Yesterday was my big Ping-Pong match against Alex #4858493 at work, as part of a big Ping-Pong championship we're having for no reason whatsoever. She and I decided to have a practice round at lunch, before our 2:30 game. After, I emailed Ned. "Even though I've practiced with other people at work, Alex #4858493 and I had a good rhythm going. We hit it back and forth a ton of times, rather than once and losing the ball. We knew each other's moves. It was like good sex."
"That's wonderful, June," said Ned, who is over me thinking everything is like sex. "But perhaps what you didn't know is the point of Ping-Pong is to beat your opponent, not hit it back and forth a bunch of times."
"But it's more FUN to hit it back and forth a lot!" I said.
Anyway, at 2:30 I naturally had a work thing I had to finish, and I.am.sure., but at about 2:40 we headed down there. A coworker managed to film some of the riveting events of the afternoon.
Wow, did You Tube just give you EVERY VIDEO I'VE EVER MADE? Because that's annoying. Just watch that first one. You can barely see me, I'm such a blur of athletic prowess. The second one is something I recorded for Marvin's benefit, as the guy singing was being the instruments, and I used to tell Marvin not to do that all the time. We'd be in the car and some song would come on and he'd start going, "Chh-ch-ch-chhh.." and I'd be all, "Don't be the cymbal." Or "boom boom boom boom boom." And I'd be all, "Don't be the bass."
Anyway. My point is, I lost 5-11, 5-11 and 6-11. Which, you know. Shut up. Everyone's bracket was right; EVERYONE had me losing to Alex #4858493. Which is disappointing. Like bad sex.
In other news, and then I will get to Freaky Friday, this is happening.
That? Is not snow. It's all ice pellets. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? With the weather already. They canceled work altogether, so I can't weigh in at my Fat Club meeting, but I did weigh myself on the scale at work, which coincidentally is a Weight Watchers scale, and it said I lost another three pounds. I was so excited that I went over to The Poet's cubicle, where she had chocolate coconut cookies, so I ate one.
Anyway, I'll log in to work email, but I feel like today there's gonna be a lot of this.
FREAKY FRIDAY STORY
My grandmother MaMa (pronounced maw maw) and I were very, very close. I was the oldest granddaughter, and she was the first person I would call whenever there was something going on in my life. MaMa was one of the kindest, most loving people I had ever known and would go out of her way to make you feel special.
She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer shortly after my first child was born. Being a nurse (even a 21-year-old, fresh-out-of-nursing-school nurse), I knew it was bad. So did she, although she underwent extensive treatment at the insistence of my mother and her other children. We would have long talks about the things she would miss after she was gone, and one of them was seeing her future great-grandchildren. She died in December of 1990...one of the absolute worst times of my life.
In 1992, I had just given birth to my second child, Holly. While it was obviously a happy time, part of me was sad knowing MaMa wasn't there to see her. She had been on my mind a lot since we had brought Holly home.
We had been home from the hospital for two days. When we got ready for bed, I put the baby in the bassinet at the foot of our bed and covered her with a blanket. Around three in the morning, I was jolted awake--not by the baby crying, but the feeling of a presence in the room. I immediately looked to the bassinet...and there was MaMa, leaning over and looking at my newborn. I watched her pull the blanket off Holly so she could see her from head to toe. MaMa had such a look of love and wonder on her face, and it sounds totally crazy, but I could smell her in the room! I just stared with my mouth hanging open for a moment (although it could have been much longer), then I said "MaMa?" When I spoke, she turned and looked at me and smiled...and faded slowly until she was gone. I got up to check on the baby, and the blanket I had covered her with was in the floor about two feet from the bassinet. MaMa's smell permeated our room. It was magical. Thinking about it now makes me tear up.
I have never seen her again, except in my dreams. It's funny, every time I dream of being in a house, or being home I dream that I'm in MaMa's house. The people in my dreams may change, but it's always her house.
Let me tell you something. When the alarm goes off in the morning, and by "alarm" I lately mean Ned, who wakes up earlier than me to eat healthy things and so on, but when I WAKE UP, let's just say, via Ned or a screeching screaming Richard Simmons alarm, the first thing I do is think about how much I hate to get up.
Tallulah does the same thing. I'll say to her, "We have to get up, Tallulah," and I swear she always moans pitifully and burrows her head under the covers, as if her days are so fraught with the stress of 12 kids and a dead-end job.
