The “Bully” Breed

At 5AM on Saturday morning, there was a scratching at the sliding glass door in my bedroom.

Outside, looking huge and muscular and scared and pitiful was a full grown white and black male pitbull. At first I was unsure as to whether or not to let a strange dog in to my house – I have two kids. a pregnant belly, and a 6-month old pitbull named Leo, so letting in any strange dog, regardless of breed, is risky. But he looked so pathetic that I opened the door and held out my hand, which he sniffed gingerly before strolling in.

Leo was immediately excited to have a new friend, because Leo is a doofus and thinks everyone is his friend. In this case, he was right. Despite being twice his bulk and age, the new guy rolled around playfully with my little pup, nibbling gently and emitting a contented noise that can best be described as an oink.

When they calmed down I inspected this gentle giant who had likely become scared at the sound of fireworks and somehow escaped his home. Because he definitely belonged to someone – his nails were clipped and he was obviously well fed.

He also had, around his neck, a length of heavy five pound chain to serve as his “collar”. There were no tags attached. He was not neutered. He was far filthier than he should have been for a dog that had only been out a day or two. He had small wounds on his legs in various stages of healing. I concluded that he was probably kept outside most of the day. The weather here has been in the 90s and 100s for weeks. Given that he had no tags and his testicles were still in tact, I doubted if he had been adopted from a shelter, which meant he most likely didn’t have his shots either.

I removed the “collar” immediately.

I kept them both in the bedroom and set an alarm for myself to go off before my girls typically wake up – I still didn’t know how he’d be around children.

He met Evie first, and remained perfectly still as she stroked his massive head and cooed at him. He didn’t wiggle around or get excited, although he did try to put his paws on her shoulders but I intervened. He did just as well with Guin.

He didn’t bark. He didn’t bite. He didn’t scratch. He didn’t growl. By the middle of the day Saturday I was convinced that he was nothing more than a gargantuan baby who snored while he napped and made an oinking noise when he was happy. We wanted to keep him – an older dog, especially a pitbull, stands little chance of being adopted from a shelter. If his owners put up posters or came looking for him, they could have him back – but I made up my mind that they would not leave my home with that fucking chain that was around his neck and that I would thoroughly berate them for not neutering him, bathing him, or treating the numerous cuts and gashes on his legs.

That night, he fell asleep on Guin’s bed with her. She covered him up and gave him her stuffed pig. She fell asleep holding his paw.

Sunday, my landlord came over to fix the air conditioner. She took one look at our new addition and demanded we get rid of him – pitbulls are an “aggressive breed” and aren’t allowed by her insurance. Apparently there’s a clause buried somewhere in the lease that prohibits them as well. Leo, evidently, doesn’t look enough like a pitbull for her to notice because she said nothing about him.

So, these people at an insurance company who have never met this dog, or touched this dog, or played with him or snuggled him, have deemed him vicious, violent, dangerous, aggressive because of shitty fucking dog-owners who train them to be that way. The same can be said of Rottweilers, Dobermans, and Chows, and a laundry list of other breeds that are misunderstood.

Funny. Dalmatians are notorious for hating children. Every chihuahua I’ve met has bitten at least one person during their lifespan. I’ve known goldens who have attacked other dogs and Jack Russells who have turned on their owners. I’ve known labs that have killed cats.

But I could own any one of those breeds, and that would be acceptable. Because it’s not a pitbull.

Yes, I could register him as a therapy dog or I could have a vet sign off on papers that list him as a different breed (some vets are sympathetic to the plight of pitbulls and their owners and will do so discreetly). But I was honest with my landlord about how we found him, so any attempts I made to keep him would look sneaky and underhanded, and I am not sneaky and underhanded. Our lease is month to month, and I absolutely can’t risk getting tossed out.

But there shouldn’t be a risk at all. I shouldn’t have to defend a dog who has done nothing wrong.

I stayed in bed and cried for most of the afternoon over the sheer unfairness of it all.

Last night, he got out. I saw him in the field across the street from our house, just as he disappeared through an opening in the fence. That had happened twice before – the girls sometimes forget to close the door, and our front yard isn’t in fenced in. Both times he came back.

