If you can't be a good example -- then you'll just have to be a horrible warning.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
I love you Grandpa
Five years ago my grandfather, Wesley King died of cancer.
My Grandpa was a silly grandpa. He would sing songs to us in Polish. "Home, home on the range-ski. Where the deer-ski, and the antelope-ski play-ski"... He loved to tell us stories about "Little Red Riding Hood-ski"...I think he had a polish fixation or something. He would mix all of the fairy tales together, coming up with a whale of a tale that ended up having no point. He would always cringe when my little sister would scream, and promptly shut his hearing aid off. He'd ask 'What?' 2-3 times before he remembered that he'd turned it off. I always hated it that he gave mouth kisses. I thought they were so gross. When he'd sit down, his pants would hike up to his shins, and I thought he had the ugliest legs I'd ever seen. His socks didn't help either, as they were always a dark, mustard yellow, or ugly olive green. For a picture, he once wore a little baby cap, and held out an orange little 'money cup' to look like a little monkey begging for money. I love that picture. It shows his love of having fun, even if it was just silly, and only to make us kids laugh. He let me work for him in his printing supply store whenever we'd go for a visit. Then for pay, he gave me a beautiful art set. I loved the smell of his store, and to this day printing places take me back to his little crowded store in North Royalton, Ohio. My grandpa loved going to his church, and loved the people there. He was able to help counsel young boys who were seeking guidance, which was something he really liked doing when he was younger. I still remember him lying in the hospice bed in his living room, hooked up to the oxygen tank, asking me to play some more hymns on the piano for him. And he always enjoyed having people sing the old hymns that he loved so much. Seeing the picture on my sister's live journal site, of him, hooked up to his oxygen and still holding my little brother Mark, sent the tears streaming down my face.
I'll never forget my grandpa...I loved him so much. I miss his silly songs, his silly sense of humor, and even his kisses. But one day I'll see him again, and he won't be hooked to oxygen anymore. He's better already, up in Heaven, and, like the song they sang at his funeral, I'll see him again.
I'll see you again, I'll see you again. I'll see you in Glory someday. For now it's goodbye, don't sorrow or cry. I'll see you in Glory someday.
Alexis loves it when I throw things in the air and catch them. I don't pretend to understand why this makes her giggle, but it does. I discovered tonight though, that to get a full belly laugh, the thrown object must hit the full bowl of Cheerios, and scatter them into three different rooms...two minutes after I've swept and vacuumed the floor.
My dad has 13 siblings. They didn't grow up in a terribly 'lovey-dovey' home; it was more like a hard-knock life for them, actually. Therefore, the 'Morrissey' sense of humor tends to be more on the sarcastic side, and there is not usually a lot of love shown (although it is there). In my home growing up, we (I have 7 younger siblings) grew accustomed to the gruffness, and all managed to develop our own type of humor, which sometimes leaves people wondering if we're just an entire family of mean people. But we're not. Really. It's just our sense of humor, and it's all for the laugh. Recently, I discovered that my younger sister Anna, who is 13, has a blog. I literally laughed out loud when I read this entry, because it's such a perfect example of our family's sense of humor.
my sister!! Don't u all just love sisters? It is not the easiest thing to do some times, but I do! Today I was showing my blog to my 11 year old sister. While she was reading the "very funny and weird day" blog, I interrupted her for a minute to check something on there. When I was done I asked her if she wanted to finish reading the blog. She said "No." I said "Why?". She said "It's stupid!" So much for sisterly love!!!
You'd think with all the books, articles, and magazines that address the 'body shape' issue, women would start dressing to better fit their body shape. Maybe they're making things too difficult. Here's a tip:
If your body shape is 'big', don't wear size small.
If women would just start following this simple rule of thumb, the world would be a MUCH prettier place.