My point is, since I got on this
diet, after my initial, "I hate getting up" feeling, I realize, "Oh my god, I can eat." You have no idea how happy it makes me to get up and eat. It's all I can do to wait for my low-fat, extra-thin slices of everything bagel to toast and cover them with fat-free cream cheese and 47 grape tomatoes.
Now I've done that and I have to wait till I can eat another thing. My whole day is in pursuit of when I can eat again, and I hate to draw another parallel to Tallulah but there it is.
So that's THAT story. I weigh in again tomorrow and I don't hold out a lot of hope that I've lost anything, given that sausage cheese dip extravaganza I had at Marty Martin's Oscar party on Sunday. And the cat poop I foraged for, because am Tallulah. But I will keep you abreast.
Speaking of my breasts, tonight I go train again to teach people how to read, which has nothing to do with my breasts except they'll be there. I asked Ned if he could feed my dogs again after he gets out of work, and he said he'd be glad to, and that he'd even throw in a feeding of the cats, too, because he's all heart, but then he told me
are you ready?
he told me, "You know there's gonna be weather tonight, right?"
You have got to be fucking kidding me. HOW CAN WE BE HAVING GODDAMN WEATHER AGAIN????
Still! GODDAMMIT! So maybe they'll cancel my training tonight, who knows? People do that here, when there's weather.
In the meantime, I will continue to wish it was time to eat again. And remember, tomorrow is Freaky Friday, or Get Freaky with June, or June Gets Jiggy Wid It, or whatever. I have many stories that you've sent me and I must cull one.
I'll catch you later. Oh, but if I actually lose weight on this damn diet and don't freeze to death like Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining (you've had 35 years to see it. It's not my fault, at this point, if you don't know how it ends), IF I LIVE AND GET THIN, what sort of wardrobe changes should I make? Do you ever look at photos of me and think, "June should try one of those 1920s bathing suits, with the long short pants" or "June should really wear more leiderhosen."
Any suggestions for the future thin me? Let me know. I'll talk to you after the weather.
P.S. At 2:30 today I have my fierce Ping-Pong competition with my coworker, Alex #24844838. I WILL BREAK HER.
I have several small things to tell you today, and as usual they are all dumb.
Maybe they'll poop in the box. That I'd like to see. In keeping with my June-is-an-excellent-mom news, my dogs are eating cat food this morning. Ned fed them last night, as I was at a meeting till 7:30, and he texted me ("he text me") to tell me I was out of dog food, and then guess who forgot anyway because she sucks.
They seem pretty gleeful about it, really, and I will be equally gleeful when the gas sets in. Did I tell you how sorry I was when I let Talu eat the last of my blueberry pie a few weeks back, in those halcyon days when I consumed actual calories and enjoyed my snacks, as opposed to that delicious bowl of broccoli covered in fat-free cheese that I had yesterday?
Tallulah is doing half an Edsel impresh. Wait, let her get her novelty bottom teeth.
Speaking of tute-ing. I went to my orientation to learn how to be a tutor to people who have trouble reading, It was a good orientation, although I really wasn't expecting to get a swirly. They talked about how you are not helping, but serving, and the difference between the two. Mostly that helping means you're sort of superior to the person you are working with, and that helping is draining, whereas serving means you are on an equal playing field and it should be invigorating to serve. Then they showed a video of people in this program locally and the very first person they had on there was a person I know from work. She has never mentioned she was doing this, whereas I have already blogged about it twice and I've worked with no one yet.
Soon I will be sporting my Ask Me About My Literacy Tutoring t-shirt. (Running joke (c) Ned Nickerson.)
Speaking of Ned-ing. It was two years ago today that I knew I was in love with Ned. It took him
to realize he was in love with me. I tend to plunge into things with abandon and Ned is more cautious and well-thought-out. I mean, a puppy thinks things out longer than I do. Anyway, how it went down was he and I were emailing--because we sometimes spent the evenings emailing back and forth back then--and I know he'd get on his computer, write me something, then go about his evening like a normal person, while I emailed back and kept my damn phone glued to me like a barnacle--because you are sick of hearing about the barnacles I glue to myself--waiting for his reply. (What that was was a concise sentence.) My point is, you guys had been asking about him and I was loath to spill on him yet (not literally. Am certain I'd already spilled something on him at that point. Have you met me?), and I told him.
Several emails later it was obvious he had not gone to my blog to see what you all were saying about him, and I asked how he could NOT go over there and look, and he wrote back, "Would Steve McQueen care what was said about him on an Internet blog? He would not."
