Sunday, November 1, 2009
Do you really want to know what that is a picture of? Really?
I don't mind telling but then I have a habit of making my friends jam their hands over their ears and start singing "la la la, I'm not listening."
Yes, this adorable ball of fluff is on my enemies list. Gosh, I sound presidential saying that. Because right now if I were to catch him, I would be in the Super Bowl throwing a perfect spiral for a touch down, but instead of a pigskin, it would be fluffer butt.
Of course, this picture also reflects badly on my housekeeping, so I truly am irritated about that, too.
My doorbell rang the other day, and being the paranoid tin foil hat wearing person that I am, I have to know who is ringing my bell. I sneak into the living room to take a peek and almost step in it. And on it.
Little piles of poo.
Streaks of doggie dung.
Yes, that is a picture of lots of poo. Doggie poo. Indy poo.
As you can tell, I barely ever go in my living room. It is a pretty room with beautiful couches and an awesome book shelf but I park my butt on the family room couches.
I was hopping mad. I sent off a snitty text message to Indy's trailer trash mommy (Teddy Bear) and tell her that when I get home that night there had damn well better be no shit on the floor.
Lucky for her, Friday I went out and, well, today is Sunday and my head finally feels like it will not roll off. When I woke up Saturday morning, the only thing I could do was wonder if riding the porcelain bus might make me feel better. Never again. I'm old enough to know when to stop. Sheesh.
I had to sleep most of Saturday because every Halloween for years BFF and I go to Claim Jumpers for drinks at their happy hour. This is about our fourth year going there instead of passing out candy for rug rats and I did not want to be totally hung over and crabby.
My head is still not all there and lord help me there was no way I was drinking, but I go and we have a great time. Somehow we got on the subject of dogs. I am sitting with a table of dog LOVERS.
Not dog likers.
Not dog toleraters.
And, unfortunately, both my dogs have jumped up and down on my last nerve this week. BARK BARK BARK bark bark bark bark bark. My fat weiner dog is going deaf so lord knows why he is barking and I have to admit I get a hoot out of sneaking up on him to yell at him to shut up for gawd's sake, but he does not hear me because, well, he's deaf, but then I poke his fat weiner dog body and he jumps a mile. Oh man, it is so funny.
He used to be able to jump so high he could snatch food out of your hand when you were standing up. Now, when he jumps, just part of his paws come up off the ground. He looks like a fat ballerina trying to get up on some new toe shoes but he never actually leaves the ground. Bark, tippy toe, bark, tippy toe.
So, no, I was not everyone's favorite person last night. They have this idea that dogs are....are...people. So, I guess I'm in the dog house with all my doggie lover friends.
I hope they give me a pretty flea collar. And, at least, I know better than to use the carpet as toilet paper.
Posted by Happy Hour...Somewhere at 2:28 PM