has been calling Spottswood "Pizza Face." But Harvey has no room to talk because...

2. Harvey is gross.

And Harvey keeps urinating and defecating on things. And I don't know. I guess it takes too much energy to walk 15 feet to the litter box room. And life is tough.  And walking makes my feet hurt.

Update: Yesterday, Harvey had an accident-free day. He was rewarded with a smiley face sticker. We also crowned him king of the potty.


3. Winnie has declared herself my faithful watchdog. 

It's wildly annoying. Ian started a new job ages ago that keeps him out of the house later in the evenings.

So Winnie protects my life and limb by barking loudly at the wind blowing and cars driving and butterflies elegantly gliding by in perfect harmony with the universe.

Because, damn it, these things might disturb my human, and I will bark so hard the world will fear all eight pounds of my poofy ass.

Face of a killer


In return, Winnie gets a lot of time-outs when Ian's away from home. It does help to quell the barking. Yay for gentle, life-affirming doggy discipline or whatever you want to call that hippie crap.

4. I'm one week shy of the third trimester. 

Yesterday was the first day that strangers realized I was pregnant. The mail-lady, who sees me everyday, was shocked.

Mail-lady: "Oh my goodness! You're pregnant!"

Laura: "Yeah!"

Mail-lady : "How many months are you?"

Laura: "A little over 6."

Mail-lady- "Six months!?"

According to my doctor, I've gained 14 pounds so far.

The baby kicks and squirms with vigor. So vigorously that Ian once got nauseous and had to stop feeling the miracle of life since it made him feel like barfing.

I felt the first fetal movements at 18 weeks, at 5 in the morning, the sensation of a butterfly flapping around in my left side.

Now, at 27 weeks, the child does some sort of intense gymnastics routine in the early mornings, as I can feel bizarre ripples against my stomach again and again and again and you get the picture. 

I'm sorry but I have no pictures of me lately because I never think to take any. We're working on it.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Ian and Winnie Get Haircuts and Dance

On Saturday, Winnie headed to the groomer while Ian went for his yearly hair-cut. Ian's haircuts present a small dilemma. For me, anyways. Ian doesn't actually care about his hair.

But I approach the occasion with some amount of trepidation because I don't want the hairdresser to (a.) bob his hair or (b.) make him look like a Republican.

His hair has to be shorter, but not too short, but not puffed up like a girl's. It's a tall order.

Luckily, the city Fantastic Sam's does a much better job than the suburban Fantastic Sam's, which shouldn't surprise anyone.

The hair-dresser lopped off six or so inches of hair, and Ian didn't look like a girl or a Republican so we're all very happy. Or I am. Ian profoundly doesn't care.



I also felt pleased that Ian and Winnie got haircuts on the same day because it makes for good photos. Except you really can't tell much of a difference in pictures, so whatever.


And then Ian let me do this to him because it's okay to look like a girl sometimes


Ian always falls pretty hard for Winnie with a haircut since she looks like an alien-rat when shaved. He picked her up and petted her willingly all weekend which is a big deal in this house. And they danced.



And that's all the Forever Daddy attention she'll get for now, until she's re-shaved in another three months. It was beautiful while it lasted.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Spottswood the Menace

Life is full of irony, something Alanis Morissette went on at length about back in the 1990s.

Which is why one week you're branding your surly fat cat and needy dog the grossest, most annoying animals in the universe, or at least the house, and the next week the cat you deemed perfect is rampaging around the house acting like the devil with his pants on fire.

Spottswood, perfect, dainty, adorable Spottswood, erupted into hell on legs last week.

Spottswood has chewed three keys off Ian's computer keyboard, insists on chewing up computer cords, crams candy wrappers and plastics into his cheeks, hops onto shelves and knocks all the contents off, and is continually running between Ian's legs making them both skid around erratically.

"I am so gnawing on that ethernet cable."


