Ned has now done something to the gate that renders me unable to open it, so every time I wish to move into or out of the dining room, I'm like George Bailey trying to get into Mary's fence. So to speak.
I have seen that movie approximately 678 times. Do you know who was sick to death of that movie? Jewish Marvin, who did not appreciate an uplifting ending. You will not believe this, but Ned loves that movie and cries at the end every time. I'm sorry, Ned, but you do.
My point is, that newly Fort Knoxed gate vexes me. Meanwhile, after Tallulah got right through that gate yesterday, she slept with me all afternoon. Oh, it was lovely to have her there, all pressed on me and doing her sigh/moan thing when she stretches. When Ned came home, I thought for sure she'd jump down guiltily, and it'd be our secret because heaven knows she doesn't smell like a Beagle or anything. But she sat tall and proud when he walked in.
lu not give one shit.
Edsel slept on the floor. He knew the real bed was forbidden.
Anyway, I am relatively normal today. I mean, using the filter of we're dealing with June, here. I didn't wake up today as a British banker.
So I might as well tell you all the dumb things I did all weekend.
First of all, I played with this age guesser thing all weekend, and the first person to ask me the web address gets beaten by my clearly 34-year-old ass. Then I have to go home and care for my 55-year-old man. THE ADDRESS IS AT THE TOP OF THE IMAGE. Look how I'm already cranky. I'm too young to be cranky.
Sometimes, depending on which picture I'd use, it'd say I was 44, 34, 49. Thank god it never said I was older than I am. I put in a picture of me with one of my friends and it said she was 60, a thing I will not tell her but I am telling you.
Ned keeps talking to me from the other room, and he KNOWS the rule, which we established before we even set foot in this house. If I am in here writing, there is no speaking to me. None. If he or an animal is to die, I will discover it after I've posted. And yet? Talking.
Okay, my lack of response must have tipped him off, as he has fallen stonily silent. I am a delight. I am a pleasure of life.
We went downtown, so to speak, to look for Adirondack chairs and tables for our front porch, which by the way Ned keeps calling Hurricane chairs for no reason other than he wants to bug me. He accidentally called them that once, and now continues to do it because every man I've ever been with THRILLS at bugging me. THRILLS at it.
We went to Kit's store and didn't find any. Dear Kit: We did not fool around in your windows, at all. Dear Kit: I left Ned there, under the umbrella. You can try to get 20 bucks for him.
They've done this downtown, to the sidewalks, and we have no idea why. Whenever we go downtown (where Ned used to live) and there's something new, which is ALWAYS, we feel bad that we're not right on top of things like we used to be. There's a whole new restaurant down there that we didn't know about. In the old days, we'd have been the first people there.
Here's Ned, looking mean.
Whenever he takes a mean picture, I show him and he laughs at himself. "I like that one!" he'll always say gleefully. He just came in here to say goodbye, as he is leaving for work and I'm still unshowered in my robe. He saw the picture above and laughed. I feel like unmean Ned pictures will not be coming your way soon.
We can be certain he's mean behind the steam.
This is the most Tallulah picture of Tallulah I've ever taken. There's her whole personality in a nutshell. Why do I pick the glare-at-me types? Although I do have to say, those IDIOTS across the street were screaming yesterday. Screaming! I think one of them was playing in the yard with her boyfriend, and by the way, boyfriend? They are a pack of Butterfaces, is what they are, over there. Chubby Butterfaces. Which makes them not Butterfaces, because the whole point is someone who has a great body, but her face.
My mom is weeping under her ERA Yes poster right now.
My point is, I was up on the couch, tepidly trying to read post migraine, and Tallulah burst over and got right on my lap. That screaming made her shake. I mean, now they've done it. They've scared my tough dog. Heifers.
If I ever tell you that we're outside, and I show you pictures of the other animals, and you wonder, "What's Edsel up to?" This is always the answer. Always. He is always chomping Blu. Champing at the Blu.
This would be an excellent time to remind people it's CHAMPING at the bit. Please say chomping at the bit. Go ahead. Say chomping one more time.
We let Iris out, into the fenced back yard, so she could be jungle cat.
Lily and NedKitty have zero interest in being out, thank god, but you know how Iris is. She was having a wonderful time, pouncing on grass, chewing poisonous leaves, and then Ned said, "Does this yard seem even more...bird-y than yours was?
"Where's Iris?" I asked, and I did not have to look far. Because I did not have a bird in the hand, but there were two in the bush. A Thresher couple is in our bush, so to speak, tending to their nest. We'd remarked on it earlier in the week. And there I was, unthinkingly letting that murder cat in the yard.
