04
Feb
12

the end of the week

1. Dexter the Dancing Dog will go to great lengths to lick the cayenne-laced-butter I’ve applied to the pole that holds the bird feeder (trying to discourage poaching by the resident squirrel population), but will not eat a salt-and-vinegar potato chip. He seems to think it’s trying to attack him.

He also will play outside for an hour and then come in and pee on the kitchen floor. Any suggestions? I’ve just about had it.

2. Nothing tells internet sites to make your passwords not work like your being in a hurry.

3. Komen backed down, and has reinstated funding to Planned Parenthood. Girl power!

(We need a salute — anybody got any ideas?)

Although I just found out that Planned Parenthood doesn’t do mammograms. Why not? Maybe they should.

4. Only Daughter came to me last night with a dental flosser and a request to remove the “seed” from behind her last tooth. It was a new tooth. And lo and behold, there was another one on the other side! She’s 11. Barely. A very tiny 11. Aren’t these supposed to come in around 12 or 13? Hope there’s room. Plus she wanted to know if these were her “smart teeth” like her brother just had taken out.

5.  A girl around 12 fell off the balance beam last night at Only Daughter’s meet, and hit what seemed to be seven points on her way down. She laid on the mat for what seemed to be a really long time while the coach leaned over the beam and encouraged her to get back up. (O.D. sat, a handful of feet away, hands over her mouth in horror.)(She’s terrified of the beam, as well she should be. But still.) The girl stood up, gave the coach “ten,” got back up, and nailed the rest of her routine. I had tears in my eyes. Granted, I was a complete sap yesterday to start with — I also cried over  Billy Collins’ line from On Turning TenI used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light; if you cut me I would shine” while attempting to read it to a student. (It is a really good line. But still. Get a grip forcryin’outloud.)

During the meet First Son called asking for my homemade macaroni and cheese recipe. I emailed it to him. That was kind of fun, in a “look at you all grown up” sort of way. (I can write that because he tells me he doesn’t read this blog anymore. So much for my captive audience.)

6. O. D.’s friends for her birthday sleepover finally just arrived — 13 minutes late. She stood at the window, Dexter in her arms, wondering if they were going to show up or not. I made her a heart cake with chocolate frosting and lots of different kinds of sprinkles, thinking about a colleague of mine whose son just died of complications from Hodgkins disease and a rare blood disorder. He was 26. I was picturing her making him his 11th-birthday cake, and envisioning his life, and not seeing this in a million years. Meanwhile Jeff Buckley sang about how, when his time comes, he knows he will leave the world with a satisfied mind. I wonder how many weeks before he died it was when he recorded that song.

Life’s too short. And too busy.

I suggested to Husband that we quit the ratrace and start an alpaca farm. In Italy. I think he thought I was kidding. I’m not. Well, not completely.

In a not-really related story; a conversation from earlier in the week:

Husband: I think we need to get a more “manly” dog like a German Shepherd or a Wolfhound or something. I feel like such a whimp walking Dexter.

Me: But he’s so cute.

Husband: I know. That’s the problem. He’s all puffy, and plus he doesn’t really walk, he kind of prances and bounds around. It’s humiliating.

Me: Maybe we can put a leather vest and one of those collars with the spikes on him.

Husband: Well that might help a little. Like the really long spikes?

Me: Sure. But think of the attention you can get from women who see you; we’re all saps for cute dogs.

Husband: I saw some women while I was walking him. I think they were laughing at me.

Me: What made you think that?

Husband: Well, they were walking and smiling, and kind of talking out of the corners of their mouths like I wouldn’t notice that they were talking, and then when they met me one of them said, “Okay, that might be just about the cutest dog I’ve ever seen.”

Me: See?

Husband: Exactly. Completely emasculating.

I’m thinking this:

rather than this:

Any thoughts?

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1 Response to “the end of the week”


  1. February 9, 2012 at 4:38 pm

    The essential problem here is how one defines ‘masculinity’, isn’t it? I’m not sure that Husband is operating with a sufficiently broad concept of what are the essential characteristics of a 21st century male. I reckon he’s thinking more along the lines of a Bull Terrier of some sort.


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