To cut to the chase, I want the dog to sleep with us, Matt does not. I see his point. It’s kinda gross cause she licks her butt and would probably fart in bed. And there’s not enough space for all of us. And we’re not being the pack leader if we let her sleep between us. But I can’t help that obsessive desire I have to snuggle her all night long. Just once… or twice maybe, until the novelty wears off.

So my husband has set a few conditions where I could sleep with the dog all night long. Twice, we’ve slept on the pullout couch in the living room and allowed her up on the bed with us. But she inevitably falls into the crack between the mattress and the sofa, which requires a midnight rescue, so it’s not really all night long. And then that one weekend we went camping, she got to sleep next to me, but she was so scared the whole night and wouldn’t really SNUGGLE officially, so that doesn’t really count either.

Last night I pulled her up onto the bed just to “cuddle her a little while before putting her back on the floor for the rest of the night.” Matt eyed the whole affair suspiciously, but I was convinced Berlin would be so confused that she’d happily retire to the floor in a matter of moments to get away from her overly-snuggly and somewhat psychotic mother. Except I was wrong. Really wrong. When I tried to call her back to the floor where she belongs, she sat alarmingly still… not budging an inch.

Finally Matt was fed up and plucked her off the bed. No sooner had her paws hit the floor when she turned around and did the unthinkable: leapt back up onto the bed. My jaw dropped. Neither of us thought she could make the jump, and here we were being outsmarted by an 11 month old canine.

Holy cow, was I in hot water. I was responsible for teaching her this bad habit that we’d never be able to unteach. (I’m also somewhat responsible for her recent hovering under the kitchen table. Let’s not even go there).

After a lengthy discussion that lasted until midnight, we came to the compromise that if I can teach her to obey my voice commands, then she’s allowed on the bed for 5 minutes of cuddling before we go to sleep. After that, she needs to jump down and go to her doggy bed. I’m convinced that she can learn how to do this. I think.

I’m going to try tonight for the first time, although the temptation is hovering over me like a three-layer chocolate cake that is ALL MINE FOR THE EATING. Matt’s driving to NJ today, so I’ll be spending the night alone. It wouldn’t be SO bad for me to let her spend the whole night in bed with me, would it???

Matt learned early on that Priscilla and hot weather do not mix.

I don’t generally go on and on about being a New Englander and my regional pride and so forth, and to be perfectly frank it probably has nothing to do with me being a New Englander. But the fact of the matter is that I would prefer a three dog night to a sticky, sweaty, fever-ravaged summer evening in Washington, DC any day.

I don’t know how I lived through a singular summer in the District, I don’t know how I survived NJ for two summers, and I don’t really know how I’m going to manage another summer in Boston at this insane rate of global warming. One cannot expect me to act logically in this heat. One cannot expect me to spend a minute indoors without air conditioning. And one can CERTAINLY not expect me to ever go OUT OF DOORS in this heat. The consequence of attempting any of the above is that I will probably eat your babies. And your babies’ babies. And then wash them down with an iced coffee. Dunkin Donuts’ medium one-and-one, please. NOW!

Matt saw it in my eyes on Sunday when I woke up from a nap in a disgusting pool of sweat. He knew that if he didn’t immediately put down his laptop and go down three flights of stairs to haul up three heavy window air conditioners, install them, and turn them on “high” that he would probably not last through the evening. So he did it without a single whispered epithet and instantly became my greatest hero. And last night when I proclaimed that I was definitely going to leave the AC on for the dog the next day, AND DON’T EVEN FIGHT ME ON THIS! DO YOU KNOW HOW HOT IT WAS IN HERE WHEN I GOT HOME!?!, he merely requested that we only keep the unit in the bedroom running, which is very logical since she doesn’t leave the bedroom at all when we’re gone.

Now you know. Now you know not to cross me on a hot day.

And before you go on and on about POOR MATTY THIS and POOR MATTY THAT… his reward for putting up with me during endless hot summers is a freezer packed FULL of water ice and those disgusting plastic tubes of frozen sugar water that he eats 6 at a time. And every time I go to the grocery store I point him down the frozen food aisle saying “make sure you pick out a treat for yourself!”

Besides, with all of the wrappers I continue to find scattered around his car, I’m pretty sure he’s hitting up the ice cream truck every afternoon.

You have no idea how ashamed I am to say this. I have watched a few episodes of American Idol this season. And I like David Cook. He had me at “Billie Jean is not my lover.”

I hope he wins tonight.

But my brother-in-law could kick his sorry butt.

I was moody last night.

I had a ton of things to do to get ready for Matt’s graduation weekend, his parents coming to visit, etcetera etcetera. The whole apartment needed cleaning, I needed to go grocery shopping, and as it was the fifteenth of the month it was tick and heartworm and flea medication day in our home.

I should have arrived home tickled pink to see Matt at the stove cooking up some linguini. Not so. There he was about to simply pour sauce on top of pasta instead of looking into the fridge and seeing those leftover stalks of asparagus and the shiitake mushrooms (hold on, I just saw a Google text ad for Genesis ringtones! NOW I WANT ONE!!!) that clearly should be eaten up and would taste delicious in an Alfredo sauce over that linguini. But no. He couldn’t have looked in the fridge to see what food needed to be used up, could he?

