This may get messy. Or is it the moon?

I couldn’t post this on the actual night of the full moon. It was too raw. Being tied to the moon, as we all are, does get messy. For some folks, it’s not as big of a deal and for others it’s dire. The moon makes me mix up my real from my imagined. The harsh self-talk I’m constantly contending with gets center stage and I get sucked in. I was going to delete this but if it’s therapeutic for me to write down, maybe it’ll be therapeutic for someone else to read. There is some crass language and it’s super triggery (it’s a thing). I also didn’t end up alone the entire evening. A lovely neighbor invited me to her home for conversation and watching The Voice together. I got to snuggle a wee babe and have some company on one of the hardest nights in the month for me. She got to go to the restroom alone. I lucked out.

The original post:

Full moons fuck me up. I don’t always jump straight to that harsh a term for most things public and very few things privately. I think Cuss could sum it up most of the time. When it comes to full moons though…nah…FUCK is the only word that really captures the whole mess it makes. I used to love when the moon would get bigger. My body would tingle and everything would be brighter, louder, colorful and more intense. Most of the time that was exactly what I wanted. Then July 2014 hit and that Super-moon reaped havoc on the lives of so very many people. I still wake up drenched in sweat, remembering. It isn’t as bad as it used to be, sometimes I can go a while without really thinking about it. But that moon…it keeps bringing back the bad.

Now I check the calendar and send warning texts to the husband. We all know how things can get now so it’s best to prepare for the worst. Some worsts are worse than others. No matter how bright and beautiful the night becomes, I get trapped in the dark and ugly. Even the days leading up to the monthly event become stressful. Each month I wonder how I’ll be changed. Will the beast come out and will I howl and gnash my teeth and scare all of the village people away? Will I be enveloped in a haze and I keep wandering aimlessly until the fog clears and I can find my way back home? Will the darkness suck me in and push me down, suffocating and terrifying me? Who will I hurt and who will hurt me? I keep wondering how I can get back to finding the moon and her beguiling ways beautiful and magical again. Maybe not how…if. if. if. if. if.

I saw the bad moon rising this morning. I felt the trouble on it’s way. Each cycle adds another scar. Will this one be visible this time? I don’t want another one but I’ve come to expect it. Who will I be tonight? I’m alone this time. T is at his dad’s house, working through a rough patch of his own. D is in Cali, helping folks prepare for retirement. E went back to his bio-mom on Sunday. I suppose I have the dog. Mole’ can try and keep the beast at bay.

Those few blissful moments before I felt the collective screams of 1400 souls still taunt me. I still feel the empty place where a person used to be. I didn’t know him. I will never forget him.


Another full moon

It’s the end of the world as we know it…and other fun news

So anyone not currently in a coma knows that the current global political climate is a bit tense. A bit more than tense. Okay, it is scary as hell! And a certain stale Cheese Doodle in Chief is not helping. Stirring a boiling pot of toxic waste and pigeon poop tends to make things worse. Someone should let him know that. My guess? No one he considers advisers will. I sure as hell know Fox and Friends won’t. All hail the Evil Oompa Loompa and his nefarious band of henchmen. *lockstep and salute* Clearly this isn’t great for the super anxious sort. I can jump to the worst possible outcome in a single bound. It’s one of my many talents. I never could have imagined we would end up here. So what do I do?

Google gas masks.

Yep. That’s the best place to start. I need to get all my ducks in a row so that in the event of a chemical weapon discharging in my neck of the woods, my family will be able to keep their lungs intact. This, of course, includes the dog.

Given that chemical weapons made their first starring role in the Great War and was uber prolific in WWII, I expected a plethora of doggie gas masks available for purchase. The shear number of photographs with man’s best friend looking like a canine version of the “Are You My Mummy” boy from Dr. Who make me think I should easily pick up a few for my sibling’s dogs too. This is not the case. Just so you know. There are great enclosure bags for kennels that cost around $400 for the larger breed of pup and there are some interesting DIY mask instructions on a couple of survivalist websites. Nothing in the, I just want to quickly slip this on a go about my daily walk in a cloud of sarin gas. Cuss.

When I brought up the need to purchase protective gear for everyone (including the Muppet), the spousal unit was less than impressed by my urgency. Seriously! Blah Blah Blah, we aren’t going to end up living in a post apocalyptic tribal society that feeds on blood and brains, Blah Blah Blah…or something like that. I stopped listening when I realized I didn’t think about the zombies that will be created by a new Chemical X. I need to convert the Subaru into an armored assault vehicle. Do you think they sell kits on Amazon?