She will not be venturing out till spring is over. That bird murderer. A nest of baby birds is for her what a week with Boris Kodjoe is for me. Go Google him. Prepare to have no more thoughts for the rest of today.
Okay, I won't even make you Google him.
Anyway, that sums up my weekend, and oh, here's what we cooked, and by "we" I mean Ned.
Note the potato salad and potato chips. That was a June move, there. Which is why I will never tap Boris Kodjoe, unless he's into starchy women. Maybe he is! "You know, the women who really do it for me are Midwestern starchy white chicks. Who are 49."
You neva know.
Okay, I'm off.
Here I am. Alive, but barely. I've had a migraine. I KNOW.
I was so dizzy all day yesterday at work, which is a hello-you're-gettin'-a-migraine sign, then I woke up with this horrific one this morning. Yesterday was another harrowing day at work, which did not help. Currently am blogging at you under the influence of four servings of my regular migraine meds, two different anti-nausea pills, and one sort of booster pill they gave me when things get tough. So, have the vim of 10,000 suns right now.
I've been lying in bed all day, and the people across the street are doing construction, complete with the eeeeeee! of a saw or something. An electric saw. Is there such a thing as an electric saw? Anyway, restful.
So. Finally out of bed at 2:45 p.m., and today was had dog adoptions days at work! They brought in all kinds of dogs, a thing I am low on.
I'll blog more tomorrow, because I have to tell you all about this.
You see those jeans back there, behind my gaggle o' pets? The ZIPPER needs FIXING, and I've had them splayed on that chair for months because I don't know how to sew. I wish I had skills at anything. Also, why can't Edsel just sit like a normal dog? Why must he gangle?
Twelve seconds after I shot that, he stepped on Iris. "RAAAAA!" screeched Iris. Look at her, starfishing her little paw up there. Do you see that rug in the hall? I'm making you do a lot of background checks today. Iris loves to get on that rug and floomp down, and then you pull the rug this way and that. Oh, she adores that. She flumps and starfishes and rolls and tries to catch the rug and it's adorable. You do that to Lily and she puts her ears back and writes a terse letter to the editor. I've never even TRIED it with NedKitty, who would take off her glove and slap me with it.
The point is, what do I think is going to happen with those jeans? Is the sewing goddess gonna surprise me one day and TA-DAAA! my zipper's fixed? I mean, maybe I have to physically take them to the sewing factory if I want results.
The sewing factory.
Speaking of sewing goddesses, and who isn't, at work every day at 3:00, we take a walk twice around the building. A whole gaggle of us. We end up having the weirdest discussions, and I've said more than onece it's like we're smoking the ganga when we're not. Dear HR: We're not.
One day we got all up in a discussion of what you call it when fish breathe. Do they gill? They pulled me out the water and I stopped gilling! Then yesterday, Spalex, the Alex on our Spanish team, said in Colombia, they don't HAVE the tooth fairy. Can you imagine?
"I mean, what did you do?" I asked. I was worried sick.
"We lost a tooth. That was it," she said. No quarter? Of course, all the zygotes I walk with were all, "No $10 bill?" Whatever with them. With their millennial big dollars.
Then we got into a discussion about how weird teeth are. Why are there baby teeth? Where are the adult teeth at that point? Are they IN there already? If not, where do they COME from? Why do we NEED baby teeth? Some babies are BORN with teeth.
We all flapped our hands over that one.
A few weeks ago, we had an equally odd conversation about sharks, and I'm telling you, we should record these and release them as Hi, Not High podcasts or something.
I have to go. I stopped working with my student, so Tuesdays yawn before for now with nothing to do in them, and last night I didn't have therapy, either, as Ned and I have graduated to every other week. Did I tell you we thought of getting one of those countdowns, like they have at factories?
"This house has gone 11 days without a terrible fight!" I think that'd be hilarious. It was Ned's idea. What you need to have n every relationship is one excitable Edsel and one stoic Talu. What we have here is two Edsels.
Dear Ned: I just compared us to Edsel. You're welcome. Love, June.
Okay, bye. Starfishing my paws at all y'all all.
Ned came home right after work last night, so that we could take the dogs on a long walk, and also so that he didn't have to hear it from me about how he's always at the goddamn gym all night. Ned's job is super-stressy, and the gym is, like, how he unstresses, so basically I am an excellent girlfriend.
But a long walk can be unstressy, too, right?
