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Delicate Digestion (Not My Own)
Jul. 19th, 2006 08:23 amDogs. You can't live with them and you could definitely live without them. You've never been a "dog person" but other people in your household lobbied hard, lobbied relentlessly, whined. And now those persons are gone leaving you with two needy animals, one of whom – the Cindy Crawford of the canine world in her youth – is kind of like the Velveteen Rabbit, the little boy who loved her now six foot three and disinterested. The other dog has the nicest personality in the world but he is huge, really needs a herd of sheep to keep him happy, and moreover has – ahem! – delicate digestion. He ate something dead at the beach last night. This morning it was Code Brown time all over the living room.
There's nothing quite like cleaning liquid dog shit off carpets at six in the morning to take the shine off your morning. Cleaning liquid dog shit before you've made coffee.
Also my right eye looks like a raccoon's. In medical parlance, this is called periorbital ecchymoses and is generally a sign of basilar skull fracture. However no one has hit me on the back of my head recently much as I probably deserve it. It's also apparently a symptom of myeloma, a bone cancer for which there is no known cure – what did we do before Google? – so I got to spend a few happy moments fantasizing about spending the next six months of my life on a morphine drip which would give me enough time to plan my funeral and finish my novel!
Rainer in the store today which gives me enough time to finish my letter to the evil Cannery Row overlords, do twenty press kits for Cirque du Méprise, clean the house and possibly deal with the 1974 Mercedes SEL 450 that's been sitting in my driveway for lo these six months past. I love that Mercedes and have kept it this long because I'd always fantasized about fixing it up, restoring it. But get real – that isn't going to happen. There's too much on my plate. If anyone reading this would like a be-you-ti-full car that needs about $1000 of work and gets lousy gas mileage, drop me a line. Otherwise it's Project Hope.
There's nothing quite like cleaning liquid dog shit off carpets at six in the morning to take the shine off your morning. Cleaning liquid dog shit before you've made coffee.
Also my right eye looks like a raccoon's. In medical parlance, this is called periorbital ecchymoses and is generally a sign of basilar skull fracture. However no one has hit me on the back of my head recently much as I probably deserve it. It's also apparently a symptom of myeloma, a bone cancer for which there is no known cure – what did we do before Google? – so I got to spend a few happy moments fantasizing about spending the next six months of my life on a morphine drip which would give me enough time to plan my funeral and finish my novel!
Rainer in the store today which gives me enough time to finish my letter to the evil Cannery Row overlords, do twenty press kits for Cirque du Méprise, clean the house and possibly deal with the 1974 Mercedes SEL 450 that's been sitting in my driveway for lo these six months past. I love that Mercedes and have kept it this long because I'd always fantasized about fixing it up, restoring it. But get real – that isn't going to happen. There's too much on my plate. If anyone reading this would like a be-you-ti-full car that needs about $1000 of work and gets lousy gas mileage, drop me a line. Otherwise it's Project Hope.