Big D’s reason for not sounding the alarm? Because his parents already went through this sort of panic in the 90’s and built a bomb shelter, complete with air filtration and food storage, and nothing happened.

Now I need to research how to convert a crawl space into a high tech underground panic room/bomb shelter. Wish me luck!

(rando side note…total deja’ vu right now)


If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes

There’s a saying in Utah: “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” It’s a statewide inside joke and it’s not too far from the truth. A week in Spring can go from close to 90 degrees Fahrenheit to below freezing, rain to sleet to snow. Hell, I’ve been pelted with ice marbles on an otherwise sunny day. You can ski in the morning and golf in the afternoon. I think that’s why so many of us Utahns (Utahites, Utards, Utahnians?) are either super adventurous or pray to God. You never know what life will throw your way so if you don’t like it, wait five minutes or pray it’ll be over soon, or both.

Right now, my kiddo is Utah in Spring and I’m not feeling very adventurous so I guess I’ll be praying to whatever deity will listen.

T’s medicating doctor was thinking that his prior meds may not have been helping enough with his anxiety (sorry bud), depression (again, sorry kiddo), and overall stress level (seriously Dude, I’m super sorry about that). I thought he was plodding along nicely with a few bumps in the road. I don’t have a doctorate and a child psyc practice so what do I know. On to a different drug. I hate giving my dude drugs. I know it helps with the internal imbalance that comes with all the things Autism but I still can’t like it.  I feel like I’m letting him down somehow by giving him prescribed doses of “Come on Get Happy” or “Chase Your Cares Away”. I know I’m not. I know that we are doing everything we can to help him learn to navigate this world of NT’s (neurologically typical types)  and all the unsaid rules that come along with that. Even knowing all of that, I really can’t like dosing the Dude.

Anywho…the switcheroo has upended Mr T’s brain noodle and now he’s feeling all the things all at once and it makes his days terrible, horrible, no good and very bad. I know this will take a while for the chemical compounds to work their voodoo and level his brain chemistry back out. I know that if it doesn’t work I need to call the doctor and chat about different options. I also know that my door hinges probably can’t take anymore slamming and my heart can’t take anymore breaking. But if I don’t like the current mood I can wait five minutes.  I also know how he feels.

I had a drug swap not too long ago that made my world go off kilter. I understand why we were trying something new and I can tell ya, new isn’t always improved. The stuff I was taking for my OCD symptoms was causing my taste buds to play tricks on me. Everything tasted like dirty Styrofoam. There were other side effects too but my food playing tricks on me was the most random. Plus side, I dropped 20 lbs in a month. Problem with taking me off the stuff and trying something else all together was all the sensory overload that I had become used to in my day-to-day came rushing back all at once.  That made my days terrible, horrible, no good and very bad. So back on the old pill I go until we can figure out something new. Both T and I are new to the pharmaceutical game. Neither one of us knows which type of pill will act as a band-aide while we work on healing in a more permanent way. I also wonder if it’s even worth it at times. Feeling things can be an amazing experience. Having emotions isn’t always painful. Having weeks of feeling nothing also blows chunks. So for now, I’ll wait five minutes and see if T is in a better place. Or I’ll pray. Or both.


(Just so you know, I will always run posts this personal by the kiddo. He has every right to object to some or all of the post and I respect that. I did edit some of this post per his request. Consent is more than just about sex. Consent is respect and it’s mandatory.)

Here, Let me hit it with a hammer

I didn’t have a sterile childhood. I witnessed death and birth. I was fluent in many of the more colorful phrases said by wizened old coots who didn’t give two shits how many little ears were around. My siblings could recite those phrases in both English and Spanish. Spanish didn’t stick to my brain noodle as well so I am not as fortunate. I was raised by a rancher and I wouldn’t change that for anything.