Just yesterday my poor eyes were assaulted with an image that will forever remained burned in my mind. oh the agony. The lady was not fat, by any means, but neither was she skinny. There are a million and one outfits that she could've worn and looked attractive in. Apparently she missed the first 1,000,001 options and managed to land a doozy. Her white, stretchy skirt was probably about 10 inches long, and a size 4 (she should've purchased a size 8). Her little vest (which is, unfortunately, a very literal description), was black, had only three little buttons in the middle, and fell short of reaching the top of her skirt by a good three inches. Due to the fact that she had apparently been suctioned into the skirt, a roll of skin hung out between the two articles of clothing, and jiggled with each step. With the vest only buttoned thrice, her entire front abdomben was bare, and made the unfortunate jiggling all the more obvious. I very nearly stopped sipping my cappacino to request an energy bar and water from a nearby vendor.
And just so we're all clear, let me say that I have no problem with larger people. I DO have a problem with larger people trying to wear smaller clothes. Whenever I see it I have the uncontrollable urge to stab my eyes out.
Before I was married, I would go to sit out in the sun whenever I had a spare moment. I loved to just lay back with my eyes closed, and my face upturned, catching some rays. I especially liked it when the heat would get so intense that I could almost feel my skin turning brown.
Ahh yes, those were the days.
Today I decided to try and get some tanning in while Alexis was taking her nap. My legs could be mistaken for slightly-thicker-than-normal light sabers if I moved them fast enough in a dark room (with proper sound effects of course), they're so white. I took my books out and studied for about half an hour before I decided to just lay back and enjoy the sun. Glancing at my watch, I noted the time so that I'd not end up charring my flesh with too much exposure. As I reclined in the chair with my eyes closed, I willed my mind to just slow down; I wanted to just enjoy the fresh air, the slight breeze, and the heat on my skin. After what seemed like forever, I glanced at my watch. Five minutes had gone by. Five! I sighed and leaned back again. Between glancing at my watch, rocking my chair, and splashing my feet in the kiddie pool, I probably looked like a kindergartener trying to make it through the first morning of school.
I was so intensely bored--how did I used to sit out for hours?!? I used to be able to relax, and just meditate on nature...or was it boys? Suffice to say, I only lasted half an hour out there. That relaxing stuff is hard work.
I have always hated them. Pea-green frog decals stuck to the bottom of the tub are just wrong. Would you want to shower with 7 frogs hopping around in the tub? Then why would frog decorations in the shower be cute--ever? When David and I returned from our honeymoon, I was slightly disturbed to find flower decals in the tub at our new house (well, it was new to us. David had bought the house before we were married and completely renovated it...except for the tub). These obviously weren't brand new decals because people stopped wanting to stick things on the bottom of their tubs 20 years ago. These were old decals. Once upon a time they were probably bright pink, clean-looking, and tolerable. Now they were faded to an ugly orange-salmon color, and spots were worn away in some of the flowers. For the first week of living there and showering in that bathtub, I wore flip-flops, because the surface of the tub grossed me out.
That was two years ago.
Yesterday I scrubbed, peeled, and pulled all those stuborn decals off the bottom of our tub (Can we say 'about time'?!)---with our brownie server (Necessity is the mother of invention, right?). The tub looks SO much better, even though I'm still scrubbing to get some of the remaining goo from the decals off. It's amazing how much cleaner it looks with them gone, even though it's not totally clean. The day's work was worth it when David oohh-ed and ahh-ed over it.
The brownie server is a little dull, but if my brownies are so hard that they need a sharp edge to cut thru them, we might as well break out the steak knives.
To the construction worker who was standing by the trail watching his buddies work:
No, I don't need your help to successfully rollerblade over the rocky, dirt-covered path. If you were truly concerned about the welfare of those having to ride/walk/blade over said path, you would grab a broom and sweep the clods of dirt, rocks, and small boulders off of it, seeing as you're apparently not doing anything else. If you think you're going to impress me by offering your hand in assistance, you're wrong. It would impress me far more if you'd actually start working like the others. It would be really nice to have the overpass finished while I'm still young enough to blade.
