Reign of TP-error

I’ve been a little silent on the home front lately. These are difficult times in the Wardegus compound. I have no one to blame but myself, this shame rests purely on me. I did it, and my mea culpa is this: I brought the wrong brand of toilet paper.

It was an honest mistake. On one of the rare occurrences where I go grocery shopping without HHP, I picked up a name brand that was on sale but not our preference. I ignorantly assumed that all TP was inherently the same but when I got home that afternoon I saw HHPs face fall. “Oh, it’s fine.” he said, clearly lying. Things between us had been so good for so long. Our communication was stellar. We had intimate conversations about our hopes, dreams and goals. His faith in me was this rock that I had had to hold on to during my own tumultuous times. To know that I had failed him in such a manner, was heartbreaking. For a fleeting moment, I was afraid we had taken too big of a tumble and we would never recover.

It wasn’t until the second week of my TP prison sentence did I really notice a change. Whenever HHP would pass me in the hallway between the bathroom and the living room his eyes darkened. He no longer joked and laughed as easily as he had before. Unlike the Charmin commercial, he no longer “enjoyed the go” and it was all my fault. I was trapped in Dante’s unnamed circle of double-ply hell. There was anger and resentment as well as burgeoning level of distrust. HHP no longer considered me his confidant. He didn’t know that I implicitly had his back at all times. Honestly, how could he? I didn’t have his back. I had let him down and unfortunately all we could was ride this white cotton wave until we hit a softer, more comfortable shore.

I was torn. I wanted to use less TP to serve as a penance for my mistake, but I knew that if I used more we could get through it faster and start to fix our relationship. I wanted to fill the toilet with a wad of toilet paper still attached to the roll and flush it down in one smooth motion but that would be cowardly and frankly, since I’m still unemployed expensive.

I admitted my mistake by week three. I too was suffering but I felt foolish and naive. I wanted to act like inferior toilet paper wasn’t a problem. I could handle the burn, hell give me a pile of newspapers or a pinecone, just as long as it’s not Scotts. As is his truly selfless nature, HHP refuted the dirty looks and the judgement that I thoughtlessly placed on me. He reassured me that we were stronger than toilet paper and that while our relationship is like the Bristol chart. Sometimes, we’re rock solid and unbreakable. Other times, we’re a little looser and free flowing.

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Tiny Story

It's s hard for me to remember that this face says different things to different people. I just see unconditional love, hunger and a feistiness that is slowly declining due to age. So when the man yelled “that’s a mean looking dog!” to me from across the street, I was a bit dumbfounded. Is he talking to me? He can’t possibly mean my dogs. Maybe it was a joke. But after looking at him again, I realized he wasn’t joking. That’s when I got upset. I wanted to yell at this man. Tell him about how dogs aren’t genetically mean and it’s only through improper training and abuse do dogs become mean. But my dog, my smart, compassionate wrinkly dog said everything I needed to. She looked the man in the face, audibly farted and proceeded to cross the street. #tinystory

A post shared by Ward Hegedus (@wardegus) on

It’s hard for me to remember that this face says different things to different people. I just see unconditional love, hunger and a feistiness that is slowly declining due to age. So when the man yelled “that’s a mean looking dog!” to me from across the street, I was a bit dumbfounded. Is he talking to me? He can’t possibly mean my dogs. Maybe it was a joke. But after looking at him again, I realized he wasn’t joking. That’s when I got upset. I wanted to yell at this man. Tell him about how dogs aren’t genetically mean and it’s only through improper training and abuse do dogs become mean. But my dog, my smart, compassionate wrinkly dog said everything I needed to. She looked the man in the face, audibly farted and proceeded to cross the street.

hat tip to the lovely Bean for the #tinystory inspiration.

My Dog

I think my dog’s biological clock is ticking. It would be so much easier if she was puppy crazy or in heat. I could handle that. This, however isn’t something I had planned on dealing with. My dog wants a baby. Like a human baby, and I think she wants it from me.