And that's what got me. Mostly "Internet blog." And also his contained-ness. As I have no container whatsoever.
Anyway, the rest is history, and now Ned loves me too and it was worth the wait. Oh, how I adore Ned.
Is "torturesome" even a word?
And I'm not giving him up for Lent. Yesterday was Fat Tuesday, as has every Tuesday been for me since about 2004. However, even though I did not go to Mardi Gras AGAIN, for the 49th year in a row, I still wish to give something up for Lent. I always like to give something up for Lent even though I am not religious. Ooo, remind me to tell you my cousin Katie's story. But my point right now is, I am giving up Faceook. For Lent. Yes, I am. And I'm gonna have to ask you guys to help me tout my Purple Clover articles on there, because that is really a work thing, me doing that, and I can't NOT do that. So when new Purple Clovers come out, I'll be emailing you, Paula H&B or Anita or some other faithful reader, asking you to put my dumb article out on Facebook.
Next week's is written under the pseudonym June Gardens (catchy!) because it's all about sex and I don't want future employers, or current ones, to Google me and see it.
Oh my GOD, could I have strayed further from my point? My point is, no Facebook. Till whenever Easter is. Ima go out on a limb and say maybe 40 days from now. I got on there this morning out of sheer habit and said GODAMMIT! LENT!
Which means I'm going to hell.
Speaking of hell. My cousin Katie, of "Aunt Katie, are you a lesbian?" fame, recently bought a house in northern Michigan, a thing people in Michigan refer to as "up North," which I can't bring myself to do.
Here is Katie in a picture she recently texted me ("she text me"), showing me a scarf she's sending me, and all I could do to express my gratitude was text back ("I text her"), "Nice plaid. Aunt Katie, are you a lesbian?"
Give me one funny story and I'll drag it out 30 years. My favorite part of that story is how Anna was all supportive of Katie's coming out. "It's okay to be gay." Very free to be gay you and me.
ANYWAY, Katie, who is technically straight despite her plaid, bought a house with her spouse Jason, who is not a beard. They had friends over recently who have a child, and that child said he didn't want to go upstairs because "there's a mean-looking man up there." Then he said
he said THE MAN HAS HORNS.
AAACCCCKCKKKKK!!!! Am hysterical right now. HORNS! I don't think he meant it was the ghost of Louie Armstrong up there, either. I am dying. I'd be out of there so fast the roof would blow off, and Katie is over there calmly getting sage to burn when she's not at Lillith Faire.
The end. That's all I've got to tell you, other than I wish this cold would shit or get off the pot, as Jackie Kennedy used to say. It's been three days of a sore throat and aches, and tiredness, and let's just get to the blow-my-nose-a-lot stage, which is not as awful as this stage, Also, Ned was wrong. This illness has affected my appetite not at all, and do anywon haff bloobery pye?
The novelty of snow is gone.
In the South, it doesn't snow much, then when it does, everyone panics in a gleeful way, and everything is shut down, and people cancel plans because it MIGHT COULD snow. They also say "might could." This is my seventh winter here, and I don't think it's snowed more than twice a season.
Until this fucking year. And you know, just the other night, I was waiting to be let in to the Fort Knox that is Ned's apartment, and I formed the thought, "Maybe this time will be the last time I stand here and I'm horridly cold, for the rest of the year. Maybe I will not have to stand in the horrid cold again." I thought that because it was late February, my daffodils were up, and in this region of the country it warms up about now.
Then yesterday we had an ice storm. In the immortal words of Walt Whitman, Fucking fuck.
I got a check in the mail yesterday that I really needed to deposit, lest everything in my account bounce like a banshee. What do you mean, not everyone lives this way? My point is, I did Tracy Chapman workout, which was a mistake because I have a cold but I was HAUNTED by all I'd eaten at that Oscar party. I'd have eaten Oscar if Felix had let him show up.
Anyway, then I wrote my Purple Clover article for next week, which is all about sex so I wrote it under a pseudonym so that I don't get Googled and fired by my employer or never hired for any other job I may be looking for, and really it's not THAT racy but you can't be too careful.
My point is, is was after 9:00 by the time I headed to my car to deposit that check, and one could argue that I coulda waited till today but today will be busy and I won't be home till after 8:00. I am training to teach adults how to read, because I thought well there's ONE thing I know how to do is read, so anyway off I went.
My entire walkway was nothing but glass. Then my door was actually frozen shut. I had to enter through the passenger door, and there is a sex joke or at least a Cesarean joke in here, but again I have a cold. And it's cold. There's a theme, here.
