Dear God,

I am writing to inquire as to the status of my application for an Official Midlife Crisis. I believe I am deserved of such an event and have previously provided your staff with all of the documentation required, including but not limited to the following:

• My birth certificate. Please excuse its crumpled condition as I became quite distraught while examining it, what with reliving my entire birth process and the eighties all over again. I’m not sure which event was more traumatic. While my birth year may look like a smudgy blob, rest assured that it does state 1967. Evidently, the salt from my tears had an adverse reaction to the typewriter ink they used way the hell back then. Also, please forgive my use of “hell” just now. It’s a compulsion, but you probably know that already since you equipped me with potty fingers. I just want to assure you that my use of such an expletive does not, in any way, suggest an affinity towards your nemesis.

• Birth certificates of my two daughters. Please note that one is approaching the age where she will not only be getting her driver’s license but will also be allowed to date. Please note that the other one, while her birth certificate doesn’t explicitly state as such, is currently nine but going on thirty.

• A copy of my marriage certificate evidencing my marriage of ten years, together with a supporting affidavit indicating that I have not had a full night’s sleep in ten years due to a husband who snorts the Navy Blue Angels up his nose every night before he goes to bed.

• A security video of me having a moment in the middle of Wegmans when I discovered they were out of Ho Hos. In the event the audio is unintelligible, please note that I am hyperventilating in between shrieking OH NO, NOT MY HO HOS! NOT MY HO HOS! WHERE ARE MY HO HOS? WHO’S GOT ‘EM? I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER’S GRAVE I WILL KILL YOU, YOU SONS OF BITCHES. Transcript available upon request, together with an affidavit from my mother attesting to the fact that she is very much alive.

• Medical records from the local hospital over the course of the past year documenting seventeen cases of whiplash sustained by my husband as a direct result of my changing my mind about paint colors and sex, both at the speed of light and sometimes even simultaneously.

• Excel spreadsheet of hormonal surges with accompanying pie chart indicating the severity of the surge and whether it resulted in a frenzied sobbing fit, a violent act of rage or a complete psychosis, together with a corresponding video captured by my youngest daughter of me blubbering hysterically at the preview for the Real Housewives of Orange County reunion show.

• Stool sample from the manifestation of my shrivelled up fallopian tubes and eggs our puppy.

• PowerPoint presentation of the thermonuclear energy produced by my hot flashes, as well as an embossed thank you note from the Department of Energy.

• An assortment of various MapQuest printouts of local tattoo parlors, pole dancing classes and skydiving facilities.

• Surveillance video of me perusing skinny jeans, jackets with fringe and other completely inappropriate clothing at places such as Hot Topic where I have no business shopping.

• Handful of tweets suggesting lustful thoughts of karate instructors twenty years my junior.

• Copy of youngest daughter’s fourth grade math homework covered with corrections and bearing the advice “Helena, please do not let your mom help you with your homework anymore” right next to a big sad frowny face.

It is my hope that the foregoing meets all your criteria for batshit crazy and that you approve my application for Official Midlife Crisis status as soon as possible, before perimenopause sucks my will to live.  Should you need proof of purchase of a boob job/tummy tuck/Botox/complete overhaul, please advise as soon as possible as time is of the essence. The local plastic surgeon has a waiting list a mile long and I might not get in before full onset menopause at which point, I will be too busy shaving my face and drowning in boob sweat to enjoy a crisis of any other kind.

Thank you for any and all consideration.

Sincerely,

Creative Junkie

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What in God’s name was I smoking when I agreed to this?

Whatever it was? I’d like some more, please.

Having a puppy is almost like having a newborn baby, except that my boobs are not engorged and I can’t shoot my uterus across the room by sneezing.

A newborn baby is easier than a puppy because newborn babies come with diapers.

Puppy diapers are truly an excellent idea. Someone go invent them. Thank you.

I’m worried people are going to think I shrunk a real dog in the dryer.

You can turn a tiny, happy puppy into a furious, demented hyena simply by placing him in a crate.

If you’d prefer a screeching, rabid, pissed-off, psychotic hyena instead, one who acts as if his testicles are being french braided and then pureed in a Cuisinart, place that tiny, happy puppy in a crate and then walk out of the room.

I will never take another shower in peace and quiet.

I don’t remember what peace and quiet sounds like.

Puppies keep your feet warmer than fleece slippers.

There is something to be said for unconditional love that doesn’t come equipped with an I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO DO LAUNDRY? OH MY GOD, I CAN’T WEAR THIS! MY LIFE SUCKS gene.

Puppy breath smells like ass. With infected hemorrhoids.

Dog food and treats don’t smell much better.

I thought I’d never meet another mammal who could produce ten times its weight in pee within a 24 hour period without benefit of a raging bladder infection.

Puppies are mammals, right?

Puppies are softer than clouds.

Puppy poop looks like milk chocolate covered pretzels.

Puppy poop on cream carpet looks like dark chocolate covered pretzels.

My carpet is scared.

I am scared.

I now know what it feels like to have my own personal stalker.

I did not think it was possible to love any living thing like I do my own kids.