It started shortly after we moved to SF. When we go on walks, my dogs have always been interested in smells on the ground, and people walking other dogs. Like recent east coast transplants, my dogs have an attitude and don’t really like other people and if they could talk most of their words would consist of swearing at people and judging the excessive use of outer wear when it is only 60 degrees out. Now toddlers, people with strollers and, god help me if we walk past one, a day care my dog goes out of her way to interact with anyone who still has soft spots in their skull. Pup will stop and sit at a corner if she sees a stroller half a block away. She waits patiently until the stroller comes up and if the stroller pusher doesn’t stop to acknowledge pup, I can physically see her adorable little puppy heart break. She is still indifferent to childfree folks, but she knows a rube  when she sees on and makes sure to turn the cute on to get guaranteed butt scratches but children don’t know the sweet spot, so there is no reason for her to like children.

She LOVES when a child points and says “doggie!” She’s been smacked in the face with tiny grubby kid hands at least 20 times in the past month and never seems to mind. This is the same dog that cowers in the corner if HHP gets the qtips out to clean her ears and almost wets herself if a shopping cart comes too close. She isn’t one for long walks in the park and on more than several occasions has laid down in the middle of the street if we walk too far from home. But she will be at full energy (and best behavior) when a kid is around. The same dog that steps on my bladder, pees on HHP and farts with reckless abandon will be the most gentle and self-aware bulldog on the planet when in the presence of someone who regularly craps their pants. Pup is methodical when facing kids. In all of our child-encounters, she is patient and has never accidentally knocked one of them down when she turns her attention to another kid. She’s never even made a kid cry, hell I’ve done that more times than I can remember. My original theory was that children are dirty and she wanted access to their sticky fingers and secret food stash but that was busted when I saw her completely ignore a kid’s half-eaten banana.

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Baby? Where?

I’ve spent enough time with my dogs to know what they are thinking. I’ve learned that when they look at you, look at their food and back at you “feed me” is the only thought passing through her mind. So when I get the same look at the playground. Dog looks at me, looks at see-saw, looks back at me. I see “I want one, make it happen.”  How do I explain to my dog that kids are a lot of work? What’s the Cesar Milan approach to explaining my deep-seeded emotional fear of raising a child who will turn out just like me? When did this blog post go from funny story to existential crisis?

My dog is wicked smart. She knows to breathe through  her nose instead of her mouth when she is doing something bad. She is eerily quiet, and is fully aware of when HHP and I are distracted enough to get in to the kitty litter or eat yet another TV remote. I’ll have to make sure that the next time the dog is in the bathroom she is just going through the trash and not my birth control  supply. This dog is surprised by her own farts and yet could very well be the criminal mastermind to make Wardegus more than a duo.

My Forbes.com Job Application

Dear Forbes and Gene Marks,

Please consider this my formal application to be a writer on your website. I’m young, so I know what the internet is all about and look! I even have a blog. I’ve heard that this is the way to become an expert in whatever field you can imagine. I was thinking about being an expert on being a short, balding CPA but I think someone already did that and I don’t want to crush their dreams and aspirations.  You won’t need to see my resume; because why would Forbes care what my credentials are when they just give their writers cart blanche to word vomit on their server space. Sorry, I didn’t mean to get too technical there, let me explain that server space is another tech word for internet.  But since this is a formal application, let me present several reasons why I would be such a good candidate.

I’m white and middle class. Being white and middle class gives me the opportunity to see what is wrong with people and to provide thought-provoking and genuine advice to correct all of the wrongs in the world. I figured since Mr. Marks (I can call him Mr. Marks, right? Or should I just refer to him a Sir with my eyes trained on the floor to further showcase my subservience to the male sex.) has already solved the problem with poor black kids, I would tackle something easy like the spread of HIV (don’t have sex outside of your pre-arranged government approved heterosexual marriage), Cancer (don’t be genetically inferior to your health overlords, don’t be poor to live in an area that can be polluted) and rape (don’t be on the short end of the power struggle, or a woman.)

I’m afraid that if I focus on those topics, people will think that this is a health blog and I didn’t study wikipedia for a few hours last night to be a medical professional.

I’m a woman. I’m sorry I was born a lady, and I’m trying to work on it. But this disadvantage will only allow me the opportunity to overcome this adversity. As a woman,  my job is important, but I will always put my work last. My priorities are first dutifully serving my husband, secondly being a thoughtful and devoted mother, and a mix of being  a dutiful housewife and a humanitarian. Once those are all crossed off my to-do list, I can focus on work, well after I spend an hour or two at the gym. I have to keep my figure and attractiveness up to the high standards of Mr. Marks so I can be ogled by my co-workers when I leave the room.  As a woman, you’ll never have to worry about me leaving my position as a Forbes writer to become a CEO or anything that involves hard work and persistence.