I grabbed the scraper and literally chiseled the ice off my windshield, then slid to the bank where of course I forgot my door was frozen shut, so I had to stand in the wind tunnel that was the drive-thru ATM of my bank. Now watch, the check will bounce.
What I am saying to you is,
Dear Winter. Stop it. Chillingly, June.
Last week, Ned told me people at his workplace were sick and missing work, and on Friday night when we were out, he said, "I feel a little something in my throat, but with MY great diet and MYYYYYY workout schedule, I know I can beat a cold."
That's what Ned said. He did. And you know what one of the seven deadly sins is? Yes. Ned said that sentence with such avarice, that the next morning he woke up miserable. "Ohhhhhh," moaned Ned, and then he sniffed. And that pretty much encapsulates the rest of my weekend: old Ned and his wrath. I was just trying to think of another deadly sin.
Wait. I thought pride was one of the seven deadly sins. That's what this whole joke was based on, that Ned was all prideful with his baby lions about how well he takes care of himself and that's why he was struck down with a cold. Well, shit. Really?
By the way, I really like what Sloth is wearing.
Anyway, poor burning-hot Ned and his sniffy self was the focus of my weekend, and I forced him to go back to bed and not try to do stuff when he couldn't even keep his eyes open on the couch for 10 minutes. "You know you're going to catch this," said Ned as he clutched his Kleenex like he was on a reunion episode of The Real Housewives. "I know," I said, because I catch everything cold-related. "But this will be great for your Weight Watchers' points, because you won't want to eat anything," he said.
So old Gluttony, here, looked forward to that, because finally on Sunday evening I had to depart the company of Shelly Hack, over there, and head to my friend Marty Martin's house, where he'd been planning to host Ned, me and his most excellent girlfriend, Kayeeee, for an Oscars party for quite some time.
Two years ago, Marty had us over for the same reason, and Ned and I had only been dating about a month. I'm pretty sure it was the first time I ever took him to meet any of my friends. Ten seconds after we got there, Ned proceeded to break M. Martin's corkscrew, which as you can imagine was mortifying for him. Marty kept insisting the corkscrew broke all the time, and not to worry, but Ned felt awful.
This year, Marty said he was going to arrange his corkscrew so that it fell into 20 pieces the minute Ned touched it, and he was going to add a tag: To Marty, From Grandma. He planned to talk about how that corkscrew was the last thing his grandmother ever gave him. Because you know how your grandma was forever gifting you with wine openers.
But all that was for naught, because Ned couldn't go.
Soon Whoopi and I can share clothes, because I brought Weight Watchers-unfriendly mini quiches, which melted a little on the way over to become Salvador Dali quiches. I also brought brownies I made, and chips with lime, and guacamole and salsa. Marty had chicken drummettes and some sausage cheese dip, as well, which resulted in a day of me consuming 3949394920201 points. I am set for WW points till August.
But it's always a glamorous time at Marty's, and we all filled out a ballot, voting for all the categories. It was frightening how many of the movies Ned and I actually saw this year, as we go to the movies once a week, minimum. We saw the shorts, the weird foreign ones, only one documentary because they just didn't come here, those documentaries. We are happy to announce we did not see Frozen.
We even called Ned at home to get his sickbed votes. I stayed for the whole red carpet, where no one had anything interesting on other than Matthew McConaughay's wife.
Charleze Theron looked like two Nik-L-Nips. Remember, the wax bottles you bite off the top and drink the liquid? That's what her dress looked like.
Anyway. A little after 9:00 I went home and let the dogs out, then schlepped back over to Ned's to watch the rest with him while he coughed and moaned. And it turns out we both won the voting at Marty's house, with 17 correct guesses each. We rule.
Then this morning I woke up? And guess who's ill? Guess whose throat has daggers in it, with aches and tiredness? Could it be immune-to-nothing June, over here? So that's that story. If there were Oscars for Best Dramatic Reaction to a Cold, I'd so be thanking my agent right now.
P.S. I almost forgot. I took a picture with the Manicure Cam, which is officially the Stupidest Thing Ever Invented(R), to show off my very pricey Oscar party rings.
In case you don't read the comments, your old pal June, here, weighed in at Weight Watchers and is 3.8 pounds less of the man she used to be. I guess that week of being
paid off. Today the first thing I did was eat the giant chocolate-chip cookie Ned had at his house. I felt guilty but GODDAMMIT it was good. Maybe it's because I have kwashirkor and have consumed 8 calories all week, but that was the best cookie moment I've ever had.
