Please look at this other place where I'll be

I now have a blog over at Redbook! Celebration!

Please, my friends, please do not worry that this means you are losing Finslippy. It does not. I will still be here. This only means that you are gaining a me who is also over there. I can be in both places! You will see.

I will be using my Redbook soapbox to discuss issues pertaining to ladies who are mothers and our special mom-lady-problems, with an emphasis on Other Blogs and The Interesting Conversations That Can Be Found Therein. In stark contrast, I will be using Finslippy to discuss my dog's breath, and my pants.

Please register to comment, and then comment. I agree that registration is a pain, but there's no way around it, and you only have to do it once. And then, at some later date, when you're especially enraged by something I've written, you can fire off a furious missive without worrying about registering first. Because you're already in. It's like you're part of an exclusive club. That anyone with an email address can join.

The name of the Redbook blog is "The Mom Moment," and they're amenable to a better name, but I haven't been able to find it yet. So if you have any ideas, hit me. WIth ideas. Figuratively. Bonus points if it doesn't have "mom" in the name.

Now: Charlie's breath. I don't get it. Is he eating poop? Is he pooping, and then eating it, and then throwing it up? He is the cutest dog of all time. I mean, come ON:

But then he yawns near my face and it's like an old Warner Brothers cartoon where a green cloud spreads out from his mouth and everything that it touches either dies or runs screaming from the room. I think the last time he licked me, my nose cried out "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" and grabbed a tiny suitcase from out of nowhere and took off down my face.

On the other hand: he's 13. That's 91,000 in human years. He's earned his horrible death-stink mouth.

Next on Finslippy: my pants! Oh, you'll see.

It's Saturday night and I'm writing a post. This is sad.

Thanks, Babble, for including me in your top 50 mom blogs. I've got some excellent company in there. And hello to any new readers, who I imagine are already impatient with me. "She's the funniest? She hasn't made me laugh even once so far. I'm going to go to her house and punch her right in her stupid hair." Why are you so angry, new readers? When I only want to love and be loved? Fine, come to my house. It's an apartment building, anyway. I dare you to find which unit is mine. And then like I'm going to buzz you in? Dream on, weirdly driven angry readers I just invented! Yeah, good luck scaling the side of the building to get to me! What's that you say? Fire escape? Oh, hell and damnation! Where's my jet pack?!

As proof of how funny I am, I've added a new essay to the writing section: Eighteen Attempts at Writing about a Miscarriage. Okay, maybe not the most amusing piece, but I must tell you--in case you read it and grow concerned over my mental health--it was the most satisfying thing I've ever written. It was so cathartic to write I was sure it was junk. (Catharsis-inducing writing is rarely any good. Usually it's like scrawling I HATE YOU I HATE YOU in your diary and then throwing your diary at your mom right while she's on the phone with your Grandma, smoking her stupid cigarette like she's so fancy.) But hey, it was published, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize, not that I'm bragging but of course I am because I still can't get over it. It didn't win, though. Because the Pushcart Prize judges hate babies. I think that's clear.



Charlie and Me

I wrote an essay about our dog Charlie for a forthcoming anthology about dogs. I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship!, edited by Wade Rouse, will be published in 2011, with a portion of the proceeds going to the Humane Society of the United States. All kinds of incredible writers are contributing, including Merrill Markoe, Rita Mae Brown, and Jen Lancaster. I'm honored to be included.

Charlie is one of my favorite topics to write about, as most of my friends have long grown tired of me jabbering about my dog's velvety ears and I have to get it out somehow. We adopted Charlie shortly after we got married, and when my mom saw us with him she rolled her eyes and said, "You two need to have a baby." The implication being that once we procreated, we'd calm down about the dog and stop, say, kissing him on the lips. Well, guess who was wrong about that? You were, Mom! YOU! So there! Now give your other grandson a kiss.

I needed a picture of me with Charlie for the book, so my pal Amber of The Amber Show graciously volunteered her photographic talents. The essay is about Charlie's insistence on sleeping in our bed, between me and Scott, under the covers. Amber took some boudoir pics. I wore my nightie!

You can't really tell that it's a nightie. But oh, it is. It's from Target. Mrowr.

Charlie hates getting his picture taken. I don't know who beat him with a camera, but someone clearly did, because the minute he sees one his ears go back and he tries to lick it. That's Charlie's tactic. If you upset him in any way, his defense is to wag his tail violently and lick you. He'll love you right into submission.

This is him pleading with me to make the clickety-click sounds stop. Oh boy, do we need a headboard. Someday, my friends. Someday.

Here I am, pointing. I'm saying, "That's a dog. That's Charlie!" I can identify my pets.

I'm holding him down. The moment I loosened my grip he'd scurry to the next room. But oh, we got him back! Dogs are not bright.

I was trying to look vaguely unhappy with him being in the bed with me, and yet swayed by his canine charms. It was a complicated series of emotions. My face was breaking under the strain.

I am absolutely covered in dog hair, here. The crazy heat wave we've endured has caused Charlie to shed like he's getting paid for it, plus he sheds when he's stressed out, so during this photo shoot, he unloaded approximately 30 pounds of dog hair on me. And Charlie only weighs 25 pounds, so this took some effort on his part. Fur was raining off of him, causing Amber to observe, "He's Pig-Penning!" Which I thought was adorable. And accurate.

Charlie is now 13 years old. His face used to be mostly black with a white stripe running down the center, but as you can see, he's faded somewhat. His eyes are cloudy, but he can hear a slice of cheese hit the ground from across the apartment. He's still spry, and leaps and cavorts the moment we head outside.

I'm sure, fellow dog-owners, that your dogs are fine, but Charlie is pretty much the greatest dog who ever lived.

Who wants to read my May Redbook column? You do, suckers!

Of course it's possible you don't have any interest in it at all. Listen, all I'm saying is if you do, you can. No pressure. You look pretty today.

Well before I became a parent, I could have guessed that raising a child would involve, in addition to much joy, its fair share of sadness. I mean, I'd seen plenty of commercials where parents watch their kids leave home. I had heard "Sunrise, Sunset." I'd been warned there would be a time to let go and that the moment would be bittersweet. But I pictured this letting-go happening once, maybe twice: on my child's first day of school, and the day he drove off to college. My husband and I would wave good-bye as we stood arm in arm, our hair graying tastefully. I'd be wearing a sweater set and pearls. I had it all worked out.

Here's the rest.

The next time I write I will be telling you about our great new apartment. The only thing missing from the story is the part where we sign the lease, which I am hoping happens soon. Right now would be nice. Or now.