What Were You Thinking?
2004-02-24, 12:58 p.m.

Damn. I wish I was your lovah. No, for really, Damn. I just realized that I've written only 5-6 entries in 4 months or so. "Just?," says you. "Hello? It's your life." I know, I know. I had a writing groove for a wee bit, but lately, it ain't right. Taint right at all.

So, this week I have to go to NYC to get more tests done, one of which will force me to lay on my back in Matt's parents basement for two days. So, I got that going for me. After which, I look forward to driving The Blue Beast back home to live with us. The point of repeating myself here is that we usually drive up, with Sadie in tow, to New York, but becausin we're flying up, the pooch will have an extended vacation at (cue Vincent Price music here) The Kennel. Really, I hate so much to leave her at the kennel, you know, because she does the typical doggie move of scratching your eyes out to get her in the jizzoint and then does the, I'm not speaking to you, or even looking at you, you assclowns for three days when we get back. And then we have to treat her like the Baby Jesus in order for her to come back around even a little bit. But, what can you do when you have no friends to pawn her off on?

So, because of this, to assuage our guilt, Matt comes up with the brilliant idea that we'll treat her like a princess now, so she won't loathe us when we get back. Hello Deluded Jesus, dogs have the memory of a one-day mosquito...but he won't hear of this, and thinks that feeding her filet mignon now will save us from trouble later. (Good we don't have kids yet so we can use up all these first-rate ideas of Matt's on the dog, yes?) So, part of The Pleasure Principle is that we'll sleep with the Sade since we don't sleep with her now, and that'll make her feel extra pack-y. But ever since we got The Gift From Heaven, Sadie has been disinvited from our marriage bed and Matt simply won't budge from that. So, we shlep all of our shit upstairs to the guest bedroom, which Andreas has already fouled with himself, to all spend the night together in our old bed. Jesus, Mary, and JoJo Dancer, my ass is calling. Worst. Fucking. Night. of Sleep. Ever. Or maybe it wasn't and I just forgot how horrible life used to be. Because 1) Sadie slept on my face, legs, kidneys--anywhere the fuck she wanted to sleep and 2)That bed sucks a thousand dead sheep. I cannot believe that I slept in that bed for nine years. No wonder Matt and I considered splitting up a couple times. Nobody should have to take that. Except for my guests, of course. Thank you, please.

Waking up this morning with the cleaver-to-the-skull feeling was only made brighter by Matt's other ingenuous move, which was setting the alarm to the house. We've lived in the house for 3 months and I've set the alarm once, on Christmas night, where Matt promptly set the thing off and woke the whole house while I was filling stockings in the middle of the night. At which time, he ran around screaming, "How do you turn it off? How do you turn it off?" even though I've explained it to him fifteen times. So, fast forward three months, we're sleeping upstairs with Sadie, and Matt thinks because we'll be upstairs, we should set the alarm. Fine.

6am: WONK WONK WONK WONK WONK "How do you turn it off? How do you turn it off?"

And because I'm in East Bumfuck upstairs on the other side of the house, he can't hear me screaming, "Push 5555! Push 5555!" (*Not actual house code, thieves.*)

Him: What?

Me: FIVE!!!

Him: What?

Me: FIVEFIVEFIVEFIVE!

Him: What?

Me: *tits flapping down the stairs*

Him: What?

Me: FIVE, fucker! Five!

Alarm: *silence*

Him: I forgot that was on.

Me: Really? *picking up phone from Brinks Security asking if they should dispatch the police*

And Sadie, in the meantime, is all, "Bitch, where's my breakfast?"

So, yeah. The things you do for love. It makes you wonder.

Side note: other things that have made me wonder of late:

-Jellyfish. I don't believe you. You're just one giant lung-ey with stingers? For what?

-The mastermind that decided Anna Nicole Smith is still a viable spokesperson. This is America, what were you thinking? Have you seen the commercial where she stumbles out of a limo and slurs, "I'm back"? Meaning what, Anna Nicole, you're geared up for the next ancient gazillionaire? Allah have mercy. Oh, and P.S. "The Before" pic is far too kind. More appropriate to show one of her slugging moonshine out of the bottle with four dingdongs in one hand. But then, grief touches us all in different ways.

-People who go with the "Big" as a sur-surname, like Big John or Big Tom, you know, from Survivor, or just plain Big, like from Sex and The City. If peeps tried to be putting Big before my name, genitals would fly, my friends. Hello? It's my potbelly. But yeah, ixshnay on the igsbay. Thank you.

Over.