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| So I kind of forget I have this thing. Does anyone even read it? | | |
| I just realized in my last entry that I called Fred "Stan" a couple of times. I am watching Law and Order right now and the main character is Stan. Yeah, I'm not so smart maybe..... | | |
| Paul and I just got into an argument about who will walk Fred when. It's definately the most common argument we have. Weeks and weeks will go by with complete peace, except for the decision over who will walk Fred.
This is what taking Stan on a walk entails, and may explain why Pauland I argue so callously over it:
To begin with, one usually has to pry Fred off the couch. He doesn’t volunteer himself very often to go on a walk unless he needs to water the bushes so bad that his eyeballs are floating. He prefers the sanctity of his couch, reliving his racing glory days much like a high school football coach with a sixty inch beer gut relives his one lowly touchdown at his small junior college he attended. By going outside, he confronts his laziness momentarily, and this is painful.
Generally, when we want to get him away from the couch, we need to first pull his four feet toward us, and gracefully aim them in the direction of the carpet. When he realizes his choices are to roll off the couch or stand on his own, he almost always chooses to stand. However, if he decides to be ripped from the couch without standing, he simply falls to the ground with a look of sheer doggie fury gleaming from his eye. He then proceeds to fall back asleep on the ground. Making him get up from the floor after this usually involves feeding him a richly scented bacon-esque treat, which, oddly enough, is shaped and colored like a small piece of steak.
Putting the leash on Fred is not so difficult. Strangely, he enjoys this step. I think he believes the leash is the bitch he is destined to spend the rest of his life with, and he meets her secretly four to five times a day while he trots around killing the neighbor’s bushes with his acidic markings.
His trips outside seem legendary to him. Every earthworm, blowing leaf, or piece of road kill puts a hitch in his gitty up. I then either feel guilty for not being happy for him, or roll my eyes because he is yet again trying to chew on the same dead sparrow he has been after for his last eight excursions.
Life would possibly be too easy for Paul and I if Fred would just do his business and come back home with us. Instead, he has to keep some of the troops in reserve at all times, so he can mark every single bush that needs it. Day after day, I have trouble understanding his motivation for proving to the dog up the street that he has a far greater territory than he does. The upkeep of his boundaries, which are bushes, trees, signs, garbage cans, or houses, would make any sane person lose hope in life. But, Paul and I are not dealing with sanity. We are trying to make sure a dog gets walked regularly.
Adding insult to injury, most of the time Fred has to use the restroom, it is negative eighty degrees outside. Maybe not quite that cold, but it feels that way. Dogs should be like fish in the winter, who just stop swimming for a couple of months. They could even rework the urination system for the winter so that it warms their body in the manner of a system of pipes bringing heat through the floor of an old house. Paul is the man, so I think he should be willing to tolerate the pain and discomfort that comes with the weather.
Furthermore, it’s likely late at night that a man with a chainsaw is waiting behind the next set of bushes Fred sees. By the time he starts the chainsaw and Fred has sped away from the deafening roar of the motor, it will be time for the chainsaw man to chop me into as many pieces as he can count to. Most likely, I won’t even be that lucky. Most likely, he won’t keep count, so I’ll end up in more than three pieces. Call it a stereotype, but I’ve always assumed that chainsaw men can’t count much higher than three.
More than anything, I dread the monotony of the trips. I told Paul one time how boring it was to walk Fred. He replied, “you’ll miss it one day when he dies.”
My answer to this is always that “Stan is immortal. He’ll never die. How can you even think of such things? For God’s sake, I can’t believe you are so sick to even bring that up!”
Thus, this argument is never resolved. | | |
| Wedding planning would not be stressful if mothers did not get involved with it. Here is why:
1. They understand things at a snail's pace. You have planned and organized and have everything running smoothly, until you try to explain it to them. They comprehend all your effort as if the mouse on the wheel keeping their brain working has suddenly contracted a viral form of Parkinson's. Not realistic, per se, but this is how it happens.
2. After spending 10932847 minutes explaining to either of the mothers all that has already been done, they realize that this is completely wrong, and most likely, God will not come to the wedding, as the problems are so severe.
3. The OTHER mother, the one you have managed to ignore for 2.5 minutes, realizes that she does not understand the concept. Go back to step one.
4. Both mothers now know the plan, and are utterly disguisted by the fact that the bride and groom prefer that everyone at least be at the church by 11 (since pictures start at 12, and lunch will be at the church for everyone), when the wedding isn't until 2. Why not 11:30? Why should anyone even get to the wedding at all for that matter?
5. One mother proceeds to pout about the idea.
6. The other mother calculates and formulates a new plot in her head. The mouse has jumped back on his/her wheel, miraculously cured of the devestating case of viral Parkinson's.
7. The pouting mother realizes that if the groomsmen are at the church at 11, instead of 11:30, as she wants them to be, then they will start drinking beer with their free time. This concept is novel to everyone, yet brings a new flair to the argument.
8. The bride is ready to put her head in the toilet and give herself a swirly at this point, because she realizes she has spent a half hour listening to people argue about a half hour.
9. The groom is a man, thus does not have to listen to all this garbage. He is busy doing man things, like clipping his toenails, making excel spreadsheets, and cleaning the gutters.
10. The final step: nothing is agreed on. The bride decides to just wait for the church to implode on the day of the wedding, as half the groomsmen will be drinking beer (for some unforseen reason), and the other half will be stuck in traffic. The groom has since decided he is going to Vegas and marrying a stripper. | | |
| Has anyone heard the new Paris Hilton song?
It's TERRIBLE. Maybe the worst song to ever be played on the radio. Maybe.
Clearly, she wants to be Gwen Stefani. Clearly, she wants to be a skank ho Christina Aguilera wanna be, but that's a little hard to acheive...b/c Christina actually can sing.
SEriously, this song shouldn't be allowed out. Never. It sounds totally like a cheap version of some other song that got made into a karaoke track. | | |
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