After our delicious dinner (because I stopped his sauce-pouring just in time to whip up aforementioned asparagus and mushroom alfredo sauce) I suggested we run out to Petsmart to get Berlin more food and some new toys and such. I thought this would make me cheery, but as I walked over to the travel-with-your-doggie section I saw all of these great shearling-covered seatbelts and was upset that when he had purchased a seatbelt for Berlin he got the cheapest, chintziest one in the whole store and it wasn’t SOFT and didn’t have SHEARLING and it probably wasn’t AS SAFE AS THESE OTHER ONES. GOSH!

But of course I didn’t mention ANY of this to him. Realizing how inane I was being, I kept quiet and sulked. And when he put his hand on my leg while we were driving, I pulled my leg away and said I just wasn’t in the mood to be touched.

We sat down in front of LOST, and I was preoccupied with watching Berlin as she played with her new Kong. Sometimes it would slip out from her paws and roll under the coffee table and Matt, couldn’t you please tear your eyes away from one of the best episodes of LOST EVER and reach down and get the Kong out from under the coffee table for YOUR DAUGHTER!? Because you’re taller than I am, plus I’m too comfy under this afghan. And when you clean the bathroom tomorrow can you PLEASE take it up a notch because I have higher standards for guest-worthy bathroom cleanliness than you do. And overall I just do everything better than you, SO JUST DO THINGS MY WAY.

There’s only one word for this type of behavior. BI-FREAKING-POLAR.

He’s a saint, he really is. And the thing that makes him so great is that from time to time when I need to absolutely NOT MAKE SENSE, he shrugs it off, gets a beer out of the fridge and goes to Lostpedia for a few hours. I love him.

I’m into mothers. I think they’re great people. I think they put up with a lot of crap. So I think it’s valid that we celebrate them once a year.

This Sunday, I’ll be having a crowd over for lunch to celebrate moms and their success in child-rearing. We’ll have three generations of mothers represented, which I think is a pretty spectacular thing. And it appears that we skated through Berlin’s heat miraculously without adding a fourth generation of mother. HOO-RAY!

While my own mother has only ever asked for “Good Behavior” on Mother’s Day, we all know that it’s always crucial to give her something more. So the retailers have been bombarding us for the past few weeks giving us loads of opportunities to spend our money. And because I subscribe to so many email marketing campaigns for industry knowledge, I have recently felt the brunt of their marketing initiatives.

So I looked to my inbox for gift ideas. Two of my very favorite Mother’s Day promotional emails came through today: the first from National Geographic featuring their issue on animal intelligence. This was one of the best issues that I’ve read since becoming a subscriber three years ago, and if you haven’t read it, go pick it up! Plus, how cute is this border collie? Clearly I was their target market, but my mom is not… so she’s not getting the Geographic for Mother’s Day.

The second email that I loved was for Crate & Barrel. How much do you just want everything in this photo? Especially that box of tea. But my mom has more kitchen stuff than she could ever need, so I am not heading to C&B. At least not for HER gift.

After browsing through a few more emails and heading over to Amazon.com with little success I realized that the small token gift that I got for her combined with a homemade dinner that she doesn’t need to cook or clean up after… and Good Behavior… will be my gift to her this Mother’s Day.

But the Good Behavior doesn’t officially start until Sunday. Because I already sent her the following email this morning:

“Mom, I think you need a DOG in your life vomiting on your newly installed carpet. That will help you realize you can’t control everything. Either a dog or a big fat doobie to smoke while doing your yoga video. Love ya, P.”

Wait a minute! I’ve suddenly been hit with some great Mother’s Day gift ideas!

Saturday was a beautiful day, one of the first beautiful days that has hit Boston so far this spring. But 65° F is not 85° F, and somehow I missed that memo.

Matt woke up with an urge to purge and headed downstairs to attack the basement storage space. I headed to the park to walk 5 miles with another 3-day walker. When I returned from my jaunt, a bit tired and awfully thirsty, Matt had filled my car to overflowing with miscellaneous items from his childhood, an old microwave, and a desk lamp that I love - all to take to Goodwill. I didn’t have the strength to argue over the lamp (regret #1), so I wearily hopped in the car with the promise of ice cream after dropping off the loot. It wasn’t warm enough for ice cream, but we got it anyway (regret #2).

A few hours later we returned home after a quick trip to IKEA, and tackled the back porch which was covered in rusty nails. We set up the new table and chairs, and Matt fired up the grill for the first lamb chops of the season. We even let Mojo out onto the porch (regret #3) where he has decided to stay until the second coming. By now the sun had tucked away behind the trees, the wind was whipping up, and Mojo, Berlin and I were too stubborn to leave the porch. I was NOT going to admit that it was really not warm enough to sit outside, so I bundled up in 2 afghans and curled up with National Geographic (regret #4). A solid hour later, with my body convulsing in chills, I dragged the pets indoors and the coughing began.

I have been chilled ever since then, and my ears are on fire the way they are after you’ve spent a day on a sailboat off Boston Harbor and your whole face is chapped and windblown. I have that deep guttural cough that says I’m a lifetime chain smoker, and all the tea in the world doesn’t seem to be helping.

But I’m really in the mood for burgers and lemonade tonight. 63°F is shorts weather, right?