One of the best perks to ranch life was Spring time. That’s lambing season and it’s all hands on deck…meaning the minis need to stay out of the way and only help when told to. Cussing free for all, yo! My sister, brother, and I would wander the property – sometimes together, sometimes not – discovering new rusted out treasures, bits of broken relics from bygone eras, and interesting shiny things that we would re-purpose for our entertainment. We would muck through swampy spots and catch frogs or tadpoles. We would climb tall haystacks and find some rope to swing down from. We would catch lizards, rescue kittens, and poke dead things with sticks. We would ride the back of custom made sleighs to help gather up the slimy newborn lambs and their mothers then sneak into the cookhouse to grab a sandwich cookie, neglecting to wash up in between. Life. Was. Good. There were fist fights and tea parties, magical straw tunnels to secret caves, and a pony. Don’t get all jealous. This pony was an asshole, but that’s another story. There were so many opportunities for us to die, or at least get seriously maimed, that it’s a wonder we survived with a few broken teeth and some hurt feelings. As I said, life was good.

Part of growing up like this is getting hurt. Part of growing up in general is getting hurt, but I had extra opportunities for pain. My dad isn’t one to put up with lots of whining. He had shit to do and couldn’t stop everything to coddle a kid just because of a few bumps and bruises. He also has a killer sense of humor (not always recognized when I was small). I’d go running to him with a plan to tattle or garner sympathy for some misfortune or another and he would dismiss it with a joke or a job. He rarely offered much in sympathy but he usually offered to help with a hammer. A theory of his – If you want something to stop hurting, smash your thumb with a hammer and you’ll forget all about the other thing entirely. As I said, I didn’t always clue in on his humor. I also never took him up on his offer to smash my thumb. The logic is sound though.

I’m not the only person that does this. I know I’m not. Hurting comes in all sorts of forms and everybody has their own hammer. Some folks eat when they hurt, mad at themselves for gorging on comfort food that will take ages to work off (if you even bother to try), but for a short while you forget why you were hurting in the first place. Some folks refuse to eat all together so at least they have some control. Some folks cut themselves. Some folks use alcohol, drugs, or anonymous sex. Some folks hurt other people so they aren’t so alone. Everyone has their thing I suppose. Mine isn’t the hammer (although I tried it once, and it does work). I won’t say what I do or don’t do. That’s for me to work through in my own time. I also won’t judge others too harshly for their hammers. I just hope those folks know that the hammer isn’t really a solution. Hurting another part of you for temporary relief just compounds the problem. Most people know this but knowing this and KNOWING this are different beasts entirely. Most smokers know that they are risking their health for the habit and they still light up when the fancy strikes. Only they can make the choice to stop. I hope you stop if you’re ready. Stop smashing that thumb with your hammer. You’ll just end up with all of your problems and a sore thumb to boot.

June and Ward Cleaver are the leading cause of divorce

A louder than normal discussion with my spousal unit lead me to believe that the leading cause of divorce is June and Ward Cleaver. I know this is a controversial statement. There have been plenty of studies that say that it’s finances, children, religion, politics, health, and infidelity etc. that are the reasons two adults just can’t make it work. Sure, those things are rough when you can’t agree with your life partner and you have to figure out how to navigate the murky waters. Those things have been around for ages though and the increase in the rate of divorce is a pretty modern thing.

For years, the American population have been tuning in to watch perfect families have perfect lives and solve any minor issue in a half hour. June Cleaver always had dinner on the table, the home was always clean, and there was always a smile on her face. She spent her days managing her home, doing the laundry, cooking and cleaning, while dressed to the nines in heels and pearls. Ward always made it home in time for dinner, he was always so pleasant to his family after a day at the office, and when he needed to talk to the kids, he was always so even tempered and such a great listener.  June and Ward never screamed at each other behind closed doors while the kids listened in the other room. They never had to argue over how to deal with a kiddo who’s having some serious issues at home or school. The worst they had was Eddie Haskell being a jerk and Wally and the Beav having to learn a basic life lesson. No real tears, no real worries, no major life upsets. Just a nice easy life, with a nice easy family, in a nice and easy town.  Hell, they even dressed up for dinner…seriously! I’m lucky to have T wear pants at the table and I know the rest of the crazy clan gets tired of me insisting that we all eat together.

This impossibly perfect example of marriage was airing in the late 50’s and early 60’s.  Before 1970, divorce was actually an uncommon thing and since then, divorces have become so common that nearly everyone knows the “50% of marriages will end in divorce” statistic. Coincidence? I think not. We were shown an impossible standard and if our own lives and marriages weren’t as neat and easy, we came to the conclusion that it was us, not the Cleavers, who have it wrong and there must be a better marriage out there, somewhere.