"Which cur do you want?" asked Ned, handing me both leashes. When you put the Gentle Leaders on the dogs, Edsel has 50 fits of jumping and squealing and leaping and setting off fireworks like it's the Chinese new year, whereas Tallulah stands stock still. It's like she's in a game of freeze tag. She abhors the Gentle Leader. Tallulah wishes for no leader. Tallulah would be one of those people who moves to the woods and declares she has no government. Tallulah would be too indifferent to everyone else to bomb a post office, however. She might blow up the treat factory, in hopes it'd rain Milk Bones. But she wouldn't mail that bomb. She'd hide in the hilly area behind the treat factory with one of those bombs that has a handle on it that you push down.
But I digress. I can't believe you can Google "cartoon bomb with a handle that you push down" and you get this. God, the Internet is my favorite invention. Thank you, Al Gore.
So I took It's Raining Men and his leapy disco moves last night, while Ned took Easter Island. You have to tug to get her to even move, then she hangs her head low like the sad horse Rhett stole for Scarlett in Gone With the Wind, and I like how I say the title of the movie like you see so many other shows with people named Rhett and Scarlett.
If you knew how bad that dog pulled when she DOESN'T have a Gentle Leader, you'd ignore her pitiful old mule act, too. She has no mule power with me.
Oh, it was a lovely night. The flowers were blooming again, and two houses down it's evident that in a few days, the neighbor's entire yard will be all camellias all the time. We were having a fine walk.
Till the dog charged us.
Okay, I'm done. Mostly because I couldn't find any other good dramatic reactions to link to. Wasn't I just saying I loved the Internet? Now am annoyed. Just last night, after the DRAMATIC DOG CHARGING happened, Ned and I went to dinner and I said, "I love our waitress." Then she came back and said something annoying. "You hate our waitress now, don't you?" asked Ned. I did. "You should stop that. It's not charming," said Ned.
You know what's not charming?
As soon as I got the camera out last night, Ned assumed this annoying expression, and BY THE WAY the waitress ran over. "You want me to take your picture!?!" I was all, dude, leave us alone. We're doing a thing, here.
Ned kept trying to maintain an angry face to RUIN MY BLOG, but I kept snapping him. My Uncle Jim used to say about my quiet stepfather, "One day that guy's gonna snap." My Uncle Jim never got to see me torment Ned.
So we're walking not even far from our house, when this DOG CHARGED US fifty cents. Okay, he did not remotely charge us any money, but he was on the side porch with his people, see, and I've seen these people do this before, have that dog on their porch with them all unleashed.
Let me just make this public service announcement to you ASSHOLES who have loose dogs. "Oh, my dog is FINE!" Yeah, maybe your dog is, but MY dogs, who are following the RULES by being on a LEASH are NOT fine with dogs coming up to them. They still need walks, though, is the thing. So keep your GODDAMN DOGS on a LEASH so that they don't RUN UP to MY dogs, who are MINDING THEIR OWN BUSINESS.
God, that annoys me. One person once had a PUPPY run up, and if my dogs had killed a puppy I'd have never been the same.
So what happened this time was, this yellow dog, who you'd think would be in the same gang as my dogs, really came charging out with his mind on his murder and his murder on his mind. I mean, it wasn't a waggy-tailed hello. He had a growl going right away, and his people were all, "PETER! GET BACK HERE, PETER!"
And see? You think your dog is fine, but your dog sees something good enough, he's gonna ignore you. Two dogs from another gang count as something good enough.
I did what I always do, which is drop the leash. I know that sounds counterintuitive, but they will be a lot less awful if they aren't actually attached to me. At least that's what I told Ned when it was over, and Ned said, "I don't see how Edsel could have been more awful."
Because what happened was, Edsel TORE over to that dog, got in him the STREET (was numb with terror), THREW that dog down, and commenced to kicking the SHIT right out that dog.
You heard me. Edsel. Ned had Talu's collar up tight, and she didn't even bark.
"PETER! PETER!" yelled the family who'd had their dog loose.
"EDSEL!" Ned and I were screaming. Cars had to come to a stop while the yellow balls of fury went at each other in the road.
Finally, Ned walked over there and pulled everyone apart. The people picked up their dog. "This was entirely our fault," said the woman. "I am so sorry."
"No, I'M sorry," I said. I mean, Edsel really beat that dog up. "Was there blood?" I asked Ned after, because I was too stunned to know for sure. Ned said there wasn't, and we didn't hear the dog yelp, but we plan to go over there today to check on him. I mean, Edsel!