So either put your hand back in your pocket, or grab a broom and clean the mess off the trail.
I was shocked and slightly appalled last night when David informed me that some dude was coming over to appraise our house this morning at eleven. Not like it was a wreck or anything, but ya, it was messy. What is up with men not understanding that women don't like others to see a messy house? Fortunately, I work best under pressure, so the house was ship-shape in under an hour. yay.
Woo. He needs to get our house appraised once a week.
For brunch this morning, David, Alexis, and I went to Denny's. I was looking forward to the quiet atmosphere, which is due to the fact that no one is usually there around 1pm. It's just so much easier to have meaningful conversation when you're not trying to talk over the music and voices of the patrons around you. As we walked thru the door, I was happy to see that there was only one little family already there. The hostess met us, and grabbing two menus, asked that we follow her to our seats. She sat us directly across from the only other family in the entire restaurant...as in, we were so close, we could've reached over and snitched their syrup if we ran low. After sitting in awkward silence for a second, we scooped our menus and silverware up, and moved several booths away.
Maybe we looked like social butterflies, or that we needed some socilization...Or perhaps the hostess thought we were with the other family. Why else would she practically sit us in their laps?
Next time we'll just have to be specific, and instead of only offering our smoking preference, maybe we should also offer our 'people' preference.
So yesterday, I was blading with my friend on the trail that we blade on 3 times a week. We bladed safely on very uneven, bumpy asphalt, thru a mud-covered 'construction-site' (as all the construction men stopped their work and stared as they always do...no wonder it's taken them a year to finish, they can't work and watch girls at the same time), and over a pebble-strewn area, with hardly a pause. The trail was pretty deserted for the most part, until we reached the 4 mile marker. We had just passed a jogger, and had two bikes approaching on the left, when I suddenly found myself face-down on the pavement. I didn't even know I was falling until I was all the way down. I wanted to hop up, and laugh to let everyone know I was fine, and not at all embarrassed, but I was too dazed and surprised to do anything besides sit up, and try to shake my head clear. Talk about bad timing. Why couldn't my skate have malfunctioned (the hook on the right one caught the strap of the left one) when no one was around?!? Of course, I *did* manage to get up before any of the observers were passing, but my hands were all cut up and bleeding, as was my elbow, and the front of both thighs. I looked like a wreck. But it must have been funny to see...I probably would've laughed at myself if I'd been watching from somewhere else. Unfortunately though, I wasn't able to have an out-of-body experience, and was stuck inside myself the entire time. Of course today I'm achy and sore...in fact, I'm trying to convince myself that that's a good reason to not work out before lunch. I at least need to put band-aids on my palms to keep the weights from twisting my mangled flesh completely off. So anyway -- ya, I hate falling down. It's always embarrassing, and you always feel completely stoopid. I hope this was my fall for the decade, and I won't have to experience the lovely humiliating feeling again for a long time.