I’m not saying that there aren’t reasons for getting a divorce. I had one and it was the best thing for me, my ex, and especially my son. My ex and I were shitty spouses to one another and are much better co-parents. That’s a fact of life there. Abuse and infidelity are hard things to just work through as well, so I’m not white washing those kinds of hardships and mixing them in with the standard marital quarrel. I’m just saying that our impossible views of what a marriage should be leads to major dissatisfaction in our current circumstances and sours a person on the whole institution.

My husband says this whole marriage thing has to get easier. I actually don’t think it’s that hard with him. I still look forward to seeing him when he gets home from a work trip. I rush to the phone when I see he’s calling. I’m still incredibly attracted to him. That’s a big thing with living with someone…you get lazy and forget that you need to keep wooing your partner.  I still love the cuss out of him and I know he still loves the cuss out of me. We have our issues when the kidlets are being normal kids and getting into trouble, when we are both too tired to remember how to be kind, when we have an unexpected expense right after another unexpected expense, which followed the big unexpected expense (you know, how things go in the walking around world instead of the magical Hollywood world). Shit can get hard. I know it’s not always a cake walk when I’m so stressed I can’t like to leave my pillow fort or when I can’t get out of a negative thought spiral. He knows he’s not always a prize either. It’s being human. I’m still human and so is he so this whole marriage thing is going to suck sometimes.

I will never have the Cleaver family experience. It’s unrealistic and frankly, it’s bizarre as hell. Life is messy and hard. Marriages are messy and hard. Parenting is messy and hard. Love is messy and hard. I just hope my partner in crime can remember that and not expect me to be Mrs. Cleaver and can just be happy with Mrs. Hamilton.

Mole’ Monday – Can canines have inappropriate fetishes?

Is it possible for Mole’ the Amazing Muppet Dog to have inappropriate fetishes? She’s always had a thing for feet. She loves sniffing them, licking them, laying on shoes, and eating the occasional (more than occasional) sock. I have a basket dedicated to single socks, looking for their mate. But in laundry, as in real life, only a few lucky socks find their perfect match. The rest of those sorry sods will probably end up being the next craft project, or stay in the basket, waiting for their sole mate (hee hee). Those mates have perished into the dark jaws of death. Death by Mole’.

I thought this was the limit to her underground kinks. Alas, this is not the case. I recently went to pull out a pair of panties from my dresser drawer and have found that a good many of the undergarments were missing a very vital part. This has been an issue with the wee ones’ wonderwears but I had dismissed as her way of helping me deal with the skid-marks so lovingly left behind by my children. She’s a great helper. You should see what she does to kitchen and dining room floors after the minis have spent some time there. So now, she has been sneaking into the hamper and helping herself to ALL of the undergarments she can manage to grab before the fam catches her.  How does one hold an intervention with a labradoodle? The heart to heart I had with her has gone nowhere. She continues to pilfer hampers, drawers, and dryers (yes, dryers). No sock, wonderwear, panty, or manty (the man panty) is safe from her clutches.

I cannot expect the boys to go commando and sock free because of the increasing cost of replacing underclothes. I worry about the intestinal fortitude of my furry friend. Can she handle all the stitched snacks? I suppose time will tell. Until then, I will continue my quest of saving socks, and now ALL undergarments, from certain death and destruction.

Digging up my nuts

I sing. Yep, I open my mouth, form words, and say those words in the form of a tune. Sometimes I sing silly songs about my dog. Sometimes I sing the praises of broccoli. I sing when I clean, I sing when I paint the walls, I sing when I am in the car. I have a series of songs I sing to help my son work through a melt-down. I have a series of songs to sing to myself when I’m having my own melt-down too. My sister and I will sing together when we clean up after family dinners on Sunday. My mother and I will sing hymns together and “fix” them so they sound joyful and will raise the spirits instead of drag them down. I love to sing. I was born singing. I used to sing with a choir in high school. Anyone who has had to slog through years of social hell would know how miserable high school can be. I never quite figured out the secret to navigating those halls unscathed but I did have a couple of lifelines and choir was one of those. I loved the way a group of voices would combine into a piece of art. Each distinct sound would blend with others and create a fuller, more rich tone. We would sing for others and when we were on point, I loved to see how the audience would react. The faces of the masses would each tell their own story about how the music made them feel. I doubt many of the good folks I sang with knew just how much I needed to combine my instrument with theirs. I needed them to share their gift with me and they did, Monday through Friday for 50 minutes and during the occasional performance. I miss that.