The reason I’d be so successful working under Mr. Marks Sir, and Forbes is that I can internet troll like the best of them. I’ve made blatant, ill-advised and mis-informed statements all over this blog post. This is something that I could do on a semi-weekly basis and it would be great if I could be paid for it.

I’d love to meet with the Forbes team, but I’ll have to get permission from my husband to travel outside of the house.  Maybe if all of those poor black kids aren’t using Skype to improve their lives we could set something up that way.

I look forward to hearing from you.

 

DINK

I revel in being a DINK (Double-Income, No Kids). I’m really excited if you have kids, are planning on having kids or even enjoy your nieces and nephews. But I have to tell you, I’m unabashedly and overwhelming pleased with the fact that both HHP and I can get completely shit-faced on a Wednesday night and only have to make sure the dogs aren’t eating HHP’s cell phone.

We can be completely spontaneous with our plans. On our recent trip to a wedding in PA we decided to head up to Niagara Falls because we’d never been and mostly, because we could do that. On our road trip we didn’t have to stop unless we had to. We can stay up until 1am playing Dr. Mario and it’s really nice to be a little irresponsible. I almost forgot to mention the frivolous spending?  I’d hate to try and plot out our budget, because as much as I say I bought a baseball bat for “protection” in reality, it was an impulse buy because I felt our household needed a baseball bat. Eating out, clothes, Target, hookers (ok, fine, escorts) you name it we probably have spent money on it.

I have a coworker that hounds me about having kids. She has a 9 month old and thinks babies are the greatest thing to ever come out of a woman’s vagina. It’d be impolite to tell her some of the amazing things I’ve seen in porn so I amuse her ranting but it’s kinda getting on my nerves. I’m being judged because I’m in no mood to procreate which is frankly not cool. And if any of my parent friends think this blog post is a judgement against them, I assure you it isn’t. I’m just a dog rolling around in the awesomeness that is not being a parent.

We’ll end up having a happy little mistake eventually and I’ll grow to not be freaked out by it just like my mother and grandmother were not freaked out by there own children. But I’m in no rush to get pregnant. As I’ve said many times, that’s a solid 2-3 months of no drinking and I’m not ready to make that kind of commitment.

I can pretty much guarantee that any child I have is going to be messed up and I can only hope that the older I get the less therapy the kid is going to need as an adult.

It’s what’s for dinner

I always knew this day would come. I have known for a while that a PYT (pretty young thing) would catch his eye. I had no idea that I would have introduced them, and encouraged him to push forward in their relationship. It started innocently enough, he and I were sitting around one night watching television and I asked if he had ever noticed her before or thought about trying something new. He casually replied, “Yeah, I mean I’ve thought about it, who hasn’t? But I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve never done that sort of thing before.”

After a late night trip to the store that carries such supplies, we got down to business one Sunday night. It was scary at first, there was a bit of discoloration and the nerves were apparent, but we successfully made it through and I was so adventurous to suggest using it again the very next night. We didn’t get around to it the next night, but tonight we couldn’t contain ourselves. HHP was the first to mention it in the car on the way home. “What would you think if we uh, you know”

“Oh, oh. Oh.” Was all I could reply. I know that my suggestion from Sunday was still fresh in his mind. When we got home, he had already prepared everything. It wasn’t until the dogs started whining that I was able to fully comprehend what we were going to do. “Wait, we have to take care of the pups first.”

HHP had a few choice words for the mutts, but I told him to get started without me and I would handle them. I turned on my iPod to really set the mood as I left with the dogs. When I returned from the fastest walk the dogs have ever taken, HHP was willing, ready and waiting. Within minutes it was getting hot and heavy in the kitchen.  You could smell the soy sauce coming together with the onion powder. HHP manned his bamboo spatula like a master; debaters will speak of his skill for years. With limited experience in wok cooking, and only his second time at the helm HHP made a delicious chicken stir-fry for dinner.

Highs and Lows of Social Media

High: I asked FudgeThatSugar.com to create a facebook page and she did.

Low: Graham Elliot referred to me as a dude.

To finish off this post, I give you my favorite Fudge That Sugar comic so far:

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