Hell hath no furry like a cat who chews up your computer hardware, so Ian has taken to calling Spottswood, "asshole" and "bastard."


By contrast, Winnie has spent the last few days being cuddly and sugary sweet.

Ian and I usually walk the dog together, but the few times Ian has declined to walk, staying home to fix his mangled computer hardware full of fang bites, Winnie has leapt into Ian's lap, burrowing into his legs. She'll give me a mournful look, hiding in Forever Daddy's lap, upset at the prospect of separation.

And, well, you try to despise a dog with that kind of loyalty. Ian can't. He emits all kinds of "Awws" when that happens.


And then you factor in Winnie's new haircut, which makes her look like a deformed lamb mixed with a miniature Luck Dragon, and then the time a sleeping Winnie jerked awake, shaking and wild-eyed, tail tucked between her legs, scaring the ever-loving crap out of both Ian and me, and you suddenly have a wildly sympathetic Forever Daddy.


Laura: "She must have had a nightmare. I've never seen a dog react so emotionally to a dream."

Ian: "I was waiting for an earthquake to happen. Poor thing."


So we currently have an asshole of a cat and an achingly sweet dog. We're patiently waiting for Spottswood to level out and for everything to return to normal.

In the meantime:

Laura: "Did you know 'dog' spelled backwards is 'god'?"

Ian: "Yeah."

Laura: "Did you know 'cat' spelled backwards is 'tac'?"

Ian: <Giggles>

Monday, August 20, 2012

Winiferd in the Burbs: SVU (Clank, Clank)

The crime-
Feces. Doo Doo. Defecation.

Scene of the crime-
The kitchen rug (yikes), the kitchen floor surrounding the kitchen rug (eww), and the bottom kitchen cabinet (WHY, GOD, WHY).

The time of the committed crime-
Between 3:00 am and 5:00 am, Friday morning.

The suspects- 
1. Skinny cat, black and white, fifteen pounds. Sleek, elegant, shiny. Has his own beauty regimen. Poses daintily for the camera. Has a crush on his school friend, Nicholas. Is generally perfect in every way.


2. Fat cat, black and white, twenty-three pounds. Dandruff, intense shedding, pathological eater, is best friends with a one Mr. Hanky.


Has a history of doo doo issues. Sleeps often. Loves strangers. Ignores family.


The story- 
I take Winnie to the potty at around 5:00 am on Friday morning. I notice lumps of...stuff. It's too dark to see, but the dog is intrigued. It smells oddly like dead things. Nah, I'm still dreaming.

I drag the dog outside to do her business, and we go back to bed. At 7:00 am, Ian and I wake up. I sniff the kitchen air. I cringe. I spot the crime.

The verdict-

Screw criminal justice and Miranda Rights and fair trials.

Harvard Nathaniel, the jury finds you guilty of First Degree Bull Shit, and the judge sentences you to a year of public shaming.

____________________________________________________

The Crime- 
Wee wee. Wet spot.

Scene of the crime- 
The living room rug I bought with my Christmas money, a rug that is shaggy and red and awesome.

Time of the committed crime- 
Between 8:00 am and 10:00 am, Saturday morning.

The suspects-
1. The fat cat from yesterday who now has a history of being too lazy to walk ten feet to the liter box. The fat cat who has temporarily lost all regard for rules and regulations and not shitting on the floor. 


2. Small dog, white, fluffy, eight pounds. Has to use the bathroom every four hours. Enjoys long walks and chicken-watching. Has attachment issues. Is hyper needy. Has a history of peeing on towels and rugs when immediate need to urinate goes unmet.


The story-

10:00 am on Saturday morning:

Ian: "It smells awful in here."

Laura: "I don't smell anything."

11:30 am on Saturday morning:

Laura: "What's wet over here? What is this?"

Ian: "I guess that's the source of the awful smell."

Laura: "I still can't smell it."