Does it strike you as sad that I have, you know, cookie moments from which to pull?
In other news, I joined the Ping-Pong tournament at work, and shut up. You know I have as many Ping-Pong moments as I do cookie moments on which to dwell. To make things even more interesting at work--or ridiculous, you decide--they actually created brackets for everyone to fill out, so you can bet on who's going to beat whom. I am initially playing my skinny hot coworker Alex #3475658, the one I went with to that gay musical about being gay, and really, isn't "gay musical" pretty redundant?
My point is, as I gandered at everyone's brackets, a trend started becoming apparent. Everyone was voting for me to lose. Do you "vote" when you fill out brackets? Maybe the part where I don't know this is one of the reasons everyone assumed Ima lose to Alex #3475658, BUT WHATEVER WITH THESE PEOPLE. God!
"Everyone's betting on me to lose at Ping-Pong," I emailed Ned, who is supposed to love me. "Who is your first opponent?" he asked. When I told him, he wrote back promptly. "Oh, you're totally gonna lose to her," he said.
GOD! I stood up yesterday in my open office space. "I just want you all to know I am quite the athlete and you're all gonna be sorry you voted against me," I began. "I am a regular...Olga Korbut."
That was the only athletic woman I could come up with. Olga Korbut. She was a gymnast at the 1742 Olympics. She was not what you'd call attractive. Olga Korbut. Geez, I hope she doesn't Google herself and see that I said that about her. If she does, I invite her to come here and try to match wits with me on the Ping-Pong court. Because I am going to score many goals on that court.
So that's where my life is at the moment. Everyone underestimating my stunning athletic skillz, and 3.8 pounds lighter. Other than that cookie. Which probably piled it all back on.
I'm off to buy a bra, and this time I swear I'm not gonna throw it in the dryer, which is what I always do, and then I break a hook, and then I try to wear the bra anyway and spend my days getting teensy spinal taps, which let me assure you is less fun than it sounds. Sometimes it even detracts from my concentration on my Ping-Pong training. And I gotta stay focused.
"Be the ball, June," Ned told me. I feel like maybe he was less than sincere about his support of my new game. Wait till I show him and everyone.
"I was the Ping-Pong champion at Camp Cheerio in seventh grade," said Ned, who has to rely on his glory days of going to cereal camp, whereas my glory days are still ahead of me. "You can train me, then!" I said, growing enthused.
"Yes," said Ned. "Maybe we could make a video montage of me training you, and set it to Highway to the Danger Zone. There's no way you can lose if you have a video montage set to that."
It saddens me that the commercial before they let you watch this video--with nothing on it other than a still photo of Kenny Loggins' glorious blown-back hair--is for Miller Lite in the can. What does that tell you about Kenny Loggins? It tells you his glory days are back in seventh grade camp, that's what it tells you.
Talk at you tomorrow. We're going to Marty Martin's for an Academy Awards party tomorrow, so I will report on my red carpet outfit, which will likely involve my Ping-Pong Forever tshirt. As usual.
June. Lobbing the ball.
As I said the other day, and why don't you pay attention to me when I'm talking, on Fridays, I will report for you a freaky story told to me by a reader. Several have rolled in, and here's the first one. I read this LATE AT NIGHT when I was ALONE and thanks a lot, Faithful Reader Donna.
If you have any freaky stories for me--unexplained sightings, near-death experiences, haunty-ass houses, times you were psychic--send them to me at email@example.com. And title it Freaky Friday.
Here's the story.
We live in a 99 year-old house. Since we moved here, one of our dogs has a room that he will not go in. He just stands in the doorway and whines or sometimes growls a little while looking forlornly into it. Except for one time when I could hear him from upstairs, I came running down and he was lying in the middle of the room, crying inexplicably.
There were other unusual occurrences, doors slamming when no windows were open, lights on in rooms where you could swear you had turned them off, and a feeling that something has brushed just past you and when you looked down thinking you were going to pet one of the dogs, nothing was there. My daughter swears someone (thing?) is always turning off her curling iron. We joked that we had a ghost, a seemingly benevolent one, and randomly began calling him Walter.
One summer evening we noticed some people standing on the sidewalk looking up at our house. Our son recognized the man as one of the teachers at school. We had heard that he had lived in our house several years before, so we walked out and introduced ourselves. We chatted for a bit until the couple asked us if we had met “the ghost.” Of course we asked them to tell us more about it. Basically, they described the exact same situations we had been experiencing with one exception, almost all of their encounters (including an incident with a wall that wouldn’t take paint-creepy eh?) had occurred in the pantry instead of in the dining room/front room.
