Dog eats semi-sweet chocolate

I have three children--two daughters and a dog--although technically, according to the dictionary, my dog would not fall into this category. 

Only, trust me, he falls into many subcategories of the definition, including "causes extreme worry and concern to the parents until death," and yes, before you ask, I refer to myself as my dog's parent.

Yesterday afternoon we discovered our dog had eaten a container of semi-sweet chocolate chips. This led to education on Pet Poison Control, a late-night trip to the emergency vet, and shelling out several hundred dollars. Don't even get me started on the worrying, the crying, and the slinging of blame.

This is not the first time Elliot has eaten chocolate. He does so only when he is pissed at us.

Yesterday, while at my volunteer job, the house security app alerted me to motion at my front door at 11:30 a.m. I viewed my daughter arriving home from her volunteer job. She had left behind her lunch and had come back to get it before going to work. She peed the dog, loved on him, and left. Total time at the house: Five minutes.

Uh oh.

Me: "Let me tell you now that my dog will go into my daughter's room and will go through her garbage. This is what he does when we come home briefly and then leave again. He punishes us by going through garbage cans and/or taking whatever is under my kitchen baker's rack."

Boss: "What is under there now?"

Me: "Potatoes. He will scatter those through the house. It's his fuck you to us."

Boss: "That's funny."

It normally is. 

I got home at 1:08 p.m. and immediately went into the daughter's room to discover. I know my dog well. He'd gotten into her trash, although it'd been a half-ass attempt. Only three Kleenex tissues had been ripped and left on her floor. He had not touched the potatoes. I should've been suspicious. 

Instead, I put away groceries and made myself lunch. The dog did not beg me for a bite. Even then, I WAS NOT SUSPICIOUS. Looking back, I do believe there was a twinge, one of those in the back of the head itching to move forward, but I ignored it. I was tired and had a medical issue at the forefront of my brain. I missed the signs.

At 4:15 p.m., the daughter returned home. Several minutes later, she and the dog began playing hide and seek, running through the house, her hiding, and him seeking. She discovered the yogurt container in the Steelers room that had--as of last week--been full of semi-sweet chocolate chips. It was completely empty.

My husband had left the kitchen pantry open that morning, and instead of messing with the potatoes, Elliot messed with the container. He took it into the Steelers room, pried open the lid, and yum, devoured its contents. 

We stared at the dog. He was smiling and waiting for my daughter to run. He showed no signs of distress. Having been through him eating chocolate before, we really didn't panic. They continued playing, and we went about our day.

He did not eat his dinner, nor did he show any interest in it. All he wanted to do was drink water. Even then, while we were upset at this inconsistency, we did not panic. It wasn't until after 9:00 p.m. when he upchucked a quarter size goop of brown, chocolate water that my daughter Googled the problem.

Holy shit! There is a big difference between a dog eating milk chocolate to a dog eating semi-sweet chocolate. 

WARNING! WARNING! DEATH! DEATH!

Everything said we should've done something immediately. Dogs must be forced to vomit in the first two hours. If not...

WARNING! WARNING! DEATH! DEATH!

We panicked. We cried. We imagined all the most horrible worse case scenarios, and then we blamed ourselves, each other and the husband/father. We even blamed the damn dog. 

Who still seemed none too concerned.

By the time the husband/father strolled in at 9:38 p.m., we were in full-blown, out of control, hysteria. He's not good at confronting that. We went around and around in circles. We told him he needed to take the dog to the vet. Eventually, we must have convinced him to at least call the vet.

He called and left a message. That message was relayed to the emergency vet in our county. While waiting for his call to be returned, husband/father Googled the issue. 

WARNING! WARNING! DEATH! DEATH!

Then he threw around blame and caused us to cry.

He called the emergency vet number, got the info they'd just been updated by our vet, and told him to call Pet Poison Control. At PPC, after giving them $75 via credit card, they devised a plan. It consisted of TAKING HIM TO THE EMERGENCY VET IMMEDIATELY.