Every time he does something manly, I can't get over it.
"He was protecting his family," said Ned. "He did what he was supposed to do."
I mean, I guess so. That dog really did run out aggressively.
When I got up today, Eds was on the guest bed. "I let him sleep there," Ned told me. "For being a ferocious boy."
Oh, great. Now I've got Ned and Edsel gettin' all manly together.
So that's the story of murdery-pants Eds and the charging dog. Tune in tomorrow for Edsel's Got a Gun.
When Ned and I moved in together, he said he didn't want the dogs on the couch or in our bed. I agreed to this, although I was secretly baffled by such a rule. If it were up to me, I'd wear the dogs around my neck like a stole, which would smell fantastic. It'd be like a sachet, really.
So we bought, after much searching and what you'd call your hemming and hawing, because Ned, an elaborate wooden gate with a door you can go though rather than climb over it. I had a relative poop on her own self climbing the dog gate in HER house, and I know that idea was in the back of our minds, although we did not say so.
So, the dogs were allowed in the living room when we were home and sitting on the couch, and in the bed never, although I let them upstairs in the morning to sit with me in here. Basically, though, they're in jail. Dining room/kitchen/back yard jail.
This did not work for Tallulah. This was not what you'd call a viable plan. She was jailed for a crime she did not commit, although let's face it. Tallulah's committed every crime. She's wanted for forgery in three counties in Florida that I know of.
After six months of what I assume were sketches and blueprints, Tallulah figured out the gate. All of a sudden we'd come home and she'd be all curled on the bed up here. oh hai.
It wasn't even the bad bed; it was this one. See what a rule-follower? Edsel stayed downstairs, in his rightful place, even though the gate would be wide open, because the idea of displeasing us makes him hurl, like that guy in the dean's office on Animal House.
Saturday was a beautiful day. A perfect day, really. The blooms were all out, it was warm but not oh-dear-God-it's-the-South hot yet. "I'm going to the hardware store and fixing this gate," said Ned. Then he proceeded to tell me just how he was gonna rig this thing to Tallulah-proof it. It included the word "brackets," I think, or was that when he was discussing basketball? I don't know. It was boring. My theory is Tallulah being on this side of the gate is God's will.
"I'm going to the park, then," I told Ned. "And I'm getting a pedicure."
So I put on my fuchsia flip-flops and headed to this wooded trail, the same trail where Tallulah and I got caught in a thunderstorm years ago.
Oh, it was lovely out. I walked for awhile, but I worried I'd get all blistery in my flip-flops, so I sat on a bench in this fire pit area, and read for a bit, and enjoyed the crap out of myself. Then after an hour or so, I got back in the car and got me a nice pedicure. The name of the color was something really stupid, where they tried to make a pun with paparazzi, and I don't even know what it was. Anyway, paparazzi aren't even a color.
Finally, I went back home, and Ned had out the drill, which is never good. I avoided him, but heard many of the swears, and he was snappish, and finally he came in all aglow. "I want you to come see what I did," he said. So I traipsed over to the gate, where Tallulah resided gloomily on the other side. "I added this latch. Here's how it works, see," he hooked and unhooked it, like a little dress rehearsal for when I'd make the big walk thought to the dining room. "And I'm going to add brackets brackets brackets..." Ned's voice faded while I admired my new feet. I turned a paparazzi foot this way and that. What a good color.
Ned finally put away his drill and other manly objects, satisfied with his work. His Fort Knoxing of the gate.
That night, I was roused from sleep, JOLTED from sleep, by the most intense itching humanly possible, on the tops of both my feet. scratch, scratch, scratch, I said, manically digging at my feet. My itchy feet and fading smile can you hear me?
Ned did hear me. "What are you doing?" he groused. "My feet are killing me," I said, scratching for a change. "I must have gotten bitten by bugs in the woods. Am so looking forward to the Lyme disease or African sleeping sickness or whatever I'm coming down with.
scratch scratch scratch
"Oh my GOD, put something on them, then," said Ned, who must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed or something. "If I were doing this, you'd have already checked into a hotel." Someone is resentful of my vomit phobia. Someone can't let anything drop.
So I got out of bed with my inflamed feet, and opened the door to get some cream. When I opened the door?
There was Tallulah.
Embroidered. Is that the word I'm looking for? She embroidered it. All because I spent a minute and a half looking at her wedding invitation, which by the way is the pinkest, girliest, prettiest invitation, ever.
