Yes, Misstrix is Officially in Atlanta!
Plus: A disastrous move-in story, misadventures in daycareland and big little changes
We call Sally our problem child. We always mean it affectionately when referring to our sweet, loving, loyal four-year-old English pointer—but it’s 1000 percent true. She’s a bit of a wildcard, a total Libra and very much her own dog, for better or worse.
It’s funny to think that the pup who is endlessly patient and gentle with baby Bean is the same one who frequently “forgets” her name and is absolutely ferocious with foreign dogs behind fences. Sally don’t play with cowards who won’t show their faces.
She’s also the one who wears what we refer to as her “pretty-girl muzzle” at the dog park—a consequence of nabbing a mouthful of fluff from a golden retriever who had the audacity to fetch a ball within biting distance of our goofy little asshole. Sally is a joyful mess-and-a-half, and true to her breed, extremely anxious. She’s probably not going to change for anyone, least of all any of us.
But that’s not why Sally was our problem child on July 5, 2024. That day, she caused an abundance of issues for reasons that were not entirely her fault. We’ll get to that in a moment. For now, the important thing to know about the morning after Independence Day is that it was the one where all our formerly Austin-based belongings would arrive to our new digs in Atlanta. Finally, we thought, we’ll be able to unpack and settle in. The universe laughed.
For their part, the movers arrived around 9 am as promised and got to work. Right before they left later that afternoon, I let three pent-up dogs into the yard to run around and burn off their energy. Somehow Sally sliced open her right ear. Not a little cut. A fucking gash that bled like her ear had been chopped off with a machete.
Now, this would have sucked regardless, but it sucked infinitely more when neither R. or I noticed the stream of red bleeding out all over the right side of her body until after she ran inside and shook. Not a little “I was scared but now I’m shaking it off” wiggle that dogs sometimes like to do. No, friends, this was a “HEY! MY GODDAMN EAR IS WET! I’M GOING TO SHAKE IT DRY” earthquake.
Oh, well, do you have dark walls and walnut floors and small windows, you might be asking? NOOOOO. Of course we don’t! Everything is white shiplap and light grey vinyl and floor-to-ceiling glass with sheer shades. And did I mention the lofted ceilings and aggressively open floor plan? Or the brand-new furniture we purchased less than one day prior?
Or the fact that once R. realized what was actually happening and chased Sally back outside that she proceeded to run up to me and shake again? Splattering blood all over our deck and front exterior so our home looked like Dexter’s blood splatter laboratory after a particularly grisly exsanguination? Sending so much blood across my face and torso and legs that I looked like the psycho that macheted off her ear? Prompting me to take off my shirt to try to cover the gaping wound and limit the bleeding (because I was genuinely worried that she might pass out) just as my new neighbor Kenny was coming home, thus endearing me to a minimum of one sixth of the condo complex while potentially solidifying my reputation as a dog-butchering monster to anyone within watching distance?
SO FUN! And that wasn’t even the funnest of the fun parts. That honor can only be bestowed on having to clean every surface of the entire house no less than four times when Wiley Sal escaped the bathroom where she was being quarantined (unsuccessfully) in the shower. Did I mention the two other dogs, small human and three full-sized movers we attempted to maneuver around with cleaning cloths and stain remover spray? Delightful!
That was just day one though. Her ear cut reopened at least once per day for the next two, leading to yet another round of wiping blood off white walls and feathered wallpaper and glass windows and shades and floors. It was one of those never-ending cycles that can lead to utter madness and force you to wonder—just for a second, of course, and never seriously—if maybe you would have preferred that she died in the inciting incident instead of leaving dark brown dots in places that you’ll still be discovering on the day you move out two to three years from now (probably).
But what kind of (clean, easy, predictable, non-frustrating) life would that be? Sally may be the worst member of the Petrovic-Newman clan, but she’s one of us, and she’ll be with us until she croaks from natural causes at the end of a very long and pampered life.
The moral of the story is that we made it. We’ve survived the phase of boxes everywhere, and aside from needing to purchase some additional furniture items and hawk a few others, we’re settled in our new city.
So…have you missed me? Or did you not notice that I was gone for so long? It’s OK. You can be honest. I totally won’t be offended or cry in the shower or anything. Jokes aside, friends, I apologize for the haphazard delivery of the YM content. I feel like I’ve been saying this for months, but I fully intend to get back to the schedule I set at the beginning of this endeavor this coming week (for reals this time).
I appreciate the patience from all subscribers, but if you’re an annual paid member of this newsletter, I’ve added your email to a list to get a second year free on me. If you’re a monthly paid subscriber, I will gift you a free second year once you’ve been a paid subscriber for a year. Thank you, one and all, for being here.