Meanwhile, the dog had pooped normal and was sitting outside in the front yard, enjoying our cooler weather. He wasn't thrilled about a car ride, but off they went.

After a thorough check which came back with all of his vitals normal, the emergency veterinarian conversed with PPC and then gave Elliot an injection to induce vomiting. Which he did. Piles and piles of liquid, watery, chocolate. 

Vet: "He vomited quite a lot of chocolate."

HOURS after consuming it. 

It just sat on his stomach. 

We aren't sure if it was because it was old chocolate or because of divine intervention or because of a stubborn stomach, but out came the poisonous death chocolate.

They let him puke until nothing more came out, then they gave him anti-vomit medication, IV fluids, and sent him home. He could barely walk when we met him at the door at midnight, sobbing and slathering him with kisses and love. All he wanted was water. Which he couldn't have. Not for four hours. 

Tom stayed up with him for another hour or so. I went to bed but didn't sleep. At 4:30 a.m. Tom got up and gave him water and watched him for signs of vomiting. When he kept down the water, they both went back to bed. This morning he ate his normal breakfast, and he's been normal since.

I, however, have found multiple gray hairs. 

More sprouted when I came looking for Elliot to find him sleeping by the OPEN PANTRY.

I take back my first sentence. 

I have four children--two daughters, a dog, and a husband.

Oven cleaning

I hate the flat, plastic piece that is used to secure the wrapping on bread. You know the one, it's the size of a quarter, is flat and colored, and has a small slit on one end to secure the wrapping. It's stupid. The first time I remove the thing, I throw it away and replace it with a wire, twisty-tie. The kind that makes way more sense.

Recently, I removed the stupid piece from a bag of potatoes, and instead of tossing it in the trash, I apparently, left it sitting on my countertop. I baked the potatoes at 425 degrees and then went about preparing my chicken dish to accompany the potatoes. When I slid the baking dish into the piping hot oven to join the potatoes, that stupid plastic piece must've been stuck to the bottom of the dish. Because it fell into the bottom of my stove.

Where it promptly began melting.

I screamed for Madison, who came running. She stared at the piece and then stared at me holding a pair of tongs that were in no way, shape, or form long enough to rescue the piece, and she shrugged her shoulders.

Madison: "Nothing you can do."

The bottom rack in the oven is attached to the door. The other side is attached in the back to a contraption I would not remove in 425 degrees. Madison went back to what she was doing, and I ranted and raved and waited for what I knew was coming.

The smell of burnt plastic.

It took a while. When it came, it came with a vengeance. Madison began gagging in the other room. I took out the cooked potatoes and turned off the oven. I put the chicken dish into my convection oven, and then Madison and I ran around opening windows and shutting off the smoke alarm now blaring warnings of fire.

The dog watched the commotion with a dazed look before he got the hell out of the kitchen.

Which lasted for HOURS. I had to sit most of the night with my shirt covering my nose.

I Googled how to clean an oven without using the oven cleaning feature, and when the oven cooled, I did what the website suggested. I dumped an entire box of baking soda over the bottom of my oven.

The next morning I began the chore of cleaning the oven.

First, I removed all of the racks and dumped them into my bathtub. I filled the tub with hot water, added dish soap, baking soda, and vinegar. Then I walked away.

Secondly, I sprayed vinegar over the baking soda in the bottom of the oven to form a past. Then I scrubbed. Not an easy job because I had to kneel on one side and lean into the oven. This left me with no stability other than leaning against the oven door, which was not an option, not to mention gross. It took me forever to clean.

The melted plastic came up nicely with a putty knife. Three other spots? Forget it. Nothing I did removed those spots. I called it a win, despite those, and went in to finish cleaning the racks. 

All I had to do with them was wipe them clean. Apparently, my concoction had worked.

The entire job took three hours. Three days later, I put in a pan of ravioli lasagna. It bubbled over and on to the bottom of my clean oven.

I give up.

