Today

I took a bath last night to alleviate the Great Uterine Escape, and while it worked, I got a little overzealous with the bath beads — as in, I think I put in nine, thinking hey! We have a big bathtub, why not? And when I emerged, I was … well, I was all lubed up, is the nicest way I can put it. I emerged from the water with a thick buttery sheen — I’m quite sure I could have shot myself up to Boston if I’d launched myself on a set of satin sheets. A shame I don’t have them, really. I could have had dinner with friends in no time!`

And ha ha, do you know what nine little oil balls will do to your drain? And more importantly, do you know how to extricate them from said drain? Because right now (HA HA HA … oh God) there is about a half an inch of oily residue-y lube in the bottom of my bathtub, and I can’t … well, I can’t drain the little gelatin balls, as they’re sitting in the drain just out of reach, and it’s starting to freak me out. I knew nine was too many! I KNEW!

Adam, by the way, had today off, which was delightful for him, as he slept in, had a leisurely lunch and went for a bike ride. HOW LOVELY. I, on the other hand, slogged through a particularly trying day at work, while listening to the periodic reports on his day which, again, was leisurely and likely involved loungewear and maybe a smoking jacket.

My day ended with pet fluids, and I’m starting to believe those of you who think I live with particularly oozy creatures. I changed cat litters, and while yes, I know (AH KNOW) I should have changed more gradually, dude, the cat has always been super laid-back about litter box changes, provided it stays clean — no, no, PRISTINE. And I was so happy, for Tidy Cat Crystals kept the house wonderfully odor-free and fresh-smelling. Except tonight, not so much, for I was greeted with a rather large puddle, which might as well have been a giant neon sign screaming “ME NO LIKE TIDY CAT NO WELCOME THANK YOU.”

And Mr. Man of Leisure did not notice this of course. He was too busy lounging about in his smoking jacket wondering if Colonel Mustard really did it, and was it with the lead pipe or the rope?

And look, as much as I’ve tried to keep television out of this, you have to understand that look, I’m sorry, I was SO EXCITED about Friday Night Lights! SO EXCITED! And then there was some sort of rogue murder foil and all the characters became caricatures and it all, oh my God, it all fell apart, and I’m embarrassed.

And finally, our neighbors got a pit bull puppy, and I’m perfectly fine with pit bulls, really I am — rottweilers, chows, American bulldogs, honestly, I’ve known darling dogs of every breed — because I firmly believe it’s the owner, not the dog. But — and this is something I feel very strongly about — if you’re going to take on the responsibility of a powerful dog, then you must be an even more powerful owner (an alpha, if you will), and you have to know what you’ve signed up for. A pug, for example, is not a large amount of responsibility in that arena, given that by the time they mustered up the energy to hurt someone, they would realize, hey, it’s snack time! And HOO BOY, I am so tired! Wait, what? Do YOU have any bacon, maybe on your cheeks, that I could lick off? Because I totally smell bacon somewhere. Ooh — Bacos!

And given the way that the dog — who is very, very sweet, by the way — is walking all over them, I daresay our neighbors are not the owner this dog needs. Last night, Sunny and I were trapped behind our front gate while she barked and growled at us menacingly, and this morning, she chased me halfway down the street as I ran, barking all the way, until I ducked into a neighbor’s gate. She’s a puppy now, and a sweet one at that, but without training and socialization, what’s going to happen to her as a dog? How will she know not to bite people, or that other dogs are not for snacking? And again, all dogs are capable of this, but I do firmly believe there is a difference when it involves a large, powerful dog. And sadly, it is often the dog that suffers the most, provided no one is seriously injured — our shelters are full of pit bull and rottie mixes, because the wrong people got them to begin with.

And again, I hate to say this, but size and power really does matter, honestly: If Sunny acts up — which she never has, seriously, her teeth have never touched human flesh and in fact, um, if she feels threatened or frightened, her solution is to first go belly up, and then beg for belly rubs and also maybe lick your fingers? Please, may I lick your fingers, master? Because did I mention that my dog is a pansy-ass pussy? — I can just pick her up and cart her away — she’s tiny, and her teeth can barely crush kibble. She would also like you to know that she is very hungry and tired, and does anyone know where there’s a secret stash of Jumbones? OR BACON!?

Frankly, I’m nervous, and I feel bad for the dog.

I would be a lot less nervous if it were me kissing Peter Petrelli instead of that Irish chick, however. HELLO HOT PETER, HOW ARE YOU?

Like, dude, I could so totally kick that pit bull’s ass, man. Hey, do YOU have any bacon? I might get up for bacon.

Happy Tuesday!

Zero 7

26 comments October 8th, 2007