This morning, I heard Ned go downstairs and talk to the dogs. He gets up and feeds all the animals, like a farmer, then makes coffee for me, and no I'm not that great, and I wouldn't be that nice to me, either. Anyway, I heard the dogs prancing excitedly. Tallulah dances on her back paws when it's time for breakfast. "You wanna eat today, or just pass?" Ned asked the dogs. "Were you thinking of doing a fast? A cleanse?"
I Google Imaged byebyepie + Tallulah and Edsel to find a serious picture of them and got to see many pictures from my old house. Look at Roger and his stick-out footie. Roger, totally drinking out of the dogs' bowl. He wasn't afraid of a thing.
That floor never looked clean. I mean, that floor never WAS clean. Oh, speaking of which, the kitchen floor here is "hard wood" and by that I think it's that laminate stuff that looks like hard wood. I Sharked it and it looks dull. Then I Mop-n-Glo'd it, and hey, dull. The name Mop-n-Glo bugs me not at all. Anyway, tips? Laminate floor tips?
I am late, and I have to go. I was queasy last night, and not barf queasy, thank the good lord above, but I had a poop fest. A Festa di Fantasia, which is Fancy Feast in Italian and not at all what I had last night. The point is, Ned let me sleep late, because who was annoying, do you think, getting up and down 200 times, then when he did wake me up, I stampeded to see if I'd lost weight, which I had not.
My friend Paula sent me this, and there is just...yeah, I can't begin.
Okay, no, I really can begin. The filthy hippie, that dynamo behind them clapping her hands, THAT WOMAN'S SWEATER, the dummy! Oh, god, the dummy. The choreography.
God, 1972 was a weird time.
Anyway. Another work week is upon us, and yay. Although, really, I worked all weekend, if you consider watching Game of Thrones till your hand gets chopped off and you wear it around your neck work. And who doesn't?
I like it at my job, so going to work is not a dreadful proposition for me. Of course, I SAY that and now today will be awful. But what about you? Do you hate it? Are you stuck there? Why? Or are you jobless and want to bitch slap anyone who even HAS a job? I remember that feeling when I was laid off. Twice in two years. That horrible nagging scary no-money feeling. Oy.
But for me, I've had this job now for a few years, and I'm grateful for it, and even better, I like it. Especially now that my job has changed. It was supposed to be a relatively small change, but so far it's dramatically different and it's great. For me. The Other Copy Editor probably wants to punch me clean in the face.
Today I'm meeting with a friend after work, and tomorrow I have my student, then Wednesday I have my therapist who has had DREADFUL luck lately, and I wish I could just tell you all about the horrible things that've happened to my therapist, because you'd roll back from the desk and say, "Oh my GOD!" but of course I can't do that. You know me and my decorum. I'm here. I'm decorum-y. Get used to it.
I think it's possible that I have nothing to do on Thursday, and I will probably wander from room to room, lost and afraid. Then Friday one of my friends is having a birthday party and there's my week.
I say that like thearpy-ing me isn't dreadful luck as it is. Maybe one day she can write a tell-all book. I Therapied June. By Beleaguered Therapist Susan Johnson.
Her name isn't remotely Susan Johnson. Susan Johnson is Dudley Moore's awful girlfriend in Arthur. "She's quite beautiful when the light hits her just so. Of course, you can't always depend on that light."
All right, I have to get in the shower. I am taking Woof and Mouth Disease to dog day care today, a thing I stupidly mentioned first thing, and as I write this, Edsel has his chin on my lap and is wriggling. we go now? how bout now? Do now be good time?
Last night, Tallulah was illegally in the living room, with her front legs in my lap, and I was scritching her head. It was getting late, and I said, "Tallulah, I think it's time for bed." I expected her to get off me and galumph heavily to her dog bed, but instead she looked at me for a long time, and turned around and went straight up the stairs to our old bed.
And that is how Talu and I slept in my old bed together last night. She had two different woof dreams, where I had to pet her to get her quiet. buf! buf buf buf! she'd say, sort of under her breath. buf buf BUF. She was all jerky, too, like she was really giving someone the business, with the barking and the getting up on her hind-ies. feer lu now. she on hind legses. lu come at you wif three feets of terrur. and three feets of terrier.
She's probably taller than three feet when she's on her hind legs, right? Now I gotta get the tape measure when Ned gets home.
When Ned was a kid, he and his brothers would take his poor mom's yardstick and do whatever boys do with yardsticks. Beat each other, whatever. The point is, they were forever breaking her yardsticks, and she knitted or crocheted or maybe both, and apparently one needs measuring tools for these endeavors.
