TGIF, Motherfuckers!

Helmet Head

One of the things I love about having my own site is that I can pretty much do or say whatever the hell I want to – and I do, for the most part. I try not to lash out at people I care about, or am supposed to care about, and I’m careful not to say bad shit about people I work with or the company I work for because I like getting a paycheck and TJ really likes that I get a paycheck. But, mostly, I’m free to do as I please.

First off, butterfly update. All five butterflies made it. Yes, even the dud on the bottom of the mesh tube. Micah called me at work today to make the official announcement and to let me know that, after I got home from my haircut, we’d be going out into the yard to set them free. And we we did. I video taped it and will, sometime in the near future, put together a very short film of them leaving the tube for freedom. Freedom and, most likely, a quick death at the beak of a bird or sharp teeth and strong jaws of our dog, Dascha. Dascha can’t seem to help herself from eating any flying creature. She’s already had a few stings this year, as she does every year, and only one has required Benedryl. She’s dumb but persistent. She almost always gets her stinging, flying insect. And the occasional furry animal who makes the very bad decision to wander into our yard. We’ve had several stomped on or ripped up dead animals in the dining room after nights of forgetting to close the doggie door. Good thing TJ can handle cleaning that shit up, because I can’t. I just turn right around, wake her up, and tell her that her dogs have murdered some woodland animal. I’ll scrub the blood out of the carpet, but I’m not picking up body parts. No thank you.

Actually, Dascha’s not dumb at all. That dog only has two modes – eat and play. Ok, three – she also snores so loudly the windows vibrate. She has an incredible ability to let you know exactly when she wants food or water and can direct you to the even the most well hidden toy. If Osama Bin Laden had one of her toys in his pocket, we’d have found him years ago. She has a way of looking at you – so deeply into you – that you feel what she’s trying to get you to understand. She’s very patient about it. If you’re not getting it, she’ll find a way to ensure that you do. None of our other dogs have been as good at getting their points across as Dascha. Sometimes I like to look at her and use one of those lines from an old Lassie show. “What is it girl? Is your blippy down the well?” Blippy is what we’ve called dog toys for more than 15 years. One of our previous dogs, Anja, had a little stuffed animal that declared it’s name was “Blippy” on the tag and, since then, every toy is called “Blippy.” It just works. They all know what it means. The only other toy name that ever makes it into conversation is “Kong.” Dascha will damn near break her neck with the head twisting when she hears that one. We like to torment her by chanting in a deep voice, “Kong, Kong, Kong.” It’s lots of fun. Even Micah does it.

Anyway, today was near torture at work. In the back of our minds, we all knew we’d be cut lose early. Most of the upper management seemed to have taken the day off, which only made it that much more difficult to stay focused on work. I started listening to Bill Maher podcasts yesterday and spent much of my time today touching that 30-second rewind feature available on the iPad and other touchy iThings because I was actually trying to work and listen to the panel. Some of those people are fucking morons. But they get ripped apart so it makes it worthwhile to have to hear them spew their bullshit for a few minutes. I found out that Sarah Silverman has a book out. It’s called The Bedwetter. I downloaded an excerpt from iBooks and laughed through most of it. Still not sure if I want to drop $13 on it. That’s a bit much for an ebook. Think I’ll see if I can check it out from the library instead. Pretty sure it’s not one I’d want to read more than once, anyway.

Tomorrow is Micah’s party and he was bouncing off the walls like he’d snorted a 5-pound bag of sugar. The kid is excited! To be honest, I’m sort of excited, too. I LOVE pump it up! There’s pizza, cake, and ice cream after 90 minutes of running around and jumping and sliding and climbing. Really, unless they served booze and weed, I don’t think it could get much better.

Well, dear readers, I hear the wife emerging from her cocoon (the bathroom and her nightly hot bath ritual) so I will wish you a wonderful night. Erin, try not to get so drunk that you fall into the bonfire. I really do love you and know that I would, at some point, inappropriately laugh at your hideous scarring. Not right away, of course, but after a few months when it was all healed up. And it wouldn’t be intentional. I’m a nervous laugher. You know that. But I’d bring you coffee. Or, at the very least, an empty cup with a smiley face drawn on the bottom. Tim would still get the sad face…

Comment if you want. You know, no pressure.

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