I've always hated falling down. It's never good, and always embarrassing. You could be walking alone, along a completely deserted street, miles from any known civilization, and if you trip and fall, someone will drive by just in time to see the face-plant. I have to admit that usually, when I see someone trip or fall over, it cracks me up. I can't help it that some people look hilarious when they fall (and for those of you who are horrified at my mean-spiritedness, I'm sorry!! I can't help it that God gave me a mean sense of humor). Maybe because of my tendancy to laugh at other's mishaps, I'm more paranoid about becoming the 'humorous spectacle' for onlookers...I don't know. I haven't fallen down while rollerblading for literally years. And the last time I fell down, it was due to circumstances completely beyond my control. Let me explain. When I lived with my parents in Michigan, I loved to rollerblade at midnight. For safety purposes, I would always take my dog, Kenya, with me. I don't know why I thought this would render me more safe, because, in all actuality, it was probably the most sure way of getting myself killed. Kenya was a great dog...when she was in her cage...alone...and not bothered. When she was let out, she was a spaz. She was also completely unsocialized, and this turned out to be her downfall (or mine, if you want to get technical). I learned very quickly that she would do everything in her power to run up to any other person/dog/alien who also happened to be out on the street at midnight. I also learned very quickly how to control...well, how to avoid these situations. Seeing as she was usually sniffing some other dog's turd in the grass, or checking out the local urinal (aka fire hydrant), I would always see others approaching before she did. Thus, I was able to do an about-face, and blade (very fast) in the opposite direction. I know, it was cowardly; but when each foot is stuck inside a little boot that is attached to four small wheels, you don't have much traction. It was a simple choice: wild rides (or dragging) across lawns, thru corn fields and small ponds, or a quick 180...and ya, I always chose the easy way out. This worked out quite nicely for a long time, and I thought I had things quite under control (if you can consider running in the opposite direction as being 'in control'). One night, as we rounded the last corner, a dog came out of a neighbor's backyard and caught Kenya's eye. I immediately locked the leash, and tried to blade with all my might, but was instantly pulled backwards as Kenya lunged after the dog. I won't bore you with details, but let's just say that being pulled in circles (because, yes, that stupid little rat-dog went in circles) and having your arms yanked out of their sockets, is NOT a good way to end your evening blade. It wasn't until I was jerked to my knees on the front lawn, that I noticed the neighbor's front door was cracked up, and a person was standing there. Sighing in relief, as I was dragged around their tree, and car, I waited expectantly for the owner to call their little mongrel into the house. However, after a few more minutes of silence from the mysterious IDIOTIC owner, I politely requested, thru grunts of pain, that they call their dog. A head emerged from behind the door, but there was no response. I know I must've made quite the amusing spectacle, but, you'd think the owner would've at least been scared enough for their dog to call it inside...unless they knew my dog would be unable to ever catch theirs because she was pulling around a full-grown woman behind her on rollerblades. I don't know what was going thru their head, but after a few more minutes of chaos, I gave up on 'nice', and told the lady in no uncertain terms that she had better get her dog inside before I unleashed mine and let her eat the little rat. Maybe she'd been sleep-walking, and my yellling awakened her, but she finally called her dog in. I was tempted to yell some threats, and some mean observations concerning her rotten ownership abilities, but figured that I'd given enough entertainment without going into 'crazed yelling maniac' mode. So with my torn pants, scraped hands and elbows, I slowly bladed home, silently vowing to bring my beebee gun the next night.
Our backyard is respectable once more. David finally was able to cut the grass. I no longer have to tie a rope around my waist, and hook the other end to our back door to assure my safe return to the house. The grass had gotten so deep that a medium-sized dog could've wandered around in our back yard without being detected by the naked eye. If there'd been a lost child in the neighborhood, our yard would've been the first place everyone would've wanted to look. Our neighbors probably hate us. But if they are truly worried about losing a child to our overgrown grass, they can always offer to mow for us. I would never refuse to help a concerned parent. I'd even let them use our lawn mower.
My height (or lack thereof) has never been a problem for me. Standing at half an inch under 5' 2", was always cool with me. As a teenager, the main reason I liked being short was so that I'd not have to bend down to kiss my man. I mean, seriously, think about it. When do you ever watch a romantic movie where the girl leans down to embrace and passionately smooch the guy? Um, never? And I wanted nothing less than the romance movies were made of. Of course, this was also during the years when I knew quite a few really cute guys who happened to be a bit on the shorter side. My taller friends would mourn the fact that '--insert name--' was so hot, but "how could they be with a guy whose head barely reached their shoulder?" It was a sad time for them, and I sympathized, while secretly thanking my lucky stars for the shortness granted to me. As I've continued living the life of a short person however, I've realized that there are a few definite disadvantages to being vertically challenged.
