There she goes again.

I know, I know, another Wondergirl post.  But you have to admit, she’s pretty entertaining.  I’ll even throw in some bonus Kid Sensation and The Destroyer.

Actual conversation on their way to school:

Big Man:  Wondergirl, are you supposed to be chewing gum?

WG: (Smack, Smack) Nope.

Big Man:  Aren’t you going to get in trouble?

WG:   Probably. (Smack). It doesn’t matter, Principal Conners is soft.

Soft?!?!? SOFT?!?  How are you ten and calling someone soft like you’re The Rock?  Like, I’m fully expecting her to continue that statement with, “You wanna cross the Wondergirl? Well, the Wondergirl says this…”

The week she was on steroids and became a ten-year-old rage monster (I told you guys it was going to be great):

Kid Sensation was flying his paper airplane in her vicinity.  Yeah, I know.  I’m not sure how he thought it wasn’t going to end badly, or if he was willing to risk it unaware of just how badly it was going to end.  This is how–and you guys, just, you guys.  Wondergirl, who was curled up in the recliner trying to suck her thumb despite her swollen face, was trying to watch TV.  Besides the steroids, she was also going through thumb withdrawal.  No bueno.  So then Kid Sensation comes through with this airplane. Wondergirl is tracking the plane with her eyes.  It passes in front of her face twice.  Somehow the barometric pressure in the room drops, so I know it’s about to go down.  Third time–and I swear on my Batman T-Shirt–her feet shoot from underneath her and she grabs the airplane out of the air with one hand simultaneously.  She crushes  poor Kid Sensation’s airplane while staring him down, then balls the airplane up and slams it into the garbage.  Then she went back to the chair, curled back up, and continued her attempt to suck her thumb.  It happened so fast, if the Big Man hadn’t asked me if I had just seen what he did, I would have thought I imagined it.

You guys, I'm pretty sure this is what happened.
You guys, I’m pretty sure this is what happened.

She blew  up at The Destroyer so hard you guys he just put his hands up and walked away.  He was trying to tell her that dinner was ready.

Wondergirl was in her room ranting for no reason.  Well, maybe there was a reason, but I was scared so I didn’t go in. Or even knock. There might be a body in there, but all I smell is Bath and Body Works Sweet Pea lotion so I think I’ll leave it alone for now.

Oh, and Kid Sensation tried to get himself killed.  The other day he threw himself face down on the couch, then lifts his head, coughs, and says, “Oh, I think it’s Dad’s bottom.”  He then lowered himself down to floor and immediately put his own head down.  He already knew.

Oh, oh, and I have to take timeout to be that parent who brags about something her kid did like other people really care and aren’t just politely nodding and thinking about how to escape.

So the Destroyer runs track, and he ain’t half bad.  He runs the 400 and the 4 x 100, and he throws discus.  So last week, he’s running the third leg of the 4 x 100 and his teammate steps on his shoe during the handoff.  The Destroyer trips, falls, and his shoe comes off.  He rolls over, pops up, and finishes his leg and handoff. WITH. ONE. SHOE.  I thought that was kinda cool.

Anyway, how have you guys been?


I am officially a horrible person.

Today’s hate is reserved for a small, helpless creature.  If you are soft-hearted in any way, please stop reading–otherwise you will try to find out where I live and commence with the fisticuffs.

My husband, the Big Man, is known as the Big Man for a reason.  He’s six-foot-three and 340 pounds of bricks.  The man can bench press 700 pounds.  People avoid speaking to him and cross the street when the see him coming.  He rarely talks, smiles, or emotes publicly.  These are all reasons that I love him.

Oh, but this post is about a small and helpless creature, isn’t it?  Well, I’m getting to that, keep your shirt on.

A couple of days ago, my husband leaves the house to take The Destroyer to school.  Just like any other day.  Except on this day, he comes in the door holding what I at first thought was a dirt clod. I would have been happier had it been a dirt clod.

It was a dog. Kind of.

Okay, quick backstory.  The only two dogs we have had have been monsters.  One was a hundred-pound Doberman ; the other is a 150-pound Great Dane/St. Bernard mix.  Those were dogs.

This?  This was a closely shaven gerbil covered in God-knows-what.  And my big, hulking, menacing husband brings him into the house.

“I almost ran it over.”  The Big Man is all sheepish because the look on my face…LIVID.

“Okay, sooo….why is it in my house?”

“I couldn’t just leave her there.”  Hold up, wait a minute. One, HER?!?!  How on earth could he tell what it was?  I still wasn’t sure it was a dog, let alone gender. Two, YES YOU COULD HAVE LEFT IT THERE….because that is exactly what I would have done.  I would have felt sad about almost killing it, glad I didn’t, and moved on with my life.  But then I would have had nothing to write about.

So he bathes it in the bathroom sink. And even though the thing is clean… doesn’t look much better.  It. Is. Still. Gross.


And then.  It doesn’t bark.  You know, because maybe a cute little yip may have warmed my shriveled, black heart.  Nope.  It emits the same exact sound as the squeaky wheel on the jacked up shopping cart you got at Fred Meyers because you decided to go at 5:30 when everyone and their momma went so you were stuck with it.  (Run-on sentence perfection.) That sound.  Con-freaking-tenuously.

Let’s be clear.  I really don’t have anything against small dogs.  I just like big ones better.  Because you can make them do things.  Like plow the yard.  (I don’t really do that.  Please don’t call Animal Control.)  But this dog, I mean, come on.

And of course, of course, this happens on a Monday and the Humane Society isn’t open.  So my hopes of getting rid of it before the kids get home were dashed to the ground and shattered.  I wasn’t too worried about The Destroyer or Wondergirl, but I knew if the Weirdo caught sight of–

“We have a new dog?!?!” Dang it.  Before his backpack even hit the ground, he named it Squeak.

“No we don’t have a new dog.”


Okay, so look at these eyes:


Now you tell them that we don’t have a new dog.  Because that is just what the green beans I did.

“NO.  And stop touching it.  It will think we like it. It is going to the Humane Society tomorrow.”

Then the Big Man picks it up, takes it over to his chair, and flippin’ cuddles with it! “Stop being so awful. She wants to be your fwiend.”  Fwiend?  FWIEND!?!?

I swear. Everyone is against me.


I’m so petty, I am actually pointing at the dog, glaring at it, and pointing at the door.  Repeatedly.

I slept way angry that night.

I find out where the Humane Society is, and of course it’s on the other side of town.  Which in a regular car isn’t a big deal.  In Gretchen, however, you can see the dollars flying out of her exhaust pipe.  Whatever, this thing is out of here.  TODAY.

It was not to be.

I yell the F-word at the top of my lungs.  “FISH STICKS!!!!”  (We stick to SpongeBob cussin’ around here.) The Destroyer had a track meet and we had to be supportive parents and such, so getting rid of the dog had to wait until the next day. Fish Sticks, indeed.

The next day.  This is it.  Homeboy is gone.  I gassed Gretchen up and burnt SR-14 to a crisp getting to the Humane Society.  I am mumbling like a crazy person, “They better take this dog.  I am not playing, they better take this dog. I even had a plan for if they tried not to–I was going to throw the dog at them and run out. That’s how horrible I am.

But they took the dog.  Turns out it was a Chihuahua.  And it was a boy.

That’s it, I guess.  Don’t judge me.