Anna caught Lexi in a state of ennui for 15 minutes and produced a movie trailer that has me “anticipating” the release of the full feature film. And I kid. I think this movie trailer is like so many others when I think to myself after seeing it, “Yeah, I think I can miss that one. I think I’ve got the gist of it.”
[Ed. Note: I just noticed a fluff of Fox’s hair on the carpet in one of the shots. Lexi can be a little tough on the ones she loves.]
The last post with no real purpose served me well because I wanted to get some junk out of my head that was taking up real estate, so I’m doing it again. But this isn’t going to be a habit. I’m reasonably certain. You, however, should be pretty certain I’m lying.
Here come the bulleted items, people! Yay.
- Federer is out of the French. However, Nadal is also out of the French. So, I’m going to call this even because Nadal is still holding at 14. Why do I care anymore…..?<sigh>
- The French Open has prompted me to curse in French. Blame all the French tweets that I’d sit and try to decipher while standing in line for something over the course of the tournament. I have no idea why I was compelled to use Twitter as my source for updates. I think I was enjoying the chance to test my French again, and so many of the tweets were in French. Of course it just reminded me of how little I remember.
- Topamax is still having fun with me. It, in cahoots with my brain (that evil, gelatinous monster), substituted taciturn for succinct. They embarrassed me with a clear misuse of laying/lying. Then, there was the incident where Cheerios became Cheerycane. That was a head scratcher because at least it’s usually a word. A real word. And not like the words I use on this blog that I’m clearly creating on the fly and taking ridiculous liberties with because that’s how I roll. Anyway, they made me drop about 8 gabillion f-bombs at St. Vincent last night, which wouldn’t be a problem (It’s a concert!) but there were teen fans everywhere. I should be above the f-bomb when the kiddos are around. I’m not going to pretend for a minute they weren’t dropping their own, but theirs aren’t as exuberant as mine. Plus, every time the artist uses one during concert commentary, and you hear their astonishment followed inevitably by cries of WOOHOO!!, you know you need to tone your bombs down for the new ears. I mean, come on, you don’t learn to drive a manual on the NASCAR circuit. Did I make that one work? Probably not. I don’t have any NASCAR knowledge. I’m not a very good southerner. However, I do love the SC Lowcountry and grits. And I’m still trying to ascertain whether or not I retain that ridiculous twang that I appear to have sported during my childhood if you believe those cranberry-pancake-serving Nantucket snots in this post.
- I’m 98% certain my dog is broken in that she is not a dog. She appears to be an amalgam of the following animals:
- Cat – She is constantly grooming. It’s a very specific grooming, sure, but still! She spends a great deal of the day grooming her paws. And it’s all very feline in nature. It’s not like, “I can smell the grass. I was outside running. Frisbee.” I can’t even really talk about it. It’s faintly grotesque how she goes about it. And I feel like I need to sit down with her and chat about how very gross feet are, but I guess that foot issue is mine. I shouldn’t pass it down to my kids.
- Sloth – She sleeps about 98% of the day. OK, I’m exaggerating. 80% of the day. Like yellow dog from Funny Farm. But yellow dog was a dog actor playing against type. I mean, really. The dog tried to burn his own damn tail in the pursuit of sweet slumber. I can relate. As I was saying. Lexi is pretty solitary about the whole thing, too. She won’t sleep near her humans. Unless it’s Matthew. I think I hate her. Wait. I think she’s coming. I don’t want her to know I typed that. I love her. But I don’t like her. There. That’s better.