For one thing, what is up with tall people feeling sorry for short people?! Do I look unhappy, vexed, and height-discontented? But more importantly, did I ask for opinions concerning the height at which I stand? Secondly, why are the grocery items that I need always placed up on the shelf that's closer to the ceiling than to the floor?! Do I look like I'm dressed to go climbing here? Or is there some new World Rule that only 7ft 9in tall people can buy groceries? And thirdly, my last 'bummer' about being short, is that when you start to fall, you're already so close to the ground that you have no way to prevent a complete face-plant. Or maybe I'm just an unlucky short person.
We won't talk about face-planting right now. The pain is too fresh, the wounds too raw, and the humiliation too recent...
What a sad, sad movie. It was a tear-jerker, that's for sure. Movies are always more sad when they're based on something that really happened. The main character, played by Don Cheadle, and his on-screen wife, did a beautiful job of portraying a sweet, loving marriage. So many times the relationships shown in movies are so over-the-top, or just plain antagonistic. But I really thought their relationship was shown as special, yet very *real* at the same time. While appreciating the main character's ability to talk people into doing what needed to be done, I have to admit that there were times when I wanted to grab a machine gun and just shoot the bad guys in the head. I like movies where the bad guys get killed as painfully as possible. Unrealistic, yes; but satisfying? Very. Due to the vow I've taken to forsake sad movies, I have no intention of watching the movie again. However, it was a good show, and I'm glad I watched it.
My brain is tired, and I have a headache, but I am finished with the blasted grammar book!!! Woohoo! I crammed that 20 hour course into 25 hours, and it's done. I was so relieved and happy to be finished with it, that I decided to go ahead and work on the next unit. Can you believe that the next one was created solely to teach individuals how to use the dictionary? If a person doesn't know how to use one, maybe that isn't their biggest problem...
I'm obviously not allowed to skip units, so I skimmed thru the intro until I came to this line:
Before you turn to page xvii, however, read the PREFACE on page vii Then, read the information on pages xvii through xxvii. These pages cover two chapters entitled: • NOTES ON THE USE OF THIS DICTIONARY • FUNDAMENTALS OF MEDICAL ETYMOLOGY
Read the PREFACE?!? who in the world reads the PREFACE in a dictionary?!? And if you're reading 'Notes on the use of this dictionary', you *really* need to find something better to do with your time.
Feeling brave, I skipped to the 'exercises section', determined to conquer the evil dictionary quizzes without studying. *gasp* Of course I passed them all with flying colors. I could've almost done it without the dictionary itself! OK, so I *did* have to check the 'NOTES ON THE USE OF THIS DICTIONARY' for one of the questions. How the devil was I supposed to know if they used a macron or breve to represent the sound of a long vowel? If this is common knowledge, and even unschooled, mentally handicapped people know this, please don't tell me.
And now that I've finished up that difficult section, I'm on to bigger and better things. For a minute I was worried that the next unit would be, 'How to maximize the usage of your thesaurus', or some other outrageously boring topic along those same lines; but my fear was dispelled as I read the title of the next section:HUMAN ANATOMY, PHYSIOLOGY, AND DISEASE PROCESSES.There now, who could be bored with topics like that to read about?
*sigh* It's going to be a long 70 hours of studying. I need to go eat some chocolate and watch a movie to get rested up for it.
Or in my case, "my daughter ate your recipe." Ya, so that's kinda embarrassing to tell someone; it sounds like I'm a bad mother. What kind of mother allows their child to eat an entire recipe?! Maybe I should just tell her that I lost it. But then it sounds like I'm a disorganized person. Unfortunately, I don't think I'm going to be able to come out on top with this, no matter how I play it. Maybe I should try to glue all the pieces together that I fished out of her mouth...
