Schizo and the Doggie Daycare

Back in March, (against my best advice) boyfriend bought a dog.

He was soft, had lots of extra skin and his breath smelled like comfort zone.

Sometime in June, the dog grew into this.

He was still soft, his breath smelled like a dead body and he was much more complicated.

Sometime between point A and point B, the dog picked up a mix of mental illness coupled with separation anxiety and schizophrenia.

Diagnosed per me, the expert.

But FOR REAL THOUGH.

Boyfriend travels all the time for his new fancy job, so I have been *luckily* left with the dog to my own devices. Due to all of our one-on-one time, the dog has become unhealthily attached to me.

As in, when I leave the house, he vomits on himself and chews his body to the point that he has bald patches all down his back and on his legs.  

Upon my return, he has diarrhea for hours.

Boyfriend does the same thing when I leave the house, which is totally charming.

Anyway, this has left me with little options but to:

Take him with me in the car

To the bathroom

To doggie day care

Wearing clothes

And generally treating him as a human at all times

You might think this is adorable, and 30 percent of the time it absolutely is.

Remember when Paris Hilton first came on the scene and she was always spotted with a small dog in her purse, her hoodie, on her belt buckle, on her earrings...and it was SO fashion forward?

Well, this 85 pound doberman has become a fifth appendage and that's not chic.

Sometimes, I JUST NEED A MINUTE.

We I have resorted to taking him to doggie daycare three times a week so that I can go to work and function guilt-free knowing my schizophrenic dog is slap happy and frolicking with other dogs his age but not really his size. He comes home, diarrhea-free and tired as shit so I can sit on the couch and watch Real Housewives for 3 or so hours a night.

For the record, doggie daycare is totally against my religion but, you gotta do what you gotta do, amiright?

Well, I've got two primary issues with doggie daycare: 1. the dog is sick and dirty all the time, which is expensive and 2. for the amount of money I spend on DDC I could have gone back to get my master's degree.

So, when life gives you lemons....

What does an anxiety-ridden, guilty conscience, type A person who cannot fail do when their dog is completely unbearable?

GETS ANOTHER DOG!

I haven't pulled the trigger on this idea just yet, but I've 90 percent convinced myself that this is the best option.

While boyfriend is ready to just throw in the towel to our manic dog, I can't help but picture him chained up in some thug's yard chewing himself to death because he's depressed that no one tells him how pretty he is anymore.

My master plan is to ditch doggie daycare and bring in reinforcements. This little wiener above will provide downs syndrome doberman with the companionship and attention he needs while I am at work.

Read: no vomit, no self-induced bald spots, no diarrhea.

Well, maybe a little diarrhea.

I imagine my future life, taking car rides alone, going to the bathroom with only me and my iPad and blissfully watching Real Housewives in my underwear whilst eating Nutella with a spoon.

OR this will go completely the opposite direction than I have anticipated and big dog will be unbearably jealous of small dog and turn to suicide and sleeping pills. Cue vomiting, chewing on self, more diarrhea.

What's a girl to do?

My life is hard.

The Best Buy Guy

When boyfriend and I first moved to Oklahoma we were staying in an apartment complex as part of boyfriend's relocation package. We were on the top floor with me, boyfriend and a now 85 pound puppy. It was miserable and I cried often.

About a month ago, we ran out of that apartment complex 100 miles an hour and moved into this chic little 3 bedroom house with a fenced in backyard. Praise the Lord.

Before leaving Houston, in a really practical move I sold all my furniture. Out with the old. The point is, we moved into our 3 bedroom with no furniture. Two weeks and a million dollars later, we were furnished and I cried much less often. But the most prized possession investment was the 60 inch 3D television that boyfriend bought.

Mind you, boyfriend went to a military school for college and spent 4 years in a shoebox with three other roommates and no television. It was time to go big. And he went big. We picked out the most expensive television at Best Buy and drove 13 miles an hour down a major street in Oklahoma City. I start cracking up and boyfriend shoots me a sharp look because NOTHING IS FUNNY ABOUT SAFETY.

"What?"
"Do you realize, we would not drive this carefully if there was a newborn baby in the car?"

That makes him laugh. Plus one for the females.

Anyway, the whole TV buying process took our entire Saturday afternoon and the help of a nice Best Buy Guy. He told us the ins and outs of televisions, sound, 3D, Blue-Ray and generally had a pretty good time spending boyfriends money.

There goes my Caribbean vacay. Thanks, Best Buy Guy.

So we get the television, sound system, 3D, Blue-Ray all home and (similar to a newborn baby) we don't know what the fuck to do with it. We stare at the massive box, hoping that the TV will just mount itself.

