Just Fold It In

I love this line from "Schitt's Creek". It's become my book club's favorite gif throughout our text thread, and my own personal mantra for 2020. If you don't know the show, nor the line just watch the video below. And if you do know it, this scene never gets old.




There's been a lot of folding things into 2020. It doesn't matter how the cheese gets in, as long as the cheese gets in.


So Mike bought a puppy - yes, that abruptly.


Let's be clear. We're not married. We're blending-ish. It's complicated-ish. It's very 2020.


I have two children and Mike has three. That makes seven people. And we each have our own dogs. That makes nine.


So why not round up to ten?


Just fold it in.


My dog Frankie is a Leader Dog reject. Oops, I mean "career change". They said it was because of Hip Dysplasia, but after reading the full report and knowing my big dog for the past five years, they didn't mention a few things.


He didn't pass Phase 1.


He's afraid of stairs, wooden floors, and water. A labrador afraid of water. Yeah, that'll get you kicked outta the program.


He also carries a little extra weight that he can't seem to shed. (Though he sheds enough hair to create a new wig for Moira. It'd obviously be called Frankie and stored at the right temperature.)


And he has nicknames. Lots and lots of nicknames mostly bestowed upon him by my teenage daughter: Beast, Beasticle, Miggs, Miggy, Miggle Jiggles. Mostly Beast.


And he answers to all of these because they are all terms of endearment, and he's so damn endearing.


The best Frankie story? Obviously the night we first brought him "home": October 18, 2015.




I was living in a 2-bedroom apartment, post divorce, in limbo between homes. (God has funny timing.) We got the dog, hit the store for dog stuff, and decided to get the dog into the apartment first, and then organize everything else including dinner and homework later.


Just fold it in.


So we first put Frankie in the apartment. And he locked us out. Allow me to repeat that: Frankie locked us out.


Did he need some alone time? Did he not like us? I was offended, yet also a bit impressed. A dog who couldn't pass Phase 1 of Leader Dog training was able to jump up on the door and swipe down on the bolt.


Not too shabby. I mean he was trained by a prison inmate.


No problem, I'll just grab my keys.


Oh right: my purse was inside. So he's adept at breaking and entering as well as purse snatching.


I had three choices.


First, I called maintenance, but everybody had left for the evening.


Second, I could call a locksmith, but my phone was in my purse. And even if I could call, how long would it take and how much money?


There was only one choice left: Joe. My scary neighbor next door. Though younger than me, he was a formidable personal trainer. I tried to avoid him. But now, I needed him.


So I knocked on Joe's door. He's buddy was over. They both looked sketchy.


They didn't pass Phase 1.


And yet, they both willingly came out, toolbox in hand, and within minutes they got us into a window, had us laughing instead of crying, and believing that the Universe was good again.


Never trust a Phase 1 test. You'll get a false negative. And neither Frankie nor Joe are derelicts.




Speaking of derelicts, let's get to Axe: Mike's eight-month-old Bernie Doodle. Cute as hell. I mean damn cute. But Mike often refers to him as a "derelict".


See, Frankie came trained, which is one of the reasons I wanted him.


Axe didn't.


Mike got Axe (named after the deceased Navy Seal Axelson) when Axe was only eight-weeks old. Mike was working virtually and therefore able to be with him 24/7. One would think this would lend itself to prime-time training.


But Mike had a lot of work going on. So Axe just sort of became his wingman. When it came to training, Mike said, "We were training each other. How to be single. We were training each other."


But Mike doesn't eat $300 shoes, $100 Spanx nor other unmentionables, garbage containing more unmentionables, kids' retainers, bags of flour...really anything lying around. Literally could be anything.


He'll just fold it in.




But that's why we all fit together so well. All nine of us just fold each other in.




So one date night, Mike lured me into looking at cute pictures of a Golden Doodle puppy. One look at her teeny little face was all it took. I mean, if things were already being chewed and eaten at home, what's another puppy? Just look at her face.




She'll be eight-weeks-old when we pick her up in five days. We've named her Charley.


So that makes ten.


So when it comes to 2020, and all of the adjustments: for better and for worse...


Just fold it in.








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