I've never liked asking for things; it makes me feel awkward, and needy. So the other day as I wrote a quick letter to a friend, I admitted that I felt weird, due to the fact that I was making a request. My friend's loving response was:
"Don't feel weird...it must be hard enough to simply look weird or be weird, so don't waste the time feeling that way as well. :-D "
Maybe I missed the birthing classes that taught one how to feel like a mother. You'd think that having a child 8 months ago, or at least the the card and flower received on mother's day, would've aided in the whole 'motherly' feeling. At times it feels more like the babysitting job from hell; the one that never ends. You aren't ever done, you never get to 'go home', and the pay rots. However, unlike babysitting, you have the ability to use discipline when it is needed. If it wasn't for this small perk of motherhood, I think I'd have sworn off children. Nobody likes bratty children (not even their parents...why do you think they require babysitting so often?), and personally, I believe that they should be avoided at all costs. I thought I'd feel 'older & wiser' as a mother, or at least more patient. Maybe that comes after like, years of torture. It's probably a choice. You can become patient, or you can become a raving lunatic, locked away from fresh air and sunshine. Ya, I'd choose patience too. I suppose the whole motherhood feeling that I thought I'd be experiencing, could just turn out to be a preconceived notion. Maybe the intense love I have for my daughter, the pride I feel when I see her, and the joy I have when I'm playing with her, is motherly. Gah. Who knows?
I just love lists. I always feel that I've succeeded when I've crossed something off of one of my 'lists'. I made a very detailed list for myself this morning. I haven't crossed everything off the list yet, but am well on my way, and whaddya know? I feel that I've accomplished something today. I suppose that the downside of having a list would be that it shows how many things have NOT been crossed off. I hate lists that show the world all of the things that I should have gotten done. I suppose I'm wasting time here, because 'Type a post in your blog' is (unfortunately) not on the list. In fact, why didn't I put that on my list?! Gosh...my lists rot. They are always so boring and task-oriented...why don't I ever have anything fun on my lists? Something like, 1. 'Eat a chocolate bar', or 2. 'Go sit at the computer and just browse for 30 minutes', or even 3. 'Watch a funny movie to get your mind off your work'.
That would be perfect. That way I could cross things off , and have fun at the same time...someday...
Why is it that babies will put everything--and I mean every thing (see previous post)--right into their mouths for a little chew fest, but as soon as you get a spoon with yummy orange baby food close to their mouth, they refuse to open up?! Is this because they instinctively know that the food is good for them, and therefore already hate it? Or maybe, since they know Mommy wants them to eat it, it stops looking tasty? I don't know why, and I certainly can't explain my daughter's actions. She couldn't possibly remember that I tried to stuff the same orange goo down her throat yesterday, and it tasted like that soggy cardboard box she was chewing thru earlier that morning. What could she be thinking? "Mom, when I want the whole 'soggy cardboard' taste in my mouth, I will just crawl over and have a chew on the box in the other room. I don't need you cramming this down my throat. Oh, and quit talking gibberish. I may be an infant, but do I look stupid? No, I think not. Now if you're not going to give me something good to eat, like some clods of dirt, or small twigs, just put me down before things get ugly."
So my husband has always had a problem getting his used cutips in the trash can. Ya, I know, gross. Not only do I *get* to scrub the toilet, I also *get* to pick up the used cutips and place them in the trash where they belong. If I see them on the bathroom floor while he's brushing his teeth etc., I'll let him know he missed the can, but I've never made it a 'nag' topic. The other day, as I was fixing my hair, I noticed how nice it was that Alexis was playing quietly on the floor. However, after five minutes of this unusual 'quietness', I began to wonder what she was doing. Apparently she found her daddy's ear wax to be quite delicious. She had already completely sucked the one end of the cutip into a dripping wet blob, and was just starting in on the other end of her treat. Maybe I should patent 'ear wax flavored suckers' for infants...