Now onto one of the less bloody reasons I’ve been away longer than planned: The daycare options out in the wild are a goddamn horror show. If you’ve read my previous post about needing some childcare assistance yesterday, you know R. and I have been on the lookout for somewhere to drop the Bean each day that won’t haunt my nightmares or send the mom guilt into hyperdrive. That bar sounds incredibly low, but you might be surprised to learn that it is not.
Here's one example. When R. and his twin brother were little tot babies, my mother-in-law stumbled on a unicorn that no longer exists: The elusive Montessori school that provides free daycare to children who aren’t old enough to attend big-kid classes. R. had a great experience there. When he entered regular school, he was academically ahead of the curve. So, we were excited to tour a Montessori school that had programs for Bean-aged children and was a short bike-ride away from our condo.
Until we got there. Something to know about me is that I can tell you almost immediately if a place is going to work for me. It’s as true for yoga studios and hair salons as it is for homes and restaurants. Anywhere with a smell? Out immediately. I don’t do places with weird odors. R. and I once looked at a house in Austin where the vague mold-aroma wafting through the air made me so jittery I couldn’t handle more than a few minutes in the dwelling.
This school had a smell. It was also a bit dingy, which wouldn’t necessarily be a deal breaker in an old building, but part of the problem was that it wasn’t super clean…which is a deal breaker. The bigger issue was the staff. The front desk lady was disinterested. The woman leading the tour gave zero information and was basically comatose. Every teacher we encountered seemed vaguely annoyed by the children, and in one case, the adult helper was sternly directing George to sit down and stay seated.
Keep in mind that George was probably two. His crime? Desperately wanting to hold the lettuce bag that they were going to use in the salad they were making for lunch. Other kids were manning the bag of carrots, the big bowl, etc. Like…maybe just give George the lettuce? No, she gave it to another child and told George again and again to sit down.
R. and I have been saying #FreeGeorge and #GeorgeWasRight ever since. There’s no fucking way I’m letting my kid go to a place where they want a two year old to sit down and shut up about it. Especially when he’s excited about helping! What kind of message does that send? Call me momzilla, but I’d like my daycare to be a place where exuberance isn’t met with irritation.
The kicker? E. went ballistic toward the end of the tour. This was atypical. Her whole demeanor spoke worlds about this place. She never wanted to get down and walk around. She didn’t wave to a single person (and she LOVES waving). Then, when we went outside, she wanted to climb the stairs, but as soon as we tried to continue the tour to a second area, she lost it. That told me everything I needed to know. The juju in that place was seriously off.
Thankfully, we found a Godsend of an option nearby. The place has cameras that you can access via the livestream, Spanish-immersion instruction and the sweetest teachers. They also include food and diapers in the cost. All of this except (I hope) great teachers is extremely hard to find in Atlanta.
That was surprising to me, especially the cameras bit, but it’s true. Personally, I’d like to be able to ensure E. isn’t being berated into sitting down during salad time. I’m not a trusting person. I’m most definitely not going to just take someone’s word that my child is being cared for appropriately. When we took the tour, the Bean seemed to vibe with the place as well. There were lots of smiles and waves, and she really wanted to get down and run around. We’re excited that this option worked out. She starts August 1 (thank the LORD).
With everything seemingly falling into place—albeit neither smoothly nor seamlessly—I wanted to share something I’ve been considering for a bit: changing the name of this newsletter. While I started this newsletter to talk about sex, love and relationships, and I obviously do talk a lot about those things, it has started to feel limiting.
I don’t just want to share raunchy little stories about my life with R. or the adventures of E. (and Frodo, Sally and Archer). I want to be able to share whatever the hell I want. My goal is to talk about relationships beyond the sexy and physical. I’m also interested in the more ethereal connections we build, like the ones we have with ourselves, our creativity, our interests and our energy.
Don’t worry. If you’re here for the silly anecdotes, opinions and looking-glass view of my everyday life, all of that will still be here. But the forthcoming iteration of this newsletter will also include a wider range of topics beyond what I’ve already shared in the past. It will be both more intimate and broader in scope—an enigma of sorts, just the way I like it.
The name of this newish newsletter? Bored Aquarian. The moniker not only describes me to a tee, it is also the name of a band in my first novel and the eventual name of the production company I plan to create in the future. So, yeah, it’s pretty on brand. I hope you’ll stick around to see exactly what BA is all about. It may take a minute to make the jump, but you’ll be hearing from me very soon. Until then please know it’s been a real pleasure.
-Yes, Misstrix
I feel for you so much. Ear wounds bleed and they don't stop. And they will always reopen. Always.