Well, I have all kinds of things I would like to share with you, Mr. Internet, but I have been unable to complete any of them. For example, I am working on a clearinghouse of several memes I have been tagged for by various goodlooking (pretend this links to Rockstar Mommy, but the link is screwy) individuals, but have I finished them? No. Have I finished ANYthing I was planning to do for this site in the last two weeks? No. Would you like to know why? YES. Or, no, maybe you are not caring very much about that, but whatever, because I am about to tell you anyway, you sexy people, you.
See, know what it is right now? In Atlanta? It is hot. Really fucking hot. Outside, it is hot, and inside, it can also be hot, if you are not running your air conditioner. And, provided that you have an air conditioner, reasons why you might not be running said air conditioner in the middle of August, in Atlanta, with a heat index of infinity degrees squared, include:
1. You are running hot yoga classes out of your living room;
2. You live in an igloo;
3. You are trying to melt steel for fun and profit;
4. Your fucking air conditioner is fucking broken.
One of these applies to me. Guess which.
So, I got home from work one night last week, only to be greeted by a wave of intense, mean, wet heat the second I opened up the door. And I thought: "Uh oh." And I continued to think: "Uh oh," when I saw all four dogs lying on their backs in the den, panting and looking up at the ceiling, all, "HI WE DIED," as seen below:
You can't kill Bo. You can only make him mad.
But "Uh oh" actually graduated to, "Oh, holy SHIT," when I went into the backyard and saw that the A/C thingy was not doing anything, not even making a little sputtering sound, zero, zip, nada. And finally, I entered into "Oh MotherFUCK" territory about the time that I discussed the situation with my A/C guy, and was informed that I am probably going to need a whole new system. Which, of course they cannot install this week, and incidentally, this will cost roughly seventeen million dollars. So, happy sweating to me! With a bonus menu of ramen noodles and misery for everyone.
Waiting a week for the A/C people was not going to work, particularly for the dogs ("STILL DEAD FROM HOT" they reminded me as I cursed my way through the kitchen), so I gathered their steaming bodies, tossed them in the car, and drove over to my parents' house. Which is where I have been, enjoying their air conditioning and drinking all of their wine, for the last five days. This has totally screwed with everybody's world, especially my poor mother's, who was thrilled when I descended upon her home with four angry, hot dogs, before making a beeline for her refrigerator, but you know. I am a delight to everyone I meet.
But really, thank God I've got somewhere to go, because the whole "hot" thing was just not working for the dogs, and particularly not for Gimmme. Gimmme has had kind of a bad month. He managed to fall into my parents' pool a few weeks ago, and somehow jerked in a manner that gave him whiplash (yes. My dog has whiplash), and so he is on a wide variety of pain medications and has been acting like a drunken sailor for days. He will start to run, only he will be running sideways, and then he will fall over onto his side and wag, his tail going thump-thump-thump on the floor, until someone comes along and plops him on his feet again. And it's like his entire physical state has changed, and he has gone from being a solid little doggie to something similar to a ziploc filled with jelly, and he just squooshes happily around the world, falling over and thump-thump-thumping on occassion, and generally loving pharmecuticals.
So, this is what I have inflicted upon my poor parents for the last week. However, what I have not inflicted upon my poor parents is Evil Bo. It doesn't have anything to do with me; apparently, Bo is making a strong case for his adoption by my mother, who spoils her dogs even more than they are spoiled over at my house (there is an entire cabinet of dog treats in this house, people. But is there a single damn potato chip? NO. Someone's priorities are fucked, is what I am saying). Consequently, he has gone from this:
Who's Mommy's little antichrist? WHO IS?
WHO WANT PIE? BO COOK PIE!
With no explanation whatsoever. Which, of course, leads my mother to believe that I am just being hard on Bo, and that he is actually a sweet little darling angel thing. He is most certainly not. He is just plotty. But nobody believes me.
At any rate, this is where we are, and that is what we are doing. Enjoying modern medicine and air conditioning, and being on our best behavior, so that nobody gets the notion to shave off all of our fur and find that 666 tattooed on our ample, smooshy rump. I am not naming names here about which of us is doing which, but let me draw your attention to a recent picture that might shed some light on the subject:
Bo want to know if you want a piece of Bo.
Have a good weekend, everybody! I certainly hope all of y'all are cooler than me.