As I mentioned in my initial post, I had lost myself. I went through life stashing little bits of myself away for safe keeping. Hiding the best and shiniest parts of myself so that I could force me to fit the mold I thought I needed to fit in. Like a squirrel, I hid all of my nuts so that when winter comes, I can uncover the cache and keep me fed until the sun warms the earth again. Like a squirrel, I have forgotten my many hiding places. Winter came, and it is a cold and harsh winter. All of those stores meant to keep me afloat are lost or buried so deeply, and under such hard and frozen ground, that it is taking a while for me to dig them out.

The one nut I kept close to me was my song. When I was completing a list of what in life has brought me joy (another bit of therapy homework, for those of you following along with my progress). This love of song was on my list. The only things missing were the way I felt when I watched faces transform as they truly hear the music, and the way I felt performing with others who shared a passion for song.

I wanted to get that feeling back – that feeling that I stashed away so very long ago.  I wanted the joy of combining and collaborating with others to create art with our voices. In an effort to recapture this long lost lifeline, I posted a plea to a Facebook page comprised of artists, performers, and misfit desert dancing folk (otherwise referred to as Burners). There was a quick response and a beautiful intention of banding together a trio of altos. It would have been like honey on hot, homemade bread. Funny thing about life… sometimes even the most beautiful of intentions don’t pan out. I waited at home on the night we had planned to make music, and no one came. I was disappointed and relieved at the same time. The thought of mixing with folks I only really knew in passing was terrifying and my anxiety was causing my world to implode. Yet the reality of missing out on an opportunity to add my song to another one was defeating.  Rejection, even the most unintentional sort, hurts.

A few weeks back, I had bumped into a banjo player I’ve been acquainted with through two very different social circles. Stepping outside of my safe space, I suggested that we get together and maybe try a couple of tunes. Last week, I hosted a late night jam session. Yesterday he hosted me. We sang covers of classics and I learned some of his songs. It was euphoric. We played with harmonies and melodies, tempos and keys. I sang and I laughed and we went off on tangents that may possibly become more musical creations. While nothing in this life is guaranteed, with the exception of death and taxes, there may be a stage in the future where I will stand and sing and watch the audience feel the music. This glimmer of a possibility is a bright one and this brings me joy.

The time the Glo-Stick died

I was awakened the other night by T knocking on my bedroom door, sobbing and covered in DayGlo green glow stick juice. Apparently the stuff can burn sensitive skin after an extended amount of time. He claimed it was an accident. It wasn’t. Once I cross the threshold into the boys’ room, I enter into another galaxy. With the lights out, the normal mess of a bedroom inhabited by destructo-bots was hidden and all you could see was stars. This “accident” of glow stick juice escaping from the plastic tube (or multiple plastic tubes) created a glorious and magical space. It was beautiful. Imagining the process to create this space was another matter. I could not stop laughing. T had clearly broken open several glow sticks, received from his brother’s birthday party treat bag, stood in the middle of the room, and began spinning. He danced, twirled, and flipped the glow stick juice all. over. the. bedroom. Floor to Ceiling. Spines of books were decorated with the DayGlo green. Leaves of house plants became distant solar systems. Blankets, pillows, walls and toys, all became part of this other-world experience.

The expectation of me being upset with them caused both boys to flip on each other faster than Michael Flynn after a chat with some Feds. The entire time they were begging for mercy and blaming the other brother for the spectacle, I was doubled over, hardly breathing, tears running down my face, laughing.

They still don’t understand why they should be laughing too.

I know that when these two are all grown up and looking back on their childhood, this night will stand out. It was antics like this that created the amazing bond I have with each one of my siblings. Because of this ridiculousness they decided to engage themselves with, they will be better friends and better brothers and my heart grew 10 sizes that night. I hope they’ll look back on this soon, instead of waiting until they have both grown so much that the late night antics are too distant memories. I hope when they laugh about this, they remember the joy they felt when creating this memory and the unexpected reaction from their mother. I hope they remember just how much love was in that room that nights, as they were sobbing, I was laughing, and the room was glowing around us. I hope they remember sleeping in that room, under the glow stick stars. And when they visit this memory, it will transport them back to a simple and innocent place where you can create a universe in your own room, and dance after dark.

I Made it Out of Bed…Where’s My Gold Star?

Yesterday was my youngest’s birthday party. Complete with rain, cold weather, his  half sister, and the bio mom. I invited her. I always invite her. She usually doesn’t come but I guess this year’s persistence on my part, and on the part of every family member I could throw her way, worked. Mr E wants all of his parents there and I will move mountains for my kids. Moving mountains is hard work and I am tired.