A few hours later: 

Laura: "IT SMELLS LIKE A DYING TURD IN HERE. I THINK A ROTTEN CARCUS IS MASHED INTO THE RUG."

The verdict-

This time we spend a few hours deliberating but ultimately declare the dog guilty of First Degree Asinine Behavior.

We sentence the dog to a year of being watched extra closely and constant references to the time she shamed the family.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

The Doggy Said She Loves Me!

Here's the latest slew of catch-phrases here at the Winiferd house:

1. For the past several months I've been slipping the sentence, "The doggy said she loves me!" into casual conversations.

For instance:

Laura: "Have you heard about Romney in Britain today? Apparently, he's made multiple gaffes."

Ian: "I heard about it on NPR."

Laura: "I think the Brits are quietly waiting for Romney to tie one of the Queen's corgis atop his mini-van and drive it into the River Thames."

Ian: "Ha."

Laura: "He's headed to Israel next. That should be a nice, easy atmosphere to prove his diplomatic skills. The doggy said she loves me! So, yeah, I can't wait to hear what he'll say next."

Ian: "Did you... did you just say, 'The doggy said she loves me'?"

Laura: "I'm not sure. But she does love me, so it's probable."

A scan of a younger me with a cowlick and a very young Winnie


Puppy Winnie 


2. This has inevitably led to, "The kitty said he loves me!"

Ian: "We should get a hairless cat someday so you won't be allergic to it."

Laura: "Okay. They're ugly as hell, but I could deal with it if I could hold them. I never get to hold Spottswood and Harvey."

Ian: "They're intrigued by you."

Laura: "I know. They love me. I mean, they tell me all the time..."


3. We constantly imitate the chickens...

...Meaning I constantly ask Ian to imitate the chickens. Polly's cluck is light and charming, Caroline's is loud and screechy, and Marjorine sounds like a duck.

Here's a video of Ian imitating Polly, Caroline, and Marjorine, in that order.

Harvey and Winnie got overly excited when the camera came out, so there's a bit of me loudly objecting.

We should have re-shot the video, but Winiferd in the Burbs hasn't yet reached that level of journalistic excellence. We pride ourselves on slapping together the most half-assed media you've ever seen.

So watch the video!

Shitting on the Clock: Rekindling the Worker's Movement

I don't know if you've noticed, but the economy has been lagging a bit lately. Everyone's predicting doom and gloom and anxiously awaiting the days when gas costs twenty bucks a gallon and no one can afford food.

Then there's the unemployment, decreasing wages, and hyper-inflation. The lucky ones with jobs cling to them, taking on added, unpaid labor because damn, I'm so lucky to be employed.


While most companies allow workers two weeks of vacation per year, every other advanced nation gets approximately four to eight weeks off and demands that workers use these vacation days. 

On the other hand, many U.S. employees fail to even use their paltry two weeks off, fearing negative repercussions from employers.

In the U.S., we strive to worker longer and dumber, rather than shorter and smarter. So you can imagine why U.S. employees might start to feel burnt-out, run-down, and apathetic.

I asked Winnie and Spottswood to write a guest post for the blog, highlighting ways mistreated, downtrodden workers can rebel against the system.


Here are their tips to win the race against the clock, challenge the rules, and beat the system.



Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors, Spottswood and Winifred, and do not necessarily reflect the official policy, position, or beliefs of any agency of Winiferd in the Burbs, including its creator and writer, Laura, or its cartoonist, Ian.

1. Form a prayer circle at work. Invite all colleagues to join a morning prayer ritual. Take prayer requests and volunteer to say the prayer. Make the prayer as long-winded, verbose, and rambling as possible. 

Maximize the time spent in the prayer circle. Strive to cut at least half an hour from your work day. In the process, you will also gain brownie points from your religious co-workers. 

To cut even more time, bring a Bible and offer to read several pages. Try to spark discussion. You may be able to cut an entire hour from your work-day. People love the Bible.