Out of the mouths of my babes

SueG: "So, something is wrong with my Samsung tablet. It won't turn on."

Tom: "What do you mean it won't turn on?"

SueG: "I mean, that I can't get the tablet to power on. It's charged, but it won't turn on."

Tom: "It sounds like you need to bring it to Uncle Tom and have it worked on."

Me: "Who's Uncle Tom?"

Tom: "You don't know Uncle Tom?"

Madison: "The only thing I've heard about him is he has a cabin."

Here comes the bride

My friend, SueG's eldest son, is getting married. Funny enough, he swore that was never going to happen, and he now refuses to acknowledge how right we were back in those early relationship days when we told him he was wrong. Whatever. We're thrilled for him. While I don't know him like I do her other children, as this one was off to college by the time we met, I'm part of the family now and thus included in the wedding festivities.

Including dress shopping for the mother of the groom.

One of my favs...not.

But I've put on a brave face and have gotten in my steps going from one dress shop to the other in search of the perfect mother of the groom dress. I've taken countless photos, have texted back and forth with my SIL whose opinion on these matters way exceeds my expertise, and have encouraged the purchase of several dresses. By now, she has enough for several weddings, not to mention her son's in April.

A couple weeks ago, the bridal shower was held in Orlando. We made it a girls' weekend, got one of my Wyndhams, and had way too much giddy fun in purchasing presents. I had to remind SueG this was not the bachelorette party, but the woman has a mind of her own, and truthfully, her Spencers gifts were the hit of the party. The bride-to-be cried; she was laughing so hard.

She should've been with us shopping in the back room of Spencers.

I was assigned the job of the event photographer. Guess I'm more like my father in that hobby than I knew. I did what I'd seen him do back in the day. I toured the facility and took pictures of everything. I waited for the bride to be, who was blindfolded and made sure to capture that on digital too.

The afternoon was delightful. The full, open bar might have added to that, but the bridal party was full of great women, the families mingled nicely, the weather was great, and the food was delicious.

I got the bride and groom aprons since they enjoy cooking. His apron read, "Mr. Right," and her apron read, "Mrs. Always Right," and to go with the bibs, I got them a cookbook.

Okay, so maybe that trip to Spencers wore off on me. Or perhaps it was all the hours I spend on romance writing. Either way, SueG and I received compliments and thank yous from the bridal party who had been too timid, despite thinking along the same lines.

Maybe this will get us an invitation to the bachelorette party!

Senior living

Florida state colleges require all students to spend one summer taking classes. I'm told the meaning behind this is for students not to become complacent (insert eye-rolling emoji), but I see it as money extortion. Not only will my daughter be spending more money than usual, but she will also be LOSING money because her summer job is here at home. It's downright annoying, but it is what it is, and so the youngest will be spending this summer at college.

To do this, she must find a place to live, and she worked out a deal with one of her co-workers to sublet this woman's apartment. Which then led to the asking of residence living for her final year. So, Tom and I took a Saturday for a road trip to investigate apartments, something I was not keen on for various reasons. By the time I had explained these reasons to the hubby, he was on my side, and the youngest rolled her eyes when we arrived.

Darcy: "Oh, boy, I can see I've got my work cut out."

I tried to convince her, as I'd convinced myself in the last twenty-four hours with stern self prep talks, we were coming in with open minds, but she knows me too well. Nevertheless, I put on a brave smile, and off we went to apartment building number one, three miles from campus.

Me: "What happens when you wake up and come outside to find you have a flat tire? As you recently did?"

Darcy: "I'll hitch a ride with my roommate."

Me: "She's already left for class."

Darcy: "I'll hitch a ride with my other roommate."

Me: "She didn't come home last night."

Darcy: "I'll call an Uber. Jeez, mom way to think of worst-case scenarios."

Me: "Just reminding you of why you're here, to begin with--school."

More eye-rolling ensued, and looks were exchanged with the apartment ambassador assigned to sell us the goods. He led us down an outside hallway, which reminded me of a motel with doors on either side. Outside each apartment were bags of trashbags in various sizes, colors, and shapes, some closed, others open and spilling garbage.