- Cheetah + Dingo = Cheeto…. Well that name is certainly not going to work. I have no money, Cheeto people. Don’t come after me for that combo. I’ll try again. Cheetah + Dingo = Dingah – She’s really fast. She’ll get into a “mood” and it’s time to scatter. For real. The kids and I will see the hair on her back and tail start to creep up, and know it’s time to seek shelter. Immediately. Drop anything and everything. Let dinner burn and throw it out. Because she’s starting to run, and she’s locking on targets while running. And you can see her crazy eyes. If she sees you, well, you’re just toast. Meditate and reach acceptance. You will find out your fight or flight response has completely stalled, leaving you standing there looking at your new dingah, and you’re not really sure what that animal is capable of. Dingahs can jump very high, by the way. Also, they don’t do things that are scary in the actual sense of injury. It’s just the mental and emotional anguish. The kids and I usually hold little therapy healing events with each other after these “sessions” and we give Lexi a very wide berth for at least a couple of hours lest she unleash a second round. It’s happened, people. Oh, the carnage!
I feel immensely better. My brain hurts ever so much less with that junk ousted.
But I’m back now, and I’m doing this as I type this. Well, in my head. And, of course, in my head, I’m not a canine. Never mind…. I’m back, and I’ve missed this place.
If I measure my ability to weave a fascinating tale by my dog’s attention span, I’d be forced to conclude that I’m no more interesting than a fallen pine needle……or that crud that lives at the bottom of the toaster. Actually, the detritus at the bottom of the toaster could be somewhat interesting if you were REALLY bored and wanted to sort the types of breads that you toast. Obviously, you’d have to be incredibly bored to resort to that kind of madness. But the pine needle is not getting any attention. Anyway, I refuse to let her disinterest deter me from regaling her with stories and anecdotes. I spend a great deal of time teaching her things, too. As she leaves the room in the middle of my ramblings, I just continue the story or lesson when she returns to the room. Sometimes she seems to be paying extra attention, so I talk fast to get as much content in as possible. It’s good to take advantage of her moments of clarity. And then she’ll leave again before I’m done. If I have an extended story or lesson, she does begin to get a little annoyed as it continues on over multiple visits. She’s busy after all and does get bored easily. But I’m not here to be her friend. I’m here to be her parent.
We took the baby gates down a couple of weeks ago. Yes, you read that right. Baby gates. For a dog that is 14-months-old. We had baby gates up for a year confining her to a three-room area of the downstairs. For our sanity. And now she’s running free. I’m not sure I’ve seen her for a span of more than an hour since. I’ll come across her laying around in one room or another. She’ll look up and appear quite surprised to see me. Oh, hi, human mother! I love you. I’m super happy to see you! How about a belly rub?!? And after 30 minutes or so she takes off to find another room to relax in. I think she views me as a distraction best avoided as she attempts to leave her scent on every square foot of the house. She’s also doing her very best to explore the scene from every window of the house which are all thankfully right at eye level for her. She can sit her little butt down and still have a decent view of what’s happening out there in the nabe. She’s got a lot of time to make up for as she’s been cooped up in three rooms for a WHOLE YEAR! And I can imagine it’s awfully fun to go all Ponce de León and whatnot – at least in her head (Aside to Lexi: Yo, we’ve already discovered all areas of the house. There’s no undiscovered territory left. Sorry. Pick another enterprise because discoverer of unknown lands/territories/spaces is no longer available. Oh crap! Please don’t pick the activity of leaving me a special surprise in a hidden place to see if I can track it down based on the smell.)
But what I think I was trying to say so very poorly, is that the whole family is giddy with the removal of barriers. We were getting so sick of having to open and close baby gates all the time. When you have a little baby, it’s a whole different deal. But when it’s because of a dog, people tend to give you that careful look (understandably, I think) of “Have you lost your ever-loving mind? Why in the hell would you keep something like baby gates up after house training is completed? Are you mad?” And if we were a little mad, we are now just plain manic. We are skipping around the house marching through doorways where gates used to halt our progress, and we all nod knowingly at each other. This is what it means to be living the dream, people. Our household has gotten a rather interesting dose of perspective. And by perspective, I mean a rather interesting dose of just how clearly not right in the head we all are. We are a bunch of loons, and we added the right puppy to our family as she is as much of one as we are.