Everyone has that one Facebook friend who thinks it’s important to post stati that say, “Walking to the mailbox,” or, “Pulling into or out of my parking space.” It’s awkward.

Today, the guy from the 7th floor called me Princess. When he did, I think I actually winced.

Why having a puppy is like being a new mother, but worse:
1) Whenever I go anywhere, I have to lug around a giant plastic dog carrier. (Baby carrier.)
2) I also have a bag full of food, potty receptacles, and toys. (Diaper bag.)
3) Strangers give me unsolicited advice; strangers walk right up to me with their hands extended. (Pregnant belly phenomenon.)
4) There is potty everywhere. (Worse, there are no diapers to contain it until such a time as I can get to it.)
5) Oh, the biting. (Toddler.)
6) Oh, the attitude. (Toddler.)
7) Forget about going to dinner or seeing a movie.
8) Forget about spending any money on anything that doesn’t smell like bacon.
9) Not every night is a night I don’t have to get up at 3:30 to wipe a puppy bottom.
10) Just forget it.

But, while I may have purchased a 7 week old sleeper who became a teenager in five weeks, I hear that in maybe six months, he’ll be old enough to leave home alone. That’s something he has over kids, who take roughly 18 years and aren’t nearly as happy to see you.

Speaking of being happy to see me, Mochi only wags his little tail to see other dogs or eat his gelatinous vitamin goop. I’m pretty sure that he hates me.

I read the blog of this woman and she recently posted this:

Jane sleeps next to a wall.
A pink wall.
Her bed snugs right up against the pink wall.

When I confronted Jane about them she without a beat said to me
“Mom, I put them up there and then count them and
that’s how many kids I am going to have.”

Tomorrow is the big primary vote for Texas governor. When I start talking about politics, I automatically feel really bad and hesitate to say anything at all because nobody* agrees with me.

*This is an over-generalization.

However, I have a theory about this that undoubtedly involves the tragedy of feminism and selfishness that has crept into, sadly, even Christianity. We are so far from our roots and have been so deceived by promises we’ve voted into office that we don’t realize it. And so, I’ve resolved to not feel badly about it any longer. Instead, I’ve decided to feel like a founding father who said, “What’s wrong with you people?This is why we only let white upper-class men vote.”

Just kidding about that last part.

I often compare the Constitution to Scripture. A lot of Christians don’t like that. But, to be honest, that’s the sad state that we’re in both spiritually and nationally. Once again, my mantra proves itself to be true as I have discovered that: Your opinion does not matter.

I can’t tell you that I really feel and believe that you don’t need to be baptized in order to become a Christian; Scripture says you must. If you are a Christian, you believe this – your opinion doesn’t matter. I also can’t tell you that with all my heart, I believe there should be more regulatory gun laws, because the Constitution says we have the right to brandish arms. Your opinion doesn’t matter.

When you’re a Christian, it doesn’t matter what you think, it matters what God says. We understand that. But, very few Christians can apply that principle to other things.

Our governor needs to know the State Constitution and the U.S. Constitution. That is it. No foreign language requirement here.

Debra Medina 1) homeschools her children (rock on) (oh, which gives her experience in education), 2) runs her own business, which is similar to running a state balancing a budget, hiring/appointing staff, seeing that policies are upheld, etc.), and 3) is a nurse (which gives her a lot of experience in healthcare, one pushbutton issue of the day). She served as chair of the Republican Party of Wharton County as well as Texas coordinator of the Campaign for Liberty (long time readers of my blog should be familiar with this) – I imagine that’s some political experience. She took the Republican Party of Texas to court over violations in how the state convention was run (she can make some tough, head-butting decisions and understands the political process).

So when you Texans are voting tomorrow, remember:
Law is reason, free from passion. -Aristotle

Forget about your pushbutton emotional issues. (Because that’s not the way to make reform happen.)

Whenever Mom comes home, Pearlie loses her mind…

Mo: “Why is she doin dat?”
Pearlie: “You’re possa do dat.”
Mo: “I don’t do it. My mommy doesn’t wike it.”
Pearlie: “You jus don’t know yet.”
Mo: “I jus don’t wike my mommy dat much. Wus why I don’t do it.”

me: “Mo, don’t eat those spider things.”
mom: “They won’t hurt him.”
me: “I’m afraid he’ll get spider poison in him and he’ll get paralyzed like Frodo in Lord of the Rings.”
mom: “It’s not going to poison him.”
Mo: “I’ll jus be parawyzed an you havta get me a weewchaiw. I’ll jus pway inna weewchaiw! Nofkink wiw stop my pwaying!”
mom: “Mo, you’re just so funny.”

mom: “You know when we say that, we’re really saying that we’re funny.”
me: “I know.”
mom: “I don’t think other people think we’re that funny.”
me: “I know. But, they’re wrong.”

This is embarrassing. What’s more embarrassing is that we’ll talk like this with other people present. Like, Edwin Veiera.

I like to think I’m not dramatic, but I called my mom in tears tonight.

I came home with the intention of giving Mo a bath before church because there will be guests at the farm and he’s looking shabby, but all I could find was that blasted conditioner, and then Mo went no. 2 and upon lifting the toilet lid to dispose of it (because we don’t go outside), I saw that my toilet was completely full of stuff that is supposed to disappear when you flush, so I called emergency maintenance and while I was on the phone, Mochi hurled himself off the couch and didn’t yelp, but began to limp heavily – then the maintenance guy didn’t come for an hour and I called my mom.

She lied and told me Mochi was fine and that there’s a 24 hour McDonald’s down the street.

Also, that I needed to own a plunger.

Shortly after, the maintenance man came, plunged the situation, patted my dog and left (but not before telling me that – it’s okay – he gets paid very well to plunge toilets for single girls who don’t have a clue). Then, Mochi’s limp got better (maybe he’s a little dramatic, too) and as I was packing for the big weekend, I found the shampoo.

I dreamed about a frienemy. He came to my epic 4th of July party where there was CHEESECAKE on STICKS, but nobody invited him, he just showed up in his dad’s silver classic, old Land Rover. He had these miniatures with him. Tiny miniature gnomes and trees and cars, and they were all bronze, and he put them down, rifled through them and then disappeared to make rounds. I sat down with the miniatures and thought, this is awesome – best party every – GNOMES in tiny bronze size. Mind you, this party was a lot like the actual flea market and less like the political show we really had.

And then, the frienemy loaded up in his car and left. I grabbed his box of tiny things and shoved it at the car. It wasn’t his, he said. He got it from my garage shelf.

And when he got to the end of the driveway, he stopped the Land Rover, got out and jumped on a donkey to go the rest of the way.