All right, so we're not getting a dog... yet. We're thinking about just talking about getting one for awhile and then seeing if everyone's interest just kinda wanes, and then we move on to wanting something else, like a hot tub. In the meantime, I'm gonna ask the Old Lady to douche and massage my wiener to practice, just in case we do end up getting one. [Thanks for the tip, Rita!]
Today kinda blew, as it was supposed to be the Old Lady's afternoon to hang with the spawnage, but she had to go to some early dinner with a prospective prof candidate, so I had them for the second day in a row. Mr. Z was in a shitass mood and was openly defying me at every turn. Miss O, who is in the throes of another phlegmy cough/cold was mighty cranky, as well, and just kinda whined in my general direction all afternoon. Oh, and she also fell down the stairs. Yeah. She was running up to her room to get a book and she was wearing tights with no shoes and I heard an "AIIEEEEEEE!" and then a short (thank Zeus!) tumbling sound, then quiet, then bawling. I ran in from the kitchen and saw her sitting at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing her head and holding her wrist. I think she only fell down a few steps and she was more scared than injured. I got the "boo-boo buddy" and soon she was back to her old self -- projecting cranky at me.
I'm amazed that that was actually the first time either one of them has fallen down the stairs. They're both constantly fucking around on the steps -- sliding down, having races, doing cartwheels. I'm sure at least 35 of the 420 holes that have been burned into my colon by bubbling stomach acid are due to near fatalities on the stairs. Hopefully, Miss O will tread a little more daintily from now on as she ascends/descends. But she won't.
Oh, and instead of dinner tonight, I ate about 42 girl-scout cookies. And some pretzels. And a bun. I have this fucking giant bolus of dough stuck in my esophogullet and it ain't moving for shit.
Which, of course, leads me to one of my all time favorite jokes that I've said everytime someone mentions scouting, since, probably, fifth grade. "Yeah, I was in boy-scouts once, but I was kicked out for eating a brownie."
Hey, in 1976, that was comedy gold!