Grrrrrrrr........Arrrrrgh!

We have theis really cool backyard here at the new place. It is hard to describe, and I am sure there is some sort of word for it if I were well versed in landscaping terms (terrace?). But it is like my lawn is higher than street level: a lawn on a platform of concrete, completely fenced in. I was completely at ease with my child going outside to play there when the weather is more appropriate. I can see everything he does from the window in my office that is situated on the back wall, and there is also a window that overlooks from the kitchen. It would've been so nice, but...
There is Beowulf. Beowulf is our neighbor's German Shepherd. Beowulf looks out-right frightening, as if he could unhinge the Gates of Hell. That is not the issue. He actually is gentle enough that I have found myself comfortable with Evan playing with him unsupervised. But he is enormous, and therefore has enormous...droppings. It never crossed my mind to be concerned about this. I assumed that, being that we are all living in close proximity in an urban setting, Beowulf's owners were being responsible pet owners. When one has their own lawn, one can be free to allow the dog to leave enormous piles of crap everywhere. But this is a shared lawn. And I have a 7-year-old little boy who loves nothing more than to scoot around on his knees in dirt with huge toy trucks. These two scenarios just do not mesh well.
I didn't realize this. Our short time here has basically been composed of me going to and from my car, down the front walk, as I am coming and going from work. But this morning, I am trying to sleep in a little as I work tonight, and John and Evan are in the bathroom, where John is helping Evan with his unruly hair. I hear muflled voices mumbling something, and it went like this: "HMMMMMmmm mmmmmmmm hhmmmmmm DOG POOP." Huh? What? I ask John what he was saying. "Nothing", he replies. I insist he tell me.
Apparently, my sweet son has taken his miniature version of solid white leather shoes I have provided and tread directly into the center of a pile of Essence de Beowulf. What's more is that the boys hid this from me. I don't know if I need to elaborate on this or not, as there was an entire post in days past devoted solely to the type of shoes I buy my son. As we speak, right now, John is deconstructing the shoes and placing all of the parts into my washing machine with enough Clorox that I can smell the bleach through the floorboards. I am trying to figure the most diplomatic way to address Beowulf's parents, and am wondering if gift-wrapping a Pooper-Scouper for the holidays is entirely too passive-agressive.

Pixie, Rain/Snow, and Santa's Lack of Punctuality?

A nurse from the ER is talking about a pup she must rid herself up, simply because the other dogs in her home do not get along with the puppy. Me and my big mouth! "What type of puppy?", I ask. Well, part dachsund and part Yorkie. In this age of designer dogs, according to my internet search, this is a Dorkie. (Hahaha! How appropriate that my dog should be a Dorkie!) This one has been named Pixie, is almost a year old, and is house-broken. Sweet! Yes, I will take her.
So Pixie came to live with us. She is so little and cute and taking to us like a duck to water. Her previous owner told us that she loved blankets. Boy does she ever! John and I were lounging around the living room watching tv last night and she went to whoever was the snuggliest. But she doesn't just run to the blanket. She buurows down into it to find the warmest place. She kept me legs warm last night while I slept. And as for the house-breaking: I was scared. We were told a dog was house-broken before, only to find that he had been trained to pee somewhere with hard floors. The result was disgusting, with a male dog peeing all over the kitchen. Gross! But it would appear that she really is. She stood in the living room, looking at us while we were dressing Evan for school, as if to say "Hey, I need some help here!". She did her business outside like a champ, and I was singing her praises until I stepped into my office and found the tiniest dog turd I have ever seen in my life. There it was, in a sea of carpeting. John cleaned it away and scolded her, and thus the adventure begins.
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In the meantime, it has been raining like crazy here. Thank God it is not cold enough to freeze or we would be in a perpetual ice rink. It did snow quite a bit the other day, though it is all melted away now. But it snowed long and hard enough for me to learn something about myself. When we were in Southern Kentucky, which was not so long ago, I used to complain about the drivers there. A little bit of flurries and everyone would reach a standstill on the roads, and I would cuss and complain about how they just did not know how to drive in the stuff and were going to get people killed by the accidents they caused.
So it snows one night while I am in the safe coccoon of the hospital, working away. I come outside in the morning and the ground and all of our cars are covered. I get in my car, and try to maneuver it around the lot stalkers (more about them later, as they deserve their own post!). And it finally dawns on me! I have become one of them. I am almost in a panic as I start to head home. I am worried as I maneuver through the residential area of the city, where parked cars line both sides of the street. I can just picture my new car sliding into one of them. It took me until about the halfway point of the trip to realize that, hey, I live back home now! They actually treat the roads days in advance. And my fellow navigators on the road actually know how to drive in the stuff. I will get my chops back eventually.
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This leads me to the last thing I need to discuss, other than the lot stalkers, for the day. I am seriously contemplating having "Santa" visit my house late this year. There are two reasons for this. The first reason is that I literally work or have worked everyday in December, other than 6 days. In plainer terms, I have only 6 days off this month. Whoopty-Doo, right? Well think about this: The average American works five eight-hour days per week. This would leave an average of eight days off a month for them. But my standard work week is 3 12-hour days. My standard workday is 12 hours. Before you go thinking that I get 4 dyas off a week and that would be such a treat, I would like to remind you that it generally takes that long to recover from what they have done to me while at work. So then add to the mix that I picked up all of this overtime to make up for the fact that my husband is still not employed. Most of the days I picked up are 12's. That makes for a lot of hours! A lot of aching feet! A lot of fatigue! Two of those days are Christmas Eve and Christmas Day!
If you add to this equation that I am completely broke from the move, and that I am getting thousands of dollars back in the form of a financial aid refund at the beginning of the year, you could probably understand my idea of postponing Christmas in the Ferguson household. If I wait just a week, I could not only afford to grant every Christmas wish my boys have, but can also actually be present to spend the time with them. After all, Evan wants a Wii for his bedroom, and John wants a new PS3 for the living room. That alone is about $800 without the games and accessories! So financially, it makes sense. With regard to my schedule, it makes sense. But I am scared to death that this is going to push me over the edge and I will become a part of the Bad Mommy Club. Any thoughts?