Turns out, it didn't.

The next evening, I get home from work, kiss boyfriend, kiss the dog, kiss the TV. Boyfriend says to me, "Eli is coming over later."

"Who? Who the fuck is Eli?"

"You know, the Best Buy Guy."

"Of course. The Best Buy Guy. But...how did you....what....why?"

"I had some questions so I called him, he's coming over."

At this point, I've got two things going on in my head.

First, how quickly men bond is blowing my mind. I have the same friends I had when I was 10. I've got a handful of (kickass) soul sisters from high school, college and Houston. My friend-making: see frigid, guarded, selective.

Secondly, what if the Best Buy Guy is a serial killer?

Eli ends up eating dinner with us that night and coming over again that weekend. He has since become a staple in our life in Oklahoma City, growing our technology and still spending boyfriends money.

This is not a paid advertisement for Best Buy, however, thumbs up on the customer service.

But seriously, what if he's a serial killer?

A Blood Donation

Today I am going to do something I really hate.

When I was a freshman in college I gave blood for the first time. I was trying to be involved and make friends so I volunteered for something that I assumed would be really rewarding and easy.

What an idiot.

I went with a friend who I just met. We were trying to do that new college thing and hang out with someone outside of your high school for the first time.

Conveniently, she went first, finished giving blood and then had to leave. "Bye Girl!! TTYL!!"

?

So here I was, a room full of strangers about to give away my precious, really cute blood.

So as I'm sitting there getting ready to be poked and prodded, there was a girl next to me with a needle in her arm squeezing the little stress ball thingy and I look down and turn green and my eyes bulge out of me head.

THEY TAKE THAT MUCH BLOOD.

Gulp.

Then the nurse says something to the girl that I will never forget, "Wow, you're really filling this bag up fast! Doing a great job, your blood is moving great!"

AND THEN IT WAS ON.

I instantly hated her. If her blood could move fast, mine could move faster. I'm a fucking runner, OK? I will win and I will cut your time in half.

I needed validation. Look at me! Look at me!

So they poke me, oh I don't know, 12-15 times before they find a vein and once the blood is rushing I squeeze that little stress ball with vigor. I make a sharp look at the girl with the fast blood in an expression I'd like to think said, "see this bitch?" I'm pretty sure I'm sweating, have an under bite and am loudly mouth breathing at this point.
Of course, what happens next is pretty foggy but I'm pretty sure that the nurse commented on my fast blood too. As I'm on my death bed, I put this compliment in my back pocket to use for later.

Turns out, blood donation isn't a competitive sport.

And then I pass out.

I wake up to ammonia under my nose and a throbbing headache. I have no idea where I am and lucky for me, I know no one in the room.

The nurses seem worried at first and people are rushing around to recline my chair and lay me completely down and someone is feeding me canned Gatorade out of a straw.

Who are you people? I love you.

Did I win? Was my blood faster than hers?

So then some nice overweight nurse explains to me what happened and says I have to chill there for like 30 minutes to make sure I'm OK.

So I sit there, white as a ghost and wondering if my friend is coming back and still not knowing if my blood was faster. Why is no one telling me this?

And as a freshman in college, I just want my mom and dad.

So I leave the blood place, and like everything else in college, have to walk back to my miserable dorm room. My legs weigh at least 400 pounds each and it takes me 20 minutes to walk a few blocks.

Is my friend coming back? Who will help me?

I get back to my dorm, call my dad and demand that he comes to pick me up so I can sit in the fetal position at my parents house for the rest of the weekend.

Well, that was the blood donation heard round the world because turns out, I have a really rare blood type.

Goodie.

So, to this day, that same blood donation center calls me asking me to give blood. I went a couple more times in college and they were equally traumatic. The last time I went (luckily) my iron was too low. So I high tail it out of there feeling released from prison and holler, SEE YA SUCKAS!!!

Fast forward to present day - I get a call yesterday from a nice lady named Shannon who commented that they 'haven't seen me in awhile,' no shit, that's on purpose, and is telling me how they 'really need my blood type as we get into the holidays.'

My first reaction is, HELL TO THE FUCK NO.

My second reaction is, some day I'm going to need a massive blood transfusion that will save my life and the doctor will say, "dang, that's too bad, no one from your blood type has donated in like, 10 years. We will just sit and watch you die now."

And because I'm Catholic and have a crippling guilty conscience, I'm going to give blood today.

UPDATE: I gave blood. To my surprise it wasn't horribly traumatic. BUT THEN. Passed out at work 2 hours later and almost yacked in someones trashcan. Subtle.