Here is the utterly fascinating recap of how I spent my weekend, since I’m sure you peeps can wait no longer. Friday night, after utterly horrendous traffic, I finally got home, Alan finally arrived and we broiled a couple of steaks. I had a glass of Chateau St. Michelle, quite the tasty little Merlot, and we just chilled. Then came Saturday, a day of violence and betrayal...
I own Sprocket, a vicious pit Shih-Tzu who barks at EVERYONE and has even bitten a few people. I’d get sued but I don’t think that anyone wants to admit they actually suffered pain from a Shih-Tzu bite. Sprocket barks not just at strangers but at people he knows well, like Cheryl or the rents, until they’ve been in the house a while. However, he has never barked at Alan - never, not once. I found it rather eerie and a bit unsettling that he didn’t, like they’d made some sort of supernatural pact, but anyway they were instant pals. Another thing about Sprocket is that he hates being groomed. He doesn’t mind the bath so much, but he seriously extremely hates being brushed, especially his feet. I’m gone all day and when I finally return home, he’s so very happy to see me that I don’t have the heart to brush him as often as I should - I’d rather play with him than make him miserable during the too-few hours we spend together. So there were quite a few bad gnarls in his fur that needed to be excised and a bath was in order as well. On Saturday Sprocket’s best pal Alan nabbed him and held him down so that I could scalp him, then aided and abetted me in a dousing, which included two applications of shampoo.
Alan was shocked to see how wee Sprocket really is; the mound of hair I trimmed off was about twice the size of the dog remaining. The haircut doesn’t look all that great, either, because Sprocket wiggles a lot and likes to play mind games to punish me for my impertinence; during the trimming phase, he’d stand perfectly still and calm for several snips and then, when he had me thinking things might go smoothly, he’d jerk violently and kick his little legs furiously. This is why, if you see my dog in the next week or so, he has a long narrow bald spot on top of his head, surrounded on all sides by neat, perfectly even waves. Despite the bestowing of a gourmet dinner of duck in heavy gravy, Sprocket has not forgiven us for this torture. Well, mainly he hasn’t forgiven Alan - he expects this sort of thing from me (moms being well known for insisting on baths far more often than strictly necessary), but the betrayal by a bud was hard to take. Poor little puppy.
Saturday afternoon, I watched Notre Dame beat Stanford 23 to 15 for the EIGHT HUNDREDTH victory in Fightin’ Irish football history. Woo-hoo!
Cheer, cheer for Old Notre Dame,
Wake up the echoes cheering her name,
Send a volley cheer on high,
Shake down the thunder from the sky!
We never stagger, we never fall,
We sober up on wood alcohol,
While her loyal sons are marching
Onward to victory!
Wait...I don’t think that’s quite right somehow...
For dinner that night I roasted a swineloin, which we had with corn-on-the-cob, yellow rice and salad. Alan didn’t believe me, but he had to admit that Lea & Perrins’ white Worchestershire sauce was fabulous on the pork. The bottle says it’s for chicken, but trust me - it’s great on swine. What with a very restless sleep the night before, I was too tired to stay up for the Japanese Grand Prix so I sent Michael Schumacher a mental telegram to just do me a favor and win it already. He was kind enough to comply and I do appreciate his cooperation.
Sunday morning, Alan and I headed to his sister’s house to meet up with the fam for his brother Christopher’s birthday celebration. I got him three pairs of Spongebob boxers, Alan got him a lamp thingy and the new CD from Los Lonely Boys - if you like bluesy rock a la Stevie Ray Vaughn, check ‘em out. The lamp thingy is one of those glass globes with a neon light inside that looks like lightning, and if you put your fingers on the glass, the lightning tracks your touch. Alan’s niece Eliza is the most energetic two-year-old I’ve ever seen (not that I’ve seen a lot of them). She must have run fifteen miles without leaving their living room.
Eliza doesn’t do this - at least, not that I've ever heard- but afterward we had to stop by the grocery store and this rug rat in the queue beside us was doing this kid thing which I thoroughly hate. It was making this horribly loud, shrill shriek that hurt my ears to hear it. I know babies cry when they’re in distress but that’s not what I mean. This kid wasn’t crying like ‘I’m tired’, ‘I’m wet’ or ‘I’m hungry’ - it was totally quiet and then, for no apparent reason, suddenly, "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" at about 120 ear-piercing decibels. I hate that. Well, come to think of it, kids do lots of things that I hate, like drooling, barfing, pooing, making messes, making noise, pooing, making bad smells, pooing - especially the pooing. Then, when they finally start taking responsibility for their own poo, they hog the PS2 or want to borrow your car. I’m so very very glad I don’t have kids...
