Rebel Rescuer

Now you all know me as a level-headed, semi-witty, occasionally intelligent person right??  And most of you know that I have a tendency to worry about things and play the “what if” game.  So its safe to say that I try to look for problems and do whatever it takes to avoid them, right?

And so it was a few nights ago when we emptied most of the furniture out of the guest room to accomodate Frankie’s brood of six-week old poopers.  They are no longer containable in their whelping box, and because Frankie is so short, we can’t put them in a bigger box.  They’re still nursing a bit from time to time and I’m not going to take them away from their mom until she decides she’s tired of them.  You get the picture?

And wasn’t it the other night when I told the Matrix (who is temporarily camping in the guest room to keep an eye on the little tykes) that he cannot leave anything low enough for them to chew on?  And wasn’t I the one who fenced off part of the room with an xpen so that they wouldn’t chew on the remaining furniture?

Today’s stats…….(did I mention its only 8:31am?!)

Puppies – 1

Crackberry charger – 0

I’m NOT going to be an I-Told-You-So.

Well, maybe just a smidge.

Can I just say that the Crackberry is truly the Matrix’ survival tool?  This is his child, his inspiration, his means of communicating with that which he holds most dear (work).  It is faithfully at his side from the ass-crack of dawn to the late hours of night.  It rings, he answers, it buzzes he reads.  I actually have fantasies of smashing it with a  9-iron (or some other manly, long, stick-like thing).  It interrupts romantic dinners, buzzes at very inopportune times, and there’s nothing like being in the shower and hearing BEEP, “Hey Boss, are you there?” from a complete stranger.

So of course, I’m wondering when (if ever) Frankie is going to fully wean these babies so that I can corral them and avoid the senseless murder of any more household goods.  And of course, I’m beginning to think its never gonna happen.  After laughing explaining to my coworkers about the death of the Crackberry umbilical cord, and how I need to contain the puppies the very second they’re weaned, they reminded me that Lindsay Wagner breastfed her son until he was seven years old.  (We have a tendency to digress to the most morbid, freakish, and downright disgusting topics very quickly around here.)

Wait, SEVEN years old?!

As in, “I’m in second grade and can tie my shoes” seven years old?!

So of course, I now have a stunned and horrified expression permanently plastered on my face at the thought of a kid coming home in the afternoon to that sort of “after school snack”.  I mean, what in the lactose intolerant hell is up with that?!?!  The picture of it makes my eyes water and that perma-wrinkle on my forehead gets deeper.

While I have no human offspring and therefore am pretty clueless about them….it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that seven year-olds have teeth that are great for eating REAL food.  What exactly can they get from Mom the Moo that they can’t get elsewhere?!  I mean, we ALL survived on Flintstones vitamins didn’t we?!  Is it some sort of cult thing?  Is it bonding?  Ugh, I think my PBJ breakfast is gonna look bad on this carpet.  There’s something just so Mommie Dearest about a seven year-old kid taking a slurp off the Milk-a-Mom machine.  Jesus, can you even imagine what her chesticles must look like after going through that?!  Ever seen a Capri Sun bag without the juice?

So I guess the only consolation that I can offer the Matrix is that while the poopers are a handful, and they do destroy everything in their path (the carpet in the guest room, one wooden rocking horse, a portion of the bedskirt, and of course, the Crackberry charger)…at least I don’t have a seven year old kid dangling from my right bewbie.

See, isn’t he a lucky guy?!?!