Unusually, another one of my son’s teachers had also lived in our house. I guess a house doesn’t get to be almost 100 years old in a college town without going through quite a few tenants. She too asked my son if we had met “the ghost,” described similar occurrences and reiterated the couple’s assertion that he lived in the pantry.
We continued co-existing peacefully with Walter, even taking to greeting him when we walked in the door. After we had been here a few years, my son and I went to the historical society to do some research on our house. We found out two things…
-The house had gone through several remodels, and the room that now torments our poor sweet black lab, used the be the pantry!
-While reviewing resident registries from the 1940s, I ran across a listing for a man named Walter Phillips at our address. When I saw it, I tapped my son on the arm and pointed to the listing, he read it and we both just sat there, feeling kinda freaky. We couldn’t explain why we had decided to call our ghost Walter any more than we could explain the things that were happening that we credited him with.
I did a bunch of research trying to find out more about him, see if perhaps he had died here. So far I’ve not been able to come up with anything. So for now, he remains the mysterious soul occasionally messing with our family, but mostly the dog.
Six years ago today, I was living in TinyTown, North Carolina, and I was headed to Raleigh for a job interview, just like Barney Fife. Remember when Barney and Andy would go there and they'd play the big-city music? It's at 2:33, below.
Perhaps as I tell this story you can have that tune in your mind.
Anyway, there I was, six years ago today, being all 42 and headed to Raleigh (big-city music) because I had a job interview in order so's I could get out of TinyTown. I probably shouldn't have been so fired up about leaving TinyTown, because now in retrospect it seems charming there, but that's easy for me to say over here in the bustling metropolis that is Greensboro.
My point is, I was about 40 minutes away from TinyTown when I passed a small yellow dog just standing on the side of a busy two-lane road. She was all by herself! "Was that a...? Oh, no!" I said, doing a U-turn back to the dog. She turned out to be a little puppy, and she wriggled happily right up to my car to say hello.
Some stranger pulls up to our house now, and that puppy would gleefully rip a stranger's neck out, but that's beside the point.
The puppy? Was Tallulah.
She was just a teensy thing, and her little tail flapped on my interview clothes when I bent to pick her up. She probably lived in one of the trailers I could see over yonder, but none of the trailers had a fence around it. Which explained why she was on the road. There was no explaining why she was so skinny, though.
I lifted her up high and our eyes met. I looked through her gold eyelashes. And I knew right then I had a dog.
Yes, I stole her. I did. Sue me. I took her right to the vet, missing my job interview, and found out she had worms, ticks, malnutrition and Lasa Fever. Okay, she didn't remotely have Lasa Fever. I just wanted to be dramatic about it. I have always felt that whoever owned her originally just didn't have the means to care for her properly, but they likely loved her, because she was a happy dog and didn't seem to have any fears. Except of the microwave. Get that microwave the hell away from her. (She just saw this and said to tell you she just doesn't approve of microwaves, is all. They offend her raw-food ideals, and incidentally, do anyone haff baby rabbit?)
When I wake up, she's the first thing I see, because she's always next to me on the other pillow. When I walk into the room, she wags her tail. Even if she's half asleep, she'll flump flump flump her tail on the mattress, a tired but sincere greeting.
She's the fastest runner at the dog park, and for the first three years, she was champing at the bit to get out the front door and run free like a HUGE DICK every chance she got. In 2011, she got out the door and ran right into the road, and I watched as a VW Bug came at her. The sound of Tallulah getting hit was one of the worst things I've ever heard, right up there with when McKenzie Phillips sang "I've Got the Music in Me" on One Day at a Time.
Tallulah was gone for three horrible days, and came home at 4:00 in the morning, smelling of moss and sleeping for 20 hours. Since then, though, you can leave my front door wide open and she won't venture out even for a small dog dressed like a steak. I have since then offered my number-one Dog Training Tip from June, because as you can imagine people are forever asking me, "How are your dogs so well-trained?" My tip is, if your dog likes to run away, hit her gently with the car. Works like a charm.
and even my inspiration. I'd love to be as dignified as my dog. I'd love to show my fangs and scare people who annoy me. I'd love to march chestily into a room and automatically everyone knows I'm in charge, here. I'd love to look the world over and say, "Hooo care?"