Tuesday, July 26, 2011

A sweet tooth like you wouldn't believe

I love my dogs. I really do. I'm not a "get on the floor and roll around" type of dog owner. Nor am I a "come snuggle in bed with me" type of dog owner. But I love taking them on long walks, letting them run on the beach out into the ocean, and teaching them new tricks and to be obedient.

All that said, my yellow lab is about to make me LOSE MY MIND. TC has ALWAYS had a penchant for eating. As a puppy, we had to hide food from her after she started taking DT's food by doing this:

We quickly realized she'd never be allowed to have table food, or else TC would be crazy obese and a horrible begger.

But then she got tall enough to reach the countertop. First it was rice krispy treats.

Then, two unbaked chocolate chess pies (raw eggs, cocoa and all!)

A raw sweet potato.

A raw hamburger patty.

A dozen pumpkin chocolate chip muffins and 2 loaves of the bread, warm out of the oven.

Then, this weekend, she discovered Small Biz's formula. Saturday afternoon, I was upstairs vacuuming, and came down to the kitchen to find this:

I was mad, but not too mad. The container was almost empty - there was probably enough powder left for 2-3 bottles.

So Sunday morning on our way to church, we stopped and bought another container. We probably made three bottles out of it between Sunday morning and last night. But after our morning walk today, we could not find TC. I finally went to the kitchen to make bottles for daycare, and then I couldn't find the formula.

The damn dog ate ANOTHER container FULL of formula! I found her in our guest room hiding under the bed, formula can between her front paws.

Who does that? Who eats a container full of formula? What's the weirdest thing your pet has eaten? What do you do to discourage that behavior? I am at such a loss!

Saturday, July 23, 2011

I always wanted to be called Ezra

How did y'all decide what your parents would be called as grandparents? I was the first grandchild born (on both sides of my family), so I got to name all four grandparents. I'm sure my parents encouraged me, but in the end, I named Mema and Beba, Nannie and Papa. I remember when I was little asking my parents what they wanted to be named, and they always said, "We'll let the kids name us!" But then, that changed...for my dad at least.

I wrote this as an essay when I studied abroad in South Africa in 2006. It's just so funny to me, I wanted to share it again. I'm not editing it much from how it was then...an essay for a creative writing class I took. Hope y'all enjoy!

Wednesday we buried my grandmother.  Thursday I packed for the longest and farthest trip of my 21 year life span.  Thursday night I squeezed into my parents waterbed, making my 6 year-old brother jealous.   

That may sound weird, but it happens in my house.  My last night at home before going to college, when my heart has been broken, and nights when I have nightmares have always been spent nestled in bed with Mom and Dad.  This milestone was no different.
With my parents at the airport the next morning at 4am. Whew, I  hate looking at old heavy pics of myself!

We lay in bed talking about the past month and a half that I’d been home for Christmas break. We talked about the week we’d just had, and how we wished Nannie would be waving me goodbye at the airport in just a few hours. We laughed that despite the ten vacuum-packed bags I’d used to put my belongings into two massive suitcases, I would still need some of my favorite things shipped to me. They questioned my sanity and asked if I was sure I wanted to leave.

Around 2 a.m., silly from lack of sleep, I commented to anyone who was still awake that we were like three people so poor we had to share a room in a boarding house. 

Mom chuckled and added, “No, we’re so poor we have to share a BED in a boarding house.”

I rolled over to face her and trying to keep a straight face said, “Hi, I’m Febo.  What’s your name?”

“I’m Natalie,” she quickly replied.

“Mo-om, someone named Natalie can’t live in a boarding house.  It’s too proper of a name!”

“No, it’s okay.  I’m from Missouri,” she wittily replied.

Looking past her into the dark, I pointed to my dad and asked, “What do you suppose his name is?”

“Hmmm, Hank maybe?” she questioned.

“Oh no!  Hank’s my hound dog.  He’s sleeping over there in the corner,” I told her.  “I bet his name is Jeb.”

Just then my dad, who we thought had fallen asleep hours previously, rolled over.  In a long, exaggerated southern drawl, he said, “I’ve always wanted to be called Ezra,” before rolling away from us.

I don’t think my mom and I have ever laughed so hard, or for so long.  The waterbed rocked so hard, as our bodies reverberated with laughter that I was almost thrown off the side.  Again she asked, “Are you sure you want to get on that plane in 3 hours?”

“No,” I said.  “I’m not sure I want to, but I’m gonna do it.”

And that’s how I left home.  Exhausted, emotionally drained, and with perhaps the best memory I have with my parents.

Since then, the name Ezra has stuck with my dad. All of my friends started calling him Ezra, my mom even calls him Ez from time to time. And now, when we're talking to Small Biz, we refer to him as Ezra.
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