The lovely little paper holder that was sent with my school books has proven to be far more useful than I ever imagined! Who would have thought that it could be used to hold the lid to my box of chocolates upright? Now all I have to do is glance up, pick the filling of my choice from the diagram on the box lid, and then pull that specific chocolate out of the box. It's perfect. I'm not sure that that is what the instructors had in mind when they said it would be helpful for my schooling...but it sure works for me!
Don't do your weight-training right after eating breakfast.
Yes, this is probably 'old news' to all you veteran lifters out there, but I just 'got' it this morning. For the past month I've been working out with weights every other day before I have breakfast. This renders me weak and shaky feeling after I'm finished. I thought that maybe a small bowl of cereal would help me have a little more 'oomph' in my workout, and also take care of the weak, shaky feeling. However, the only thing it did was help me to feel nauseous throughout the entire workout, and, in fact, slow me down. Instead of the normal hour I normally spend, I managed to drag it out 15 minutes past an hour. Blah. So overall, the small bowl of cereal was a definite hindrance, NOT a help.
To the lady in the van who wagged her finger at me and shook her head as I sped by: No, I didn't ask you. No, I never intend on asking you. And no, thank God, you are NOT my mother. So, you just keep BOTH your gnarly wrinkled hands attached to the steering wheel, and your beady little eyes on the road ahead of you, because I don't give a rip if you approve of my driving or not.
Remember the Genie from Aladdin? He turns himself into a sheep and says "Boy, do I feel sheepish...."
After dinner, as David was heading down the hallway to our room, he commented about my having left the stereo on. I was out in the kitchen washing the dishes, and acknowledged that yes, I'd been listening to music and forgotten to shut the power off. He walked off and the thought flashed thru my mind that it was very weird for him to notice and say something about it. I am usually the persnickety one when it comes to shutting things off, putting them away, etc. Shrugging, I continued scrubbing the pot until he stuck his head into the hall saying "Hey, why don't you shut the stereo off, and push in the piano bench." OK, that was odd. I put down the glass, and, knocking on the bedroom door, told him jokingly that I'd do it as soon as he picked his pile of clothes up off the floor of our bedroom. As he opened the door up, I happened to glance into the living room at the piano bench. Placed carefully on the top of a box of chocolates (mmmm...how did he know I was craving some chocolate?!) was a bright bouquet of fuschia daisies. Ya, felt just a wee bit sheepish there.
I know, I'm a lucky girl...not many married women get a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates 'just because'! I'll keep him, thank you very much.
Upon returning home yesterday afternoon, my husband opened the car door and informed me that there was a turd on our lawn. I must admit I couldn't have care less about it, but feigned a half-interested look as I stepped out of the vehicle. Seeing as dogs seem to roam quite freely thru the neighborhood, finding one of their turds in our yard wasn't too shocking. This morning as we were lying in bed enjoying the burbling sounds of our waterfall (we have a small little pond right outside our bedroom window), we heard a 'dog noise'. David peeked out the shades as he muttered about the stupid dog messing our lawn up. I stayed on my back and willed the dog to go poop in our neighbor's yard so that my man wouldn't get irritated at it for giving us a 'turd-y' lawn. A minute later, after hearing the unmistakable sound of a jangling dog collar, I too looked out the window to see a large dog bathing himself in our pond. No wonder the poor little fishies all died. No wonder the water has recently become murky and brown. No wonder we have turds on our lawn -- we've got a flippin' 'dog bath' set up in the front yard!
My weekend went well...despite the fact that my husband took me to see 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy'. The only positive thing I can think of concerning having gone and seen it, would be that I never have to see it again. First of all, and I'm sure it's just me, but I have a hard time understanding the blasted British accent when they're talking a mile a minute. Gah! Talk about getting 'lost' in the conversation. It was just a weird movie. It seemed to be quite disjointed and random, with odd things happening that I can only assume were attempts at humor. Oh well. I did like the 'point of view' gun, and believe every woman should have at least one. It was quite simple really -- you point and shoot it at someone and they instantly see things from your point of view. Brilliant.
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