This time, he didn’t.

He was with us for two days, which isn’t a lot, but in that two days this big, beastly snugglemonster stole my heart. He was not dangerous or aggressive or vicious. All you had to do was look in to his big brown eyes and you could tell.

And that’s all that should matter. The name of the breed shouldn’t make a difference. The reason they were originally bred shouldn’t make a difference. A handful of shitty breeders, owners, or dog fighters shouldn’t make a difference. A dog can be unloved, but still sweet. They can be abused, and then become the best friend you’ve ever had. Just like people.

If you’re the type of person who shies away from certain dogs because of your preconceived notions that they will attack you or hurt you, then stop it. You’re part of the fucking problem. You’re part of the reason that shelters are filled to capacity with these misunderstood creatures who want what EVERY OTHER DOG WANTS – a home filled with love. And maybe a chew toy.

This. This is what people call vicious. Dangerous. Aggressive.

It has to stop. It HAS to stop.

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From Fat to Thin to Pregnant

There is a benefit to being a fat teenager (although when you’re a teenager it probably doesn’t seem that way): if you are a fat teenager who becomes a skinny adult, you have first-hand knowledge of how much it can suck to not be considered attractive, and that tends to keep you humble. Most of the people I know – myself included – who have slimmed down considerably since those awkward high school years are infinitely more confident than we were…but we never really evolve in to self-absorbed, vain assholes.

Assholes like that made us miserable during a very vulnerable time in our lives. We don’t want to be them. Ever.

But as difficult as it is to be overweight (in myriad ways), it’s devastating to get thin and develop a  sense of pride when you look in the mirror…and then fatten up again.

Now I’m not saying being thin is a requirement for having self esteem. I’m just saying for some people, it sure as shit helps. I am one of those people, and I’m not ashamed of it. I am happier when I am at a smaller size.

So when I not only got pregnant but got pregnant with twins, I got big. And I got big quick. And I got bigger than I probably should have because after the girls were born, I still had sixty pounds to lose. I was basically the same weight I had been in high school and one by one, I packed away the articles of clothing I was once able to wear, telling myself I’d wear them again. When life wasn’t so hectic. When the girls were walking. When my schedule at work changed. After the holidays.

Three years later, I wasn’t any smaller. I wasn’t any bigger either, but I definitely wasn’t any smaller.

I thought about it every day, wavering between telling myself  I was okay with it, that I had kids so it was understandable, and being thoroughly disgusted with myself. It consumed me.

And then, one day, I stopped. I stopped thinking about it. I stopped beating myself up. I stopped focusing on every bulge and roll and how wide my thighs were when I sat. I just stopped giving a shit because I didn’t seem to have the motivation to fucking do anything about it. I stopped having internal conversations with myself that mirrored the things all those fucking cunt girls used to say to me when I was fifteen. I just…stopped. Because the more I tormented myself over how I looked, the less I cared about changing it.

But then I changed anyway. I dressed up more. Wore makeup more. Put more effort in to myself. I wore jewelry, perfume, and smiled when I entered a room like I owned that bitch. I wasn’t dieting or exercising. I was just not giving any self-pity steeped fucks. And the bulges and rolls and and thighs and belly were all slowly, gradually, little by little…going away. And they went away because I stopped giving so much of a shit about them. I stopped letting them control me. They were just one facet of myself. They were fixable, should I get the will to fix them through hard work and dedication – but if not? Well fuck you, I’m still pretty. Maybe not to you, or her, or him, or them, but to me? I’m still fucking pretty.

Four years after my girls were born, I was nearly back down to the size I was before I became a mother. Not quite, but almost. I could probably be there again if I lost a measly ten pounds…but I don’t give a shit. Five years ago, I hated my body as much as I did in high school and it wrecked me. It made me sad and bitter, and that made me dislike who I was as a person. And that’s not in the least bit motivating.  Today, I am perfectly comfortable with the way I look – even knowing I could stand to do a few crunches.