Me: "What's with the trash?"

Him: "We have valet trash service here. Students put out their trash, and someone collects it Monday thru Saturday."

Me: "Seriously?"

Him: "It's a perk, but not on Sunday."

No wonder all the reviews I read online talked about this place as a bug-infested hovel. It was a roach's paradise! 

The display apartment was laid out for a dinner party. Our ambassador reminded us that only the furniture came with the apartment and to discount the decorations and place settings. Bummer. I really liked the vase of fake lemons on the kitchen table that had four chairs but really would only allow for one--if food was involved. Or studying with books, for that matter. 

He gave us the low-down, all the additional perks which raised the price, the fact that the college bus system did not service this complex, and then suggested we tour the north campus apartment complex by this same company. That's where he lived, and he recommended it for different reasons, none of which I considered necessary. We took him up on that, however, and drove out of the complex, turned right, drove several feet, and turned into the "north campus apartment." 

This apartment complex was more beautiful. The security gates actually worked. The pool was newly renovated and clean, although our ambassador (who'd been given a heads up by our previous guide) informed us the hot tub worked only 75 percent of the time. The display apartment had better snacks in the refrigerator--help ourselves--and didn't have upgrades. What we saw was what we got. Discounting, of course, the decorations and place settings.

Tom, who apparently was reliving his college days from the early 1900s, was horrified when it finally dawned on him that the rent mentioned was actually per person and NOT THE TOTAL split between the renters.

I used a glass of pool water to revive him.

By now, the friends who actually lived in these apartments had responded to Darcy's texts, and we viewed the actual rooms in both the north and south campus apartments, trooping upstairs and past garbage bag after garbage bag. I SnapChatted our adventures, including the dead roach on one working elevator that was so large one of my followers responded, asking if that was a bat, but alas, I did not take photos for the blog.

Suffice it to say, these apartments did not resemble the display apartments. Also, cleanliness is not vital to students.  

Tom decided he wanted to view the apartment complex Darcy would be living in over the summer. This is the complex she wished to reside in for her last year, but prices had risen and were outside her friend's budget, so she'd crossed it off, although I knew she was quite disappointed. At this point, I heard back from my Steelers buddy, whose daughter lived three years in an apartment at this school. An apartment, he considered a "resort." Turns out, it was the same damn apartment.

Off we went.

This complex was a hop, skip and a jump not only from campus but from the building where Darcy attends classes. The complex was newer and very posh in regards to outside aesthetics. Then we walked into the "activity center," and whoa, was my Steelers buddy correct. I thought we'd walked into one of my Wyndhams!

My mother always drilled into our heads that cheaper wasn't always better, that you get what you pay for, and there was no better example than this complex. By the time we had finished our tour complete with professional models of all apartments and a very detailed overview of every expense complete with written copies for us to take, Tom and I were sold.

Me: "What's the situation with the trash?"

Ambassador: "What do you mean?"

Me: "How is that handled?"

Ambassador: "There are trash receptacles strategically placed in corners of the parking lots."

Me: "You mean you expect the kids to bag their trash and dump it themselves?"

Ambassador (laughing): "Ah, I see...yes, we do not offer valet trash service."

We took the choice out of the kid's hands, much to her relief, and she filled out an application. When we word she could tour the actual room she would be subletting this summer, I made us go back to do so, and whoa, it was exactly as the models and the display apartment we'd toured. Freshly renovated. New appliances. Hardwood floors. Clean.

Overall, we felt better with this apartment. There is the college bus service if she has a flat, although hoofing it is just crossing the street. The complex was better maintained, had more perks, and we had a personal review from someone who'd spent three years living there. The youngest had to break the news to her friend, and while we hated being the bad guys there, it made better sense all the way around since she'd be living there this summer. Plus, the boy-man is living there too. No roaming the streets at night traveling to see him.

Although she will have to haul her own trash.