dogs are good. platonic. i mean, they lick each other’s ears and hold paws and snuggle and stare into each other’s eyes. But it stops there, and all the previous inappropriate behavior that was freaking me out has stopped. I’m SO relieved.

Message on answering machine: KELSEY!!! WE! ARE! BACK! IN! BUSINESS!  from the company who used to come and pick up Duke’s poo once a week. I was so upset when they stopped showing up. My mother was all, “well…? maybe they got a better career opportunity than coming to your house for dog poo. I mean, RIGHT?” Yeah I guess. But now they’re back and I am so very happy. Two weeks ago I ended up covered in 2 different dogs’ pulverized poo when I had to unclog the big tube on the riding mower. have you ever been covered in two kinds of ground up poo? OH WOW. That was quite a day.  (it only LOOKS like I blog every disgusting thing I do as soon as it happens. really. i don’t.)

which reminds me. i am one big walking wardrobe malfunction.

#1: last night. at the kids’ annual patriotic program (which always makes me cry) I wore a stripe-y gray sweater dress, wooly gray tights, and ballet flats. what could POSSIBLY go wrong?  Seth-6yr. SETH-SIXYR COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG. He was sitting behind me on the pew while I stood with everyone else. He got a bit curious about the nature of these gray wooly tights, because they look like socks and I wonder how far up….? they…? go….? Only one way to find out, and that of course involves hiking up dress and checking.

Frantic behind the back arm chopping motions and glaring and then refusing to look and see who all had seen this. Gah.

#2 But the next one I managed ALL BY MYSELF. I was at the bank. In my car. Because I was only going through the drive through to make a deposit. I wore paint-y jeans and an oversized paint spattered shirt. What could POSSIBLY go wrong? Well. A lot.

You know those bank cylinder thingies with the tops that swivel OUT and you put your stuff inside and then swivel that top lid thing back on the cylinder? Well, if you accidentally do that too close to, say, your left boob, then you end up with your shirt REALLY stuck in that cylinder. And if it’s an oversized shirt with all kinds of extra fabric, when you pull it away from you it looks as if you have one HUGE pointy breast and the shirt won’t come free and there you are playing tug of war with a bank cylinder thingy and looking really deformed and lopsided and THEN you turn and there’s the teller. Watching. On the video screen right next to your window and she CAN SEE THE WHOLE THING and she has one hand over her mouth and looks so horrified that of course you start laughing and pulling and just DYING because oh my gosh, REALLY? THIS IS MY LIFE? EVERY?! DAY!? How is it that I have to be THIS person? Why can’t I be the person who always wins the lottery? Or the person who can sing, cook, dance, and invent cool things all the time? Why am I the Boob In The Bank Thingy girl?  (Ignore me. I’m blessed. I know it. I’m just griping.) So I get COMPLETELY lost in my laughing and crying and I canNOT get this thing off me and so I say to the teller, “Happens ALL THE TIME, right?” And she says, “Oh, no ma’am.”

It occurs to me that all the tellers could be watching this insanity on the screen by now, so I sort of turn my back and lean over the center console and it takes a LOT of concentration and hand strength and willpower to pry open that lid and extract the twisted wrinkled paint shirt, but I do it.

Some people have to work REAL hard to be this idiotic and it just comes so naturally to me it’s hardly fair, right?

I’m staying home today. I should be okay. I think.

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