I deal with enough adults who act like kids and speaking of same, I have to go attend to one now. It appears that this is merely a noise-type demand and nothing to do with poo, for which I am profoundly grateful.
MONTOYA DELENDA EST!
I own Sprocket, a vicious pit Shih-Tzu who barks at EVERYONE and has even bitten a few people. I’d get sued but I don’t think that anyone wants to admit they actually suffered pain from a Shih-Tzu bite. Sprocket barks not just at strangers but at people he knows well, like Cheryl or the rents, until they’ve been in the house a while. However, he has never barked at Alan - never, not once. I found it rather eerie and a bit unsettling that he didn’t, like they’d made some sort of supernatural pact, but anyway they were instant pals. Another thing about Sprocket is that he hates being groomed. He doesn’t mind the bath so much, but he seriously extremely hates being brushed, especially his feet. I’m gone all day and when I finally return home, he’s so very happy to see me that I don’t have the heart to brush him as often as I should - I’d rather play with him than make him miserable during the too-few hours we spend together. So there were quite a few bad gnarls in his fur that needed to be excised and a bath was in order as well. On Saturday Sprocket’s best pal Alan nabbed him and held him down so that I could scalp him, then aided and abetted me in a dousing, which included two applications of shampoo.
Alan was shocked to see how wee Sprocket really is; the mound of hair I trimmed off was about twice the size of the dog remaining. The haircut doesn’t look all that great, either, because Sprocket wiggles a lot and likes to play mind games to punish me for my impertinence; during the trimming phase, he’d stand perfectly still and calm for several snips and then, when he had me thinking things might go smoothly, he’d jerk violently and kick his little legs furiously. This is why, if you see my dog in the next week or so, he has a long narrow bald spot on top of his head, surrounded on all sides by neat, perfectly even waves. Despite the bestowing of a gourmet dinner of duck in heavy gravy, Sprocket has not forgiven us for this torture. Well, mainly he hasn’t forgiven Alan - he expects this sort of thing from me (moms being well known for insisting on baths far more often than strictly necessary), but the betrayal by a bud was hard to take. Poor little puppy.
Saturday afternoon, I watched Notre Dame beat Stanford 23 to 15 for the EIGHT HUNDREDTH victory in Fightin’ Irish football history. Woo-hoo!
Cheer, cheer for Old Notre Dame,
Wake up the echoes cheering her name,
Send a volley cheer on high,
Shake down the thunder from the sky!
We never stagger, we never fall,
We sober up on wood alcohol,
While her loyal sons are marching
Onward to victory!
Wait...I don’t think that’s quite right somehow...
For dinner that night I roasted a swineloin, which we had with corn-on-the-cob, yellow rice and salad. Alan didn’t believe me, but he had to admit that Lea & Perrins’ white Worchestershire sauce was fabulous on the pork. The bottle says it’s for chicken, but trust me - it’s great on swine. What with a very restless sleep the night before, I was too tired to stay up for the Japanese Grand Prix so I sent Michael Schumacher a mental telegram to just do me a favor and win it already. He was kind enough to comply and I do appreciate his cooperation.
Sunday morning, Alan and I headed to his sister’s house to meet up with the fam for his brother Christopher’s birthday celebration. I got him three pairs of Spongebob boxers, Alan got him a lamp thingy and the new CD from Los Lonely Boys - if you like bluesy rock a la Stevie Ray Vaughn, check ‘em out. The lamp thingy is one of those glass globes with a neon light inside that looks like lightning, and if you put your fingers on the glass, the lightning tracks your touch. Alan’s niece Eliza is the most energetic two-year-old I’ve ever seen (not that I’ve seen a lot of them). She must have run fifteen miles without leaving their living room.
Eliza doesn’t do this - at least, not that I've ever heard- but afterward we had to stop by the grocery store and this rug rat in the queue beside us was doing this kid thing which I thoroughly hate. It was making this horribly loud, shrill shriek that hurt my ears to hear it. I know babies cry when they’re in distress but that’s not what I mean. This kid wasn’t crying like ‘I’m tired’, ‘I’m wet’ or ‘I’m hungry’ - it was totally quiet and then, for no apparent reason, suddenly, "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" at about 120 ear-piercing decibels. I hate that. Well, come to think of it, kids do lots of things that I hate, like drooling, barfing, pooing, making messes, making noise, pooing, making bad smells, pooing - especially the pooing. Then, when they finally start taking responsibility for their own poo, they hog the PS2 or want to borrow your car. I’m so very very glad I don’t have kids...
I deal with enough adults who act like kids and speaking of same, I have to go attend to one now. It appears that this is merely a noise-type demand and nothing to do with poo, for which I am profoundly grateful.
MONTOYA DELENDA EST!
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