Day Two: Coordinated Attack
Oh, y’all. Things are about to get all revealing and ugly up in here, because we are entering the prime CRAP territory of Junior High. And Junior High was just an unfortunate time for me. And it shows. You may want to take an antibiotic or something before we get into this. Or, you could pry out your eyeballs with a screwdriver. Whichever you prefer.
Tomorrow will really be something to behold, and I have actually found a picture that is so bad, and so painful, that I am almost too embarrassed to show it to myself, much less all of you nice people. It is so atrocious that I might take it out of rotation and save it for the very end, as sort of a Finale of Fugly, and we will all collectively recoil in horror and then NEVER SPEAK OF IT EVER AGAIN. Seriously. Ever. Not even by accident.
RANDOM BO STORY INTERJECTION
Before I get into that, though, I mentioned Bo’s new sleeping protocols the other day, and I figured I’d real quick write about them, so y’all who come here just for dog stories and not for pictures of breathtakingly frightening preteens will have something to enjoy. For those poor people, this whole reconstruction is very “bait and switch” of me. Come for the promise of dog stories; get whacked over the head by acid wash. Thanks for visiting, and have a good damn day!
But anyway. Bo. So, as we all know, I sleep with the dogs, in a platonic but tangle-y way, in which they take up the majority of the bed and I sometimes sleep on a chair. But before we all go to bed every night, we all head to the back yard, because I kind of prefer it when they pee outside of the house and not, say, on the pillow that is cradling my head. I mean, personal preference and all, but I’ve tried it both ways, and the “outside” way involves far less laundry and screaming.
So, out they go, and they do their very important sniffing work until the Place Where We Shall Pee is finally discovered. And thus begins the relay of three dogs who stubbornly insist on peeing on the exact same square inch of yard, because GOD FORBID one of them should pee anywhere else, NO. This all takes time, and first Bo will pee, and then Pugsley pees on the place where Bo peed, and then Gimmme has to pee on the pee of both of them, and then Bo comes back to top off, and then Pugsley runs back and tops off, and then Gimmme comes back and tops off, and then Gimmme tries to hide the whole mess by back-kicking leaves or pinestraw or whatever the hell over the evening toilet, but Bo is not having it, so he comes BACK to re-pee and so on etcetera ad nauseum, while whomever is out there watching them is hollering, “YOU HAVE A WHOLE YARD THOUGH” while wildly gesturing at the remaining, unpeed-upon acre of grass that surrounds their annointed spot. Finally, Bo gets sick of it all and runs back in, and everyone else follows, and the pissing contest mercifully comes to a really stupid end.
SO. In we go, and up to bed we go, and under the covers they dive, and everyone goes to sleep. At least, everyone used to go to sleep at this point, but then, about a month ago, I started them all on a new diet, because I heard somewhere that dachshunds are not supposed to be perfectly spherical. And when the diet began, the normal sleeping protocols ended. Now, under the covers they dive, and then Bo stews there for a minute or two before popping back out, bolting off of the bed and across the room, pressing his nose under the bedroom door, and whining with the cross-legged, hysterical urgency of someone whose bladder is about to explode.
Seeing as I am a proponent of not peeing on the bed (yay!), I open the door, and Bo scrambles downstairs as fast as his stubby little legs will go, in the direction of the yard. And I follow behind, all, “BUT THE PISSING CONTEST IS OVER YOU WON I THINK,” double-timing it before we have some sort of intestinal event on the nice flooring. Only now, I arrive at the back door and discover…not Bo. No. Bo is not at the back door. And this is when I hear an odd moaning sound coming from the other side of the kitchen, and so I turn around, and there is Bo, lying flat on his belly in front of the refrigerator, prostrate to his shiny silver idol, and groaning like he might just DIE.
And, you can’t move him. If you tell him to come here, dammit, I thought you were about to burst, and no we are NOT having a snack, because you weigh as much as a Volkswagen? That will not work. He won’t even look at you. If you clap your hands and say, “Maybe there is a quiche upstairs, in the bed, that I forgot about! Let’s look together!”, he does not take the bait. And if you try to bend over and pick him up, he lets out the most baleful, miserable moan you have ever heard in your life, because BO IS STARVE, and BO DOES NOT WANT TO LEAVE FOOD BOX. Food Box is only hope of Bo.
In reality, of course, BO IS LIE. In fact, BO IS NOT LOSE ANY WEIGHT AT ALL SINCE DIET START. But he’ll never tell you that, and in the meantime, he’s got me on the horns of a short, brown dilemma, because…I mean, I can’t just do nothing when he goes into spasms of MUSTPEEMUSTPEEMUSTPEE and is all whining like a furry banshee. Y’all know Bo. The one time I ignore him will be the one time he has explosive diarrhea someplace inconvenient and novel, like in my hair. And so, every night, I continue to let him out, and he continues to make a beeline for the refrigerator, and I continue to wonder how it is that I so often get outsmarted by a creature who regularly eats his own poop. And that is why I drink, the end.
AND NOW BACK TO OUR PREVIOUSLY SCHEDULED CRAP
So, to shift focus entirely, now I am moving on to Day 2, which is about the time I started Junior High. Apparently, the start of sixth grade corresponded perfectly with my decision to dress only according to the principle of Things That Match A Whole Lot. I mean, A Whooooooooole Lot. Not-Even-Kidding-You-A Lot.
Normally, dressing so that your clothing matches is considered a positