There are worse things than spending an unexpected night in Honolulu, I must say. I just wish we were (1) not at an airport hotel and well out of walking distance of, like, anything, and (2) that it were not raining, which makes No. 1 totally null. However, the boy was awesome today. What a trouper. And my in-laws are awesome, and my husband is awesome, and my Toms shoes are awesome except when you’re running a mile between the United and Hawaiian air terminals, twice, with three bags and a stroller.

Anyway. Today, November 19, 2011, is the day we attempted to get my poor dog knocked up. I wasn’t there for it, but I’m told there was all kinds of weird stuff going on in the room: parts were massaged, positions were tried, things were injected into places.

And honestly, I feel like a sell-out. I worked at a humane society a long time back — I know how hard it is to get dogs adopted out. I know how much it sucks to see animals die because people are jerks. And I guess I’m one of the jerks bringing more unnecessary dogs into the world.

Except.

Except — ugh. I really want there to be an except, so I’ll make one: Except the dogs I’m responsible for bringing into the world won’t be unloved or unwanted. They’ll go to homes that are well vetted (by me, personally); they’ll be taken by people who can afford to pay not only for the dogs, but for the sometimes expensive care that ownership entails.

Except.

The people who buy these dogs wouldn’t be going to a humane society, anyway.

Except.

I love this breed: I love their energy, enthusiasm, curiosity, their contentment and love and slobbers and wrinkles. I love the way they breathe and snort and run out of energy at inopportune times and you have to carry them halfway down Tomer Butte and another mile up to your house, all fifty pounds of him, his slobbery mug resting on your shoulder. That’s a bulldog. They’re funny and loving, great with kids, not territorial, they don’t bark, they don’t bite, they don’t need long walks every day (though that’s fine, too); they just want love. And did I mention the wrinkles and cuddles and exuberance.

So, there. There’s my rationale. It’s flimsy and it sucks, and yes, part of why I’m doing this is for profit. And to pay the expenses of breeding and potential C-section, and to ensure the dogs go to homes that can afford them. But really, I love this kind of dog. And I love my Lucy, and Julius and Cleo before her, and Theo before them, and Angus before him. I’ve loved these dogs all my life and I hope that maybe other people can get that experience, too.

While on the one hand I look forward to going back to work, the challenge of, say, taking a shower before 9 a.m. does seem rather daunting. I wonder how ever shall I do it.

Too bad I have no problem taking care of these piles by putting them back exactly where he found them.

(In marriage counseling, this blog post will be logged into evidence as Exhibit 1.)

And in other marriage-related news, Lucy has literally gone off to a nice farm in the country to spend Thanksgiving: she’s staying with my parents on their acreage for a few weeks, and if she gets lucky, there will be an arranged conjugal visit with a local bulldog stud. If she’s not lucky, one of the neighbor’s miniature donkeys will take a shine to her and we’ll end up with a litter of bullonkeys.

HE’S SO GODDAMN SMUG ABOUT IT. Yes, Dear. You worked all day while I did some mild housecleaning and am now spending the waning hours watching football. No, Dear, I DO NOT WANT TO SORT OUT MY PILES OF JUNK. Also they’re already sorted. INTO PILES.

I have almost nothing to say. It’s election day, one best spent in bed on a deserted island with a book and no internet. Unfortunately that is not how I spent it, and now I’m medicating with Haggen-Dazs and will resume Game of Thrones, the book, shortly.

Lie Detector Dunk Tank. Is it wrong to admit I just want to see New Gingrich in a Speedo? Anyway, the premise is simple: Whenever you lie, as determined by say Factcheck.org or another independent nonpartisan organization, you get dunked. And/or if you lie three times total, you get dropped off a cliff. Bungee cords are too leftish (social safety net, anyone?), so candidates are left to fashion a parachute out of their American dreams and bootstraps, MacGyver style.

Blind CandiDate. Like the show of yore, you ask a question and hear three candidates’ responses (we might need voice obfuscation software) and get to blindly choose the one according to, goddammit, their answers, not the way they look or whatever intangibles sway people. Bad news to whomever goes home with Rick Santorum — he’s been experiencing a Google problem lasting for a lot longer than four hours, so he may need to see a doctor about that.

Iron Chief. Whomever cooks up the tastiest food wins the metaphor contest. Hint: The secret ingredient is horse shit.

Who Wants to Take on Medicare? This one’s a fundraiser. Explain to seniors exactly what you want to do with their Medicare and see if they’ll give you any money.

I cannot imagine that anyone would find my idea unacceptable — I mean, if people are willing to take Michele Bachmann and Herman Cain seriously, and if Rick Santorum really thinks gay marriage is the hill he’s willing to die on, then this is equally serious — and would perhaps lead to bipartisan entertainment and agreement. Maybe it could even heal America.

But in an effort to account for the lack of blogging, I give you a list (with occasional hyperlinks) of excuses for why I no longer write anything longer than a tweet. Speaking of which,

1. Twitter. Here I like to vent about companies, then realize I’m in the wrong. Actually that happened yesterday, when I spent a good twenty minutes on the TOMS shoes website trying to figure out how to calculate tax/shipping on shoes and was unable to do so without creating an account (grr), so naturally I griped about it on Twitter. Today, like a moth to flame, I went back to the TOMS website because WE LOVES THE SHOES SO MUCH and lo and behold, you could calculate the shipping on the site. And you could check out as a guest, both without creating an account. I SWEAR BY MY PRETTY FLORAL BONNET that this was not possible yesterday, but I also do not trust my brain these days, so I’m sorry, TOMS, if I was wrong, but I really hope that I wasn’t. ‘Cause I’ve been wrong and it’s embarrassing.

2. Cooking. Today I made these cinnamon rolls, and then the bastard I live with ATE THE MIDDLE ONE. If you wonder why he’s got a crick in his neck for the rest of the week, it’s because the couch isn’t quite long enough.

3. The kid. I have one. It’s a lot of work. Totally worth it, but oh my. I had no idea tiny little hugs and the slapping sound of pudgy knees and hands crawling — nay, sprinting — across the living room floor could affect my heart so. And by “affect my heart,” I’m talking about all the caffeine necessary to keep his cute little butt alive to see another day. Oy.

4. Netflix. Oh, I remember when television was something you watched from a big box in your basement instead of your laptop wherever, whenever. BUT YOU GUYS, I can indulge my Damian Lewis crush (e.g. Captain Winters in Band of Brothers; who says gingers aren’t hot?) right here on my couch while the child gnaws on the dog’s chew toy and the dog gnaws on the child. I can also watch the complete seven or six or whatever seasons of Weeds in a month, which I am not proud of nor a better person because of but did anyway because I’m a sucker for well-written shows. (See also Veronica Mars, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, and Castle. Okay that last one isn’t well written, but it has Nathan Fillion.)

5. Books. I don’t read nearly as much as I used to, but The Family Fang by Kevin Wilson and Freedom by Jonathan Franzen were both fantastic. Am also going through Corrections by Franzen as well as the short stories of Mark Twain, which I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve read little of. [Tangent: I really want to get a Ph.D. in literature with my area of study being humor. Tell me this would not be a waste of time, please?]

6. Football. Of course. It’s October; what else is there to do on Sundays?

7. Ignoring politics. Okay, that’s a lie. But I haven’t been writing much about it, and I figure everyone’s blood pressure is healthier for it.

Matt, leaning down to help tug up my pants: Y’know, I enjoy taking your pants off a lot more….

Seriously: how can you be so articulate about what we talk about in class and then NOT APPLY IT TO YOUR PAPER?

*

I have just given a paper 27%, an all-time low not counting plagiarism. The paper before that got a 90%. WTF, people.

Husband: Okay.

Me: But don’t tell her I asked! It’s not my job to pry.

Husband: Right.

[He dials, his mom answers, they exchanges pleasantries]

Husband: Chelsey was talking to her mom and they were wondering who all is coming to the shower this weekend — glarbl, glug, gulpey, oof

[Wife releases husband's throat]

The end.

JUST ME, THEN.