Now I’m pregnant again, and I’m aware I’ll probably have around 15-20 pounds to lose after my son is born. Bring it the fuck on. At 24 weeks, I can still fit in (most of) the clothes I wore six months ago. I still wear makeup and perfume and dresses (without heels). I still look in the mirror and see one good-lookin’ broad, with or without the giant basketball I appear to be smuggling under my shirt. There’s a good chance I’ll never have the body I had at nineteen, and you know what?

I don’t want it. I’m not nineteen anymore. I’m almost 30, I’ve had three kids, I partied in my early twenties, I love the fuck out of high quality, rich food, I don’t like physical activity, and fuck you, I’m cute anyway. If you don’t agree, that’s cool.

I’m the only one who needs to believe it to be happy.

 


dec13Little Black Dress – December 2013

 

24wks
Same Little Black Dress – 22 weeks

How To Have Amazing Sex

If you’ve stood in line at the grocery store like, ever, you’ve undoubtedly seen shelves of women’s magazines, all offering a bright pink block letter promise of spicing up your sex life. Pleasing your lover. Getting the spark back. And so on.

Turn the pages and you’ll find a pretty unimaginative article that suggests trying sexy talk, using feathers or food, watching porn together, and a laundry list of other shit that you probably could have figured out yourself (or may have already tried).

Because apparently, the cure to a ho-hum sex life is as simple as throwing a little kink in the mix. First of all, cuffing your man to the bed and giving him a strip show isn’t kinky. It’s fun. It’s not kinky. Put down “50 Shades of Grey” and learn the difference, you vanilla bitches. Kink is not for the weak.

But I digress; I’m not here to talk about kink, I’m here to talk about how to have sex that is mutually satisfying and makes both parties unwilling to move for the next several hours. The secret is not in the bottom of a can of whipped cream or in the tattered shreds of lingerie torn off in the heat of passion. Those are temporary fixes; sure, they’ll get things going for a little while, but what happens when that stuff loses its luster?

You’re gonna go out, buy another magazine, watch another special episode of Dr. Fucking Oz, and hope someone will give you another band-aid for your broken sex life.

Fucking stop it. Save your money and your time. I’ll tell you how to have mind-blowing sex all the time.

Are you ready? Here it comes. Wait for it…

FUCKING COMMUNICATE, YOU IDIOTS.

Instead of assuming what your partner is going to go wild for in bed, instead of taking a shot in the dark (heh heh), instead of thumbtacking “101 Ways to Make Them Scream” above your goddamn headboard, just fucking ask!

It is not embarrassing. It is not awkward. It is not fucked up. This is, if not a person you love, then someone you give a shit about right? If someone is going to laugh at you or make you feel less than when you open up about any of your needs, sexual or otherwise, you have way bigger problems than a dull sex life.

A good partner is willing to listen and is open to criticism. They won’t dismiss your fantasies as gross or stupid or weird. They won’t be offended if you ask them to try something a different way. You know why?

Because they are probably as sexually weird as you are. 

Your foot fetish is not creepy. Your curiosity in BDSM is not twisted. You’re not really a slut if you want your boyfriend to call you one in bed, and you’re not gay if you want your girlfriend to try plugging you.

I’m not saying your partner is going to be 100% open to everything that you suggest. Everyone’s got a line. But most people with really extreme fetishes (like watersports, for example) are aware that their fetish isn’t for everyone and will be open about what they want fairly early on instead of springing it on someone three years down the line. Just like with everything else in your relationship, compromises can be made, deals can be struck, arrangements can be set in place.

BUT NOT IF YOU DON’T FUCKING ASK!

So please, put down the magazines, turn off your TV and stop listening to your friends. Listen to me, a perfect stranger on the internet. If you want to have good sex, you have to have a dialogue about what good sex is to youGirls, don’t be shy – your boyfriend really enjoys fucking you, and will probably welcome any suggestions that could make the experience more pleasurable for both of you. Boys, your girlfriend is probably more willing to get adventurous than you’re willing to give her credit for.

And keep in mind, talking sex isn’t restricted to exploring one another’s fantasies. Maybe you just wish she’d blow you more. Maybe you want to squeeze his ears between your knees once a day. Maybe you want to be on top more. Maybe all it would take would be you piping up and saying, “a little to the left, please”. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Don’t be scared of sex, people.

Make it your filthy, naughty little bitch.