2. Adopt an extracurricular activity. Let's be honest: a lot of people can finish their work for the day in about three hours.

That leaves an entire five hours everyday in which employees can gain useful skills or knowledge.

Take on a useful hobby that enhances creativity and vision.

Learn a new language. Balance your budget. Research ways to start your own non-profit. Research ways to start your own for-profit.

Or start writing a blog. Not that we'd know anything about that. Since we're a cat and a dog.


3. Try to work from home. At least ask. It's worth a shot.

4. Take plenty of bathroom breaks. See title above.

5. Smoke Breaks. Coffee Breaks. Water Breaks. Take breaks that aren’t counted as your corporate-issued 15 minutes. You can pick up the habit second-hand. Get a buddy who smokes and break whenever they break.

6.  Use your vacation days. Actually use them. Rebel against sick corporate culture. Also, use your sick days.

If your company grants you two weeks of sick days per year in addition to two weeks of vacation days, you can figure that's about four full weeks of vacation.

7. Drink on your lunch break. You have an entire hour in which to make the rest of the work day bearable.

Bar hop.

Sample the lunch-time dollar margaritas at any Mexican restaurant.

Or go the old-fashioned route and pour rum in your coke in the company break-room.

8. Nap on the clock.

a. Tell your co-workers you left important work materials in your car. Go to your car and sneak in a power-nap.

b. Find a secluded, rarely-used maintenance closet to sleep in. Find one that only the Friday cleaning lady uses. One that locks from the inside.

9. Create a workplace computer emergency. Unplug one of the network cables. Throw a breaker in the breaker box. Let your creativity flow on this one.

10. What’s for lunch? Never pay for meals again thanks to the generosity of others. Keep on eye on the frozen dinners and to-go boxes people stash and forget in the fridge.

Snag them just before they go bad. 

And those are our tips. Thank you for reading our very first guest post!

We're tired now. Good-bye.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

The Night We Ran Screaming from the Poison Truck of Doom

I grew up in a rural area surrounded by woods and ponds. I played blissfully outside all summer long in relatively clean, fresh air.

So you can imagine why moving into a slightly more urban area would cause an unsettling shock to system for one huge reason:

Mosquito spray trucks.


Holy crap. Those things will be the death of me.

Ian and I walk Winnie every evening for about an hour. It's built into our routine, a time for Winnie to trot and explore, and Ian and me to jabber about our day and get some exercise.

Oh happy times


I was not personally acquainted with mosquito spray trucks until last summer. We'd be happily walking the dog, hear the dreaded high-pitch hum of the truck, and scurry back home to avoid getting showered with poison.

We'd been lucky to always be close to home when we heard the squeal of the Truck 'O Doom. But last night, we ran out of luck. Here's a play-by-play of how we narrowly escaped billowing pesticides:

Last Night:

8:01- Hurrah! Another nightly walk. The dog's excited, the sun's setting, and we're ready to go.

8:03- Jabber, jabber, talk, talk. Watch the dog earnestly sniff fire hydrants and water the plants.

8:05- Look at all the kids skateboarding, riding bikes, and playing basketball. How nice.

8:07- Uh oh. Oh god. Is that.....? OH, DEAR GOD, NO.

8:08- Listen in horror to the beeping, squealing truck chugging along, spewing organophosphates and synthetic pyrethroids into the evening sky.

8:09- Moment of truth: It will soon turn on this street.

8:09 and a half- Moment of decision: RUN, DAMN YOU, RUN.

8:10- We flee, pounding down the sidewalk, desperate to beat the truck.

8:11- Feel impressed by how quickly the eight-pound dog can run.

8:12- Feel concerned over my rapidly declining energy. How did I deteriorate so quickly? So...tired....so...old.

8:13- The truck turns onto the street we're fleeing. GOT TO FIND SECOND-WIND.

8:14- Ian finds his second-wind. Actually, he never lost his first-wind.