One day she drove up and opened the car door. Everyone was in the driveway. "Here is my new yardstick," she announced. "This is my yardstick. It is not for fighting with, or playing with, or for using in any way. You are not to touch this yardstick, is that understood?"
And with that, she climbed out of the car, and the yardstick caught on the door frame and snapped in two.
I am so glad I never had boys.
Okay, I am really going. Oh! (Somebody get the sheep hook.) Here's my latest Purple Clover.
I am sorry to tell you that I am going to talk about my dog for a minute.
Seven years ago today, I drove from TinyTown to Raleigh for a job interview. I never made it to Raleigh, because on the side of a busy two-lane road, I saw a puppy. Just sitting there, watching the traffic go by. And I did a U-turn and SWOOPED HER UP and STOLE her. The end.
Just think, if I'd have gotten all the way to Raleigh, I wonder if I'd have met Ned and left Marvin in a dramatic flurry? Doubtful. I am not the affair/dramatic flurry type. Well. I'm the dramatic flurry type. But I'm not affair-y.
My point is, that puppy on the side of the road was Tallulah, a thing you would have no idea about because I haven't rolled out this story six years in a row or anything. I wish I could tell you how many crappy, front-facing-camera pictures it took till that damn dog would look at the camera, up there, by the way. Also, who rolled out of bed and decided to take this photo, do you think? Hello, world. Prettayyy.
This is probably how Dooce's kid feels. What's that kid's name? Bleeker? Fleeta? I can't remember. But I think I read on Dooce's blog that Doreeta or whomever told Dooce to stop taking so many pictures of her and Dooce complied. Tallulah desperately wishes for the power of speech. Of course, she has the power of her fangs. The power of Pit. But she's been pretty polite so far.
Here we are, Lu and me, seven years ago to the day. Here is my hair seven years ago to the day. And a hint of the lemon-crate pictures! Do you recognize one that you bought? I can't remember who got which picture when I had the big moving sale.
I loved that trench coat then, and now I'm all, god, June, was your trench garish enough? I think I've gotten less...pink since leaving LA. Not that this was shot in LA. But I'd lived in NC only a few months at this point. Still had the pink in me, so to speak.
Anyway, there's my poor Asian puppy, who I swept off the road. Best day, ever. That was her first picture, and she had no idea there'd be 3,948,485,838,2 to come.
3,948,485,838,2 is totally a number. It's a prime number, and you just don't get math things.
The first asshole to email me and say technically 3,948,485,838,2 is not a prime number gets placed on a busy two-lane road.
In other news, yesterday was the least-relaxing snow day anyone's ever had. I did all sorts of real work for work, and watched I think nine hours of Game of Effing Thrones. I'm somewhere in season three now. Last night, I kept dreaming I was leading armies all over yonder.
"You'd make a great soldier," said Ned, who I feel was being sarcastic. I am sure. I'm super tough. God. Have you ever met anyone more no-nonsense than me?
Exactly. Plus, I could make all the maps. "So, we, um, pretend we're going to Burger King, and take a right right on that corner, there, where the drive-in theater used to be? You know where I mean, right? ATTACK! RIGHT THERE! Go, troops!"
Plus, they could put me in charge of all the maths. The war maths.
When Ned came up here to watch a few effing episodes with me last night (I've been HBO GO-ing them on my computer), he noted the potato chips have just remained up here as my watching companions. I'm not even bothering to put them back anymore. They've taken up permanent residence.
I need my strength to lead the troops.
Okay, just one more puppy Lu picture. Back when she used to be nice to cats. Now she's either indifferent or awful to them. She loves to get all low like a vulture and scare the crap out of poor NedKitty, who's 109.
My point is, I love Tallulah. So bad, I do. I love her houndy smell, and her aloof, dignified nature. I love how when she's lying down, she flumps her tail whenever I walk in. I love her big, manly woof and how if I ask her to come over, she wiggles her whole dog self as she walks over. But in an aloof way.
I love how she saved Edsel and me when that giant Pit came barreling out the door that one day. Oh my god, I just read that post that I just linked to, and cracked my own self up. "Mr. Nugget Pit, of the Embroidered Mickey Mouse Sweatshirt Nugget Pits"!!! How repugnant am I, quoting me back to me.
In summary, Tallulah would make an excellent soldier. She'd stay--as my mother once put it--calm as a cucumber.
We're going to have a few celebratory potato chips now. Year seven is the year of the potato chip.