Okay, today, I am not going to say anything about you know what and who know who (no, not Voldermort). In fact, I think I may make that my goal, not only for this blog, but for the entire day. We’ll see. I don’t know if I can pull it off since I already am wanting to write about it, but I will persevere.
In that way of thinking, I have two stories for you, both revolving my. . . ineptness. . .
Number One. For several years people have been pressuring me to (and I have considered) give Dunkyn a hair cut. He has soooooo much hair, he has to be hot. Plus, in the areas where his harness rubs him, he often gets matted and such. So, Monday evening, when I got back from Kansas City, I went to PetSmart and purchased a sixty-dollar shaving thing. It was one of the mid/lower priced ones, but I hoped it would do the trick. It didn’t. Dad and I spent hours shaving Dunkyn. He looked like a lop sided sheep. It was horrible. I don’t really even know how to begin to describe it. So, the next morning, I rushed him to Puppercrombie & Bitch and requested a rescue plan. So, I now have Dolan and Dunkyn’s head. The rest of him belongs to some other hairless dog they attached to his mane. It’s the only explanation. He looks so bizzare as we walk down the street, like a science experiment gone wrong. In what is the most tragic turn of events, Dunkyn loves his new body. On one hand, I can’t blame him. He gets to show people that he is in fact very muscular and not a bit fat in the slightest (Dolan and his daddy have no such claim). He is moving faster, jumping more, has tons more energy. So, the delimma? Put my puppy’s feelings and preferences first and continue with the scifi haircut, or return him to the burden of fur because I miss my adorable puppy and don’t want to hide my face when I walk my dogs down the street?
Number Two. (Disclaimer: I know this is one of those stories I shouldn’t tell. I know it only makes me look back. However, it’s not like I don’t vomit all my other shit [how’s that for an image?] all over the place, why stop now?) Last week, I met with another massage therapist to do a trade. We worked on each other for nearly four hours, fifteen minutes on, fifteen minutes off. It was unreal. As it had been over a year since my last massage and with all the stress from the past few months (I can say that, I’m not saying why, not breaking the rules), the massage had an adverse effect and I can now barely walk, but whatever. I got to his studio, and he was running late. I had needed to use the restroom for fifteen minutes the way it was (Yes, I always make sure my kids use the restroom before we go somewhere, even if they don’t need to—I am above such petty rules). After waiting for awhile and realizing it just wasn’t going to happen, I got out and looked for a handy ally or something concealing (downtown Denver, keep in mind). I could find nothing suitable. I return to my car and see a clear plastic cup that I had crunched up and left sitting in the cup holder for a few weeks (I know, I need to clean my car, shut up). I look at the cup. I look away. I look at the cup. I look away. I grab the cup. I lean forward in the front seat, folding my legs beneath me so I can fit, and unbutton and unzip my pants. I ‘unfold’ the cup and place it in position. I give in to one of the most basic and unifying human experiences. I then realize that the entire back portion of my jeans of my right leg is sopping wet. After momentary confusion of how this is occurring, I realize that a crunched, folded up plastic cup probably is not the smartest thing to fill with fluid. After said realization, I have to inform my body that it can no longer give in to relief and after a few more seconds, things were back to ‘normal.’ I entered the massage studio with wet jeans, wounded pride (insert witty comment about being single [I can’t, I made a vow]), and pretended that it was normal to have one wet leg and one dry. Yay for life.
No comments:
Post a Comment