8:15- Ian darts through a yard as the poison truck closes in. I'm slowing down, exhausted, defeated, imagining a world of tumors and lowered IQ. I turn and see the truck grind closer, belching neurotoxins and carcinogens. I suddenly find more energy.

8:16- I dart through the yard after Ian, laughing manically.

8:17- Ian yells, "We can cut through another yard and hop the fence! Hurry!"

8:18- Ian hops a chain-link fence. I hand Winnie to Ian and artfully flop over the fence.

8:19- We are next to our yard, one more fence to go. Ian snags our old pool ladder, still in our yard from last summer.

8:20- The rednecks win. We use the ladder to climb over the final fence. We barrel towards the house, furiously run inside, and slam the door shut.

8:21- Victory is ours. Rejoice.

8:23- Read multiple scientific articles on the internet about the effects of mosquito spray on humans. Read the words, "reproductive cancers."

8:24- And then I died.

The End.

Monday, July 9, 2012

This Means War

Shit got real this past weekend. We lost two more chickens. That's three birds in less than three days.

I hesitate to reveal which ones because: 1. I obviously think my four readers consider the Winiferd family superstars and will thus sob profusely, and 2. one of the chickens who died actually was a superstar.

That's right. The predator took Janathan Fuzzy Proctor. He also took Hester Prynne.

Jane


Hester 


Baby Jane. Sniff.


Baby Hester, our shy one


It all started on Friday night. Winnie began barking at around 3:00 am. I sleep like the dead and barely noticed. But an irritated Ian tossed Winnie out of the bedroom, thinking she was barking at the cats.

In a less sleepy state, I would have instantly realized something was amiss. Winnie was barking aggressively, which she only does when something is wrong.

At around 3:30 am, Winnie began barking again. I decided this meant she needed to go to the bathroom (What? I was sleepy), so I leashed her up and groggily led her into the front yard. Winnie lunged frantically against her leash, trying to bolt to the backyard.

I picked her up, placed her in the yard, and commanded her to use the bathroom. She used the bathroom. Then I dragged a still-frantic Winnie back towards the house.

By the time we reached the carport, Winnie had grown wild. At that point, I got nervous. I made the most logical assumption one could make in that situation: an axe-wielding, homicidal maniac was in the backyard (WHAT? I was sleepy).

I scooped up Winnie, dashed inside, and locked the door. Winnie and I trotted back into the bedroom.

Ian: "Did Winnie bark?"

Laura: "Yes. She kept lunging towards the backyard."

Ian: "Something's probably after the chickens!"

Laura: "But... I thought it was homicidal maniac. With an axe. [Did I mention I was sleepy?]

Ian scrambled outside, while I fretted over homicidal maniacs.

He returned several minutes later and announced, "No more Hester. And no more Jane."

Bye bye, Janathan 


Hester in the middle of her siblings, always the calm one


Hester Prynne


We think it was a raccoon because it dug underneath the cage to grab the chickens. And we think the raccoon, knowing the chickens' whereabouts, kept coming back for more. 

Laura: "I feel like our chickens are 1940s Jewish refugees, and the raccoons and foxes are the Gestapo."

Ian: "Marjorine's writing a diary."

The next morning, we pronounced war on the wildlife. We dragged one chicken coop into the barn and dragged the other chicken coop directly beside it on the outside of the barn.

The indoor coop


The outdoor coop


Ian cut out out a door and fashioned a walkway between the two coops. 


Ian: "The chickens have a bathhouse. We're going to learn which ones are secretly gay."

Laura: "And Republican."

Marjorine and Sal inspecting the walkway/ bathhouse 


The chickens have access to both coops during the day. At night, we close off the walkway so that they spend the night in a cage inside the barn for double protection.

So far, it's worked. We hope we've thrown the predator for a loop.  

So we're down to four: Sal, Marjorine, Polly, and Caroline.

And to the area wildlife, we formally issue the following statement: Go to hell, motherfuckers. The war is on.