I spent weeks planning this party. Birthdays are a huge event for me. They are everyone’s own personal holiday and I just want my kiddos to feel like they are being celebrated for who they are and what they contribute to this world. E wanted a turtle party. NOT a Ninja Turtle party…a cussing turtle turtle party. Complete with a turtle cake and turtle games. I made a kick-ass turtle cake, a dozen gluten free turtle cupcakes so I don’t poison half of my in-laws. I sewed up 20 bean bags with the fabric E chose. I made a turtle bean bag toss, a turtle racing game – complete with prizes, found turtle ceramic banks to paint, a freaking turtle pinata, and pulled together a turtle lunch (pizza, GF pizza, salad, bugles and soda – so the salad was the only turtle thing there but I was tired and didn’t want to think anymore, sue me).

During the week, I ran out of beans for the bags…ran to the store. Ran out of confectioners sugar for the icing…ran to the store. Made four 9″ rounds of cake – from scratch – and ran out of sugar and eggs…ran to the store. I’m a planner so I had thought I had purchased enough. It wasn’t…ran to the store. I still needed to sew E’s new birthday blanket (his request, his fabric choice, his binding choice) and nearly ran out of binding. Didn’t have to run to the store (Cussin’ A yo!). I packed up the dozen treat bags with turtle bubbles, turtle necklaces, turtles squirt toys, glow sticks and other random cheap toys to annoy other parents (those were E’s picks from the dollar store). I packed the pinata with rando candy E chose (imagine what an 80 year old dementia patient would pick and you’d have the candy) and a few things I grabbed so folks would have something edible to munch on, along with more rando toys to annoy other parents. I decorated the overly complicated cake and cupcakes. I organized the tables and chairs through the HOA so everything would be right there and easy for set-up, decorating, and tear down. I was fucking on this! All of this while still dealing with life with everyone’s favorite aspie, Mr T (now known on the yard as Stabby), and wrestling with this depression that drags me down and makes every atom feel heavy.

Friday rolls around and I went to grab the key to the shed and lavatory facilities and the freaking property manager, with whom I had scheduled all the things with, decided to bug out with no notice and leave me in a lurch.

After an eternity of me hiding in the laundry room, with the lights off, having what may be the panic attack of the century, the hubby rolls in on his white horse and rallies the tables and chairs from various family members over a 40 mile radius. Big D for the Win!

The party goes on without a hitch (other than the rain and cold) and the kiddo had the best day ever! He had his cousins and friends there, he had his family, and he ate the decapitated head from the turtle cake I so lovingly created for him. I played hostess and one wouldn’t even know that there were some serious tensions between us and the bio-mom. As I said…I will move mountains. I took and received some great photos of the event and forwarded some of the best ones of E and his sister to the bio-mom. No response. No “thanks, that was a lovely party”.  No “these pictures are awesome, thanks”. Nothing.

E’s birthday is tomorrow and it’s spring break so he and T are home with me. He REALLY wants to go to the aquarium. I invited the bio-mom, as I always do. She’s coming and I’m picking up the tab for both her and E’s sister, as I always will, so that E can have the childhood he deserves and not the one he’s currently bogging through. I will move mountains but it’s hard work and I’m tired.

I didn’t really get out of bed much today except to feed the kiddos and to check that they were still standing. The boys played around the house and yard. I could hear their laughter and I cried. I will survive tomorrow, I always do (until I don’t), but it’s hard work. And I’m tired.



Mole’ Monday – Last week’s sexy puppy poses, brought to you by – Mole’, everyone’s favorite Muppet Puppy

In an effort to make the world a brighter place, here are this week’s favorite photos of the many sides of Mole’ #bestdayever #Molethemuppetpuppy #sexypuppyposesIMG_20170331_194336 (1)

The formal portrait shot showing her confidence and style…wow! what a looker!

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The playful, flirty side of Mole’. Those legs just don’t quit and look at that smile. Girl, work that camera!


Hair, hair, everywhere and not a brush to chew. Getting the groom on is tough work. This sultry stretch on the sheep pelt is just what the doctor ordered. The vacuuming can wait, this girly needs her beauty sleep.

Just hanging with Hedgy. Cool as a cucumber yet that smile can melt glaciers. Yowza!


What photo shoot would be complete without the sensual styling of the full spread. Kardashians, eat your heart out!