Dog and Dish

Having recently entered the realm of parenthood, Jeremy and I are routinely asked 'what we think of being new members of the parenting scene'.  Evidently parenthood unwittingly grants you membership to this club of solidarity, in which virtual strangers will stop you and ramble incessantly about the quality of pumps and pumping in the work place (I, and my therapy bill, only wish I were making this up).  I mean seriously?!? ...I don't even know your name and you're talking to me about breast pumps!  I teach spinning classes too, but random personal trainers don't come up to me and discuss their wicked case of athlete's foot.  Yet unbeknownst to me, this public display of unsolicited advice is completely acceptable, because supposedly I know the handshake and Pee-wee's secret word of the day... "mortification" (*cue loud screaming*)!  So as Jeremy and I, along with two of his male co-workers, stood there in utter disbelief at the one-sided conversation unfolding in front of us, I quickly realized that I needed to demand reimbursement of my membership dues.  Now if a parenthood club exists, which entitles an individual to empathetic nods upon looking down at your shirt while paying for coffee and realizing you have day old spit up crusted to the front (never mind the fact you haven't showered in three days), I'm totally game!

Truth of the matter, the bulk of the individuals we associate with are disgruntled PhD students, recovering disgruntled PhD students, and parents of the four-legged persuasion.  Now, before you go too hog wild here, I'm referring to dogs.  Case in point, last night was spent at a Dog and Dish party.

Dog and Dish Party [dawg n dish pahr-tee] -noun : an over-glorified potluck in which dog owners convene on an individual's home with their dog and a dish (savory or sweet), then take in the mayhem that results when roughly a dozen dogs play in a confined space. 

The latest Dog and Dish soiree took place at Tucker and Gatsby's house, aka Ann's house.  FYI - In the world of dog ownership, you always refer to the dog(s) first, the owner's name is always an after thought which is learned approximately six months after your dogs start playing together on a daily basis.  Or perhaps sooner with the assistance of an iPhone memo, in which the owner's name is once again jotted down after the name, make and model of the dog (i.e. Luna - rust-colored Vizsla puppy - Amanda and Jeremey... for good measure, you generally misspell the owner's name).  Time to put the A.D.D. in check, back to the Dog and Dish.

Bartleby crossing his legs, sitting back, and enjoying a cold one!

(extremities courtesy of Will)

Have a seat?!?  Well, don't mind if I do.

Let the wrestling match begin!!! 

Our child happens to love watching the dogs wrestle!  We think she has a little SE DC in her, but we may have to draw the line when she asks for a Michael Vick poster and attempts to start a dog wrestling ring in kindergarten.  But then again, it would probably eliminate us from the birthday party invite list and having to endure unruly children in large numbers hopped up on sugar and caffeine.  Score! 

Discussing our guilty doggy pleasures.

So unlike the clearly absurd discussions of the parenthood club, us dog owners debate which dog would taste better in the event we were forced to eat them, the awkwardness of getting a dog snout up the rear, and the guilty pleasure of picking up steaming hot turds on a cold day.