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We brought Oliver, our eight week old shih-poo puppy home last Friday. Or, I should say, we brought Ollipops home, as he was dubbed by the girls and me within five minutes of crossing the threshold into our kitchen.

We are smitten, to say the least.

However, Nate is strongly opposed to the Ollipops moniker, believing it detracts from Oliver’s masculinity.

I think you could strap a machine gun belt on Oliver, wrap a spiked collar around his neck, tattoo naked ladies and skulls all over his body with the requisite I LOVE MOM on his bicep and throw him on top of a Harley and he still wouldn’t look masculine.

Do puppies even have biceps?

He’s tiny, not much bigger than our remote. He’s basically two pounds of fur with eyeballs and a bladder the size of a shrunken, dried up pea. Pun totally intended.

We gave him a bath in our kitchen sink the first night and we had to keep a tight grip on him to keep him from swirling down the drain because without all of his puffy fur, he shrunk to about the size of a macaroni noodle. Next time I will bathe him in a colander, just to be safe.

He’s doing surprisingly well with the potty training. I don’t have time to count up all the accidents he had inside the house the first couple of days because Zoe’s high school graduation is two years away and I don’t want to miss it but suffice it to say that I think Oliver got the hang of it sooner that we did. He did not have any problem peeing outside. We, on the other hand, had a recurring problem determining whether he had, in fact, peed or was he just screwing with us, out of some misguided notion of alpha status? Because I’m all about the alpha and at one point, I may have screamed I’VE GOT 850 STRETCH MARKS AND CELLULITE AND CAN COOK CHICKEN 101 DIFFERENT WAYS, BUSTER. I’M THE ALPHA, I’M THE ALPHA! and he may have replied LOOK AT THE POOR HUMAN IDIOT! I COULD DO THIS ALL DAY! but I couldn’t say for sure.

Oliver is pretty low to the ground and covered with poofy fur. There is very little clearance for unobstructed pee sightings. The ground was already dirty and wet with the thaw so feeling around for fresh pee was not an option and can I just get a THANK GOD for small favors? Because I don’t like to feel around for bodily fluids, I don’t care how cute you are.

Oliver hadn’t made it obvious yet as to how he intended to announce the imminent arrival of his pee: squatting, lifting his leg or holding up a billboard with I’M PEEING NOW. PAY ATTENTION emblazoned on it in neon blinking lights, which was our preferred choice. Everything we read instructed us to not stare at him while he peed because apparently, a dog is not unlike a certain human whose urinary tract will curl up into a fetal position and crawl right up into her esophagus where it will grow roots and cause her to burp incessantly until she can be absolutely certain that no one within a five mile radius will think she is performing something as disgusting as *whisper* tinkling.

What? Like your bladder doesn’t run screaming out the window when someone walks by the bathroom door? Or pulls onto your street?

*burp*

This left Zoe and me taking Oliver to go potty in his snow blowed potty area late at night, illuminated only by a 60 watt bulb on the back of the garage and a flashlight. We averted our gaze and pretended to be thoroughly engrossed in our neighbor’s basement windows while peeking at Oliver out of the corners of our eyes. I tried to hold the flashlight steady and aim it at Oliver’s nether regions. This is surprisingly hard to do when you’re shaking from the frigid cold and facing in the complete opposite direction.

Through the night, Zoe and I had what amounted to the same conversation over and over ad nauseam:

• Did he go?
• I can’t tell. I think he did.
• How can you tell?
• I can’t. I’m being optimistic.
• My eyes are cramping.
• OH MY GOD, GO ALREADY.
• Go potty, Oliver! Go potty! Go potty! Go potty! Go potty!
• Keep it steady, I can’t see anything! Aim it over here.
• We need a bigger flashlight.
• Is he squatting?
• Yes! YAY! Wait. UGH. No. That’s not his bottom. That’s his head. They look exactly the same out here.
• I think he’s eating the grass.
• Are you sure?
• No.
• OH MY GOD, IS HE EATING HIS POOP FROM BEFORE? THAT’S A DEAL BREAKER.
• Wait! He lifted his leg!
• Why did he fall over? Do you think he has balance issues?
• I don’t know and I don’t care. JUST GO ALREADY.
• OK. Just feel it.
• Feel what?
• It! See if it’s wet.
• What do you mean, “it?”
• You know! IT. Down there.
• Oh my God, I can’t believe you just said that. Isn’t that against the law or something?
• Not in my world. Besides, it’s either that or we freeze to death. Which is it going to be?
• I’m not feeling his business! You do it!
• Ooooh, no, no no … if you recall the contract you and your sister signed in order to get the puppy? Article 28, section 12, subsection 12-b specifically states that you, the undersigned, will supervise all matters of waste elimination, including feeling his business. Nicely put, by the way.
• OH MY GOD, FINE.

By Sunday, Oliver decided to squat as he peed and now it’s pretty easy to determine when he has done the deed and if there’s any doubt, I just make my girls feel him up because that’s what good moms do to instill a sense of personal responsibility in their kids: make them eat their veggies and grope puppies.

Never have I been so grateful for the physical composition and aromatic nature of poop.

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