We were going to a movie tonight. We were ready. Milk Duds and Sour Patch Kids were in hand. Bottles of water were ready to be smuggled in the oversized bag. Then, Nick goes to drive the 100 meters from CVS to the theater (not very Earth friendly, I know) and my car makes this “vrooooooooom” noise without the accompanying purr of a running engine. He tried and tried again and again – nothing. I got into the front seat, ready to work my magic. It is my car after all, and we do have a special bond. I encouraged her with a pat on the dash and turned the ignition. “Vrooooooooom” – no purr.
After much debate about the proper towing location, contemplation over whether we should go to the movie before calling for help and angry words for the makers of Infiniti, we broke down and called AAA.
I was sitting in the car when Jason, my mechanic friend, rolled through in his blazing white vehicle. Like a knight in shining armor he popped the hood and took a look. Then he asked me to start the car. “Vroooooooooom” – no purr. I gave him a sad half smile and an understanding nod. I don’t know much about cars, but I knew this was bad.
Jason then asked me for my key. He popped himself into the drivers seat and with a turn of the hand I heard it – “Vrooooooom Puuuuuuuuuuur” – Just like a cat. What!? I was just there for an hour. How did Jason do this? Does he possess special AAA magical powers?
As I was trying to convince him that the problem was real he says, “did you have your foot on the brake?” Did I? Did Nick? How can this be? How could we both make such an independent asinine mistake, at the same time? I hung my head in shame and signed Jason’s little clipboard and sent him on his way.
It is this day, one year, 10 months and 18 days after our wedding, that I am officially worried that we are turning into the same person.
I am about a year behind with this post, but I just got around to watching There Will be Blood. You may remember that this movie received widespread recognition including eight Academy Award nominations. I expected to be blown away. I wasn’t. Perhaps I am just not one for crude oil, wild west pursuits and abandoning a deaf child. What I will say is that the movie had one of the best scenes, ever!
My current problem is that I can’t stop quoting the milkshake scene, “I drink your milkshake, I drink it up!” When will it get old? Maybe never….
On to the next topic:
I am not including a weekend recap because, frankly, it wasn’t a great weekend. Both Friday and Saturday I lay awake at night – my mind racing faster than Mario Andretti on his best race day. It is interesting how something relatively minor can happen and all of the sudden you are propelled down a path of worry and over contemplation regarding everything else in your life. Who is driving this neurotransmitter train we call thought? Clearly I am not wearing the conductor cap after the strike of midnight.
I Drink Your Milkshake – I Drink it Up! Here we go again. Please someone, make the voices stop.
When Nick saw me taking pictures tonight, he demanded that I start this post by stating that our dog, is in fact, potty trained. Ok, got that over with, now I can start:
I am seriously questioning whether Indy is potty trained. Sometimes (and by sometimes I mean sporadically since we got our little bundle of joy 2 1/2 years ago) he has taken to peeing on the floor. But he doesn’t just pee like a normal dog. Your every day Fido has the courtesy and decency to pee in one neat, easy to clean puddle. Our dog walks all through the living room, spreading it around like a sprinkler watering a parched lawn on the fourth of July. Graphic and gross, I know, but I think you have to see it to believe it:
Now I love this dog more than life itself, but when you layer the pee on top of the inch of dog hair, our glamorous high rise apartment becomes something out of a COPS episode – you know, when the cops bust into the crack den and find the passed out parents and illiterate kids living in squalor.
Since this isn’t the dog’s normal MO, I am not sure what to do. Should I yell and scream? Should I bring him to an animal communicator to see if he has repressed memories from puppyhood that are surfacing? Some tell me (hi Mom) that I should “spank his little *ss” and he will get the message. I just can’t do it. Anyone have a better solution?
The fact is, Indy knows that he has done something wrong. One look at his guilty little face and my heart melts. How could it not?
The conclusion I have to come to is that our dog has trained us. He knows that he has us wrapped around his white tipped little paw. I hold out hope that some day I will become the Alpha in his eyes, but if that doesn’t happen I am going to make damn sure that our next place has a doggie door.
Posted by marcypoz7 
Posted by marcypoz7 
Posted by marcypoz7 
