Hello my lovelies.
I’m very excited to report that the last blog post was SO popular that it was viewed over 200 times! Yes, 200. For postsecret’s stats that’s a fail, but for this girl that deserves a high five!
Even my dad liked it. And if you know anything, you know my dad doesn’t like anything.
But apparently everyone loves to hear about dating disasters.
Seriously, I can’t tell you how many people texted/emailed/facebooked/gchated/came up to me in person (yes, people still talk face to face, mom) to tell me their worst date story.
Even my sister called me during the unholy hour of 6 a.m. to talk about it on her morning show at Froggy 101.
People love dating disaster stories.
And you know what? I aim to please.
Any who…There’s just so many stories to tell, ya know?
So, my lovelies, grab some cookies.
Get me one too, you punk.
It’s mother f*ing storytime.
I just adopted a dog from Animal Rescue Shelter of New Orleans and life has definitely changed. I never thought I was a small dog kind of person, but this little guy stole my heart.
His name is Fitzgerald, after my favorite author, Ernest Hemingway.
Anyway, life has become very exciting. Having a dog opens you up to a new world of walks, dog parks, and cuddling on the couch whenever you want.
The unexpected perk of having a dog is that I now have to wake up early to walk him which has turned my notorious sleeping in habit into an early riser. Did you know there are people awake and outside at 7 a.m.? I didn’t either!
So this morning, during our morning walk, Fitzgerald and I headed out around the cemetery next to my house. Franklin, my cat, is now an outdoor cat (this happened a half a year before the dog came, so Franklin’s not a victim, he’s just a punk). Franklin plays a fun game of “let’s follow and taunt the dog while mommy tries to get the dog to focus on going potty”. This game goes on the entire time we are outside, Fitz gets so excited to see Franklin he refuses to do anything else but stand on his hind legs barking for Franklin who pretends he can’t hear him while following us the entire walk. Usually I’m outside standing, sans bra, hair pulled up in a messy bun, dressed in my night clothes, pleading with the cat to just give me a break.
This morning, however, Fitz was able to pull the leash hard enough that he got free. He then proceeded to run into the cemetery after Franklin, leash trailing behind him in a happy parade. By the time I caught up with Fitz I found him rolling back and forth on top of a grave (!) into a pile of gooey cat shit. Holy. F*ing. Cat. Shit.
Franklin just sat there, with that look only cats can pull off, a mix of amusement and shame as if to say, “Control your dog, biotch.”
I grabbed the clean part of the tainted leash and pulled Fitz down to the house and proceeded to spray him with the garden hose.
This morning’s debacle got me thinking about how far I’ve come in my anxiety. If this had happened ten years ago I would have been unable to grab the leash and get the dog out of the cat feces. I would have been paralyzed by fear. I wouldn’t have been able to clean him off or probably touch him again without panicking.
It might be because of the medicine. It might be because if I hadn’t grabbed Fitz he would have stayed in that cat poop heaven for God knows how long. But I grabbed the dog, some soap, some gloves, and went to town with the hose.
I’m not cured. I’ll always have anxiety. But without even realizing it, today I proved how far I’ve come from the teenager who feared most things I touched would make me sick.
If you’re reading this, and you have anxiety, have hope. You will be able to function one day.
And then you’ll be so far into your progress that you’ll be cleaning cat shit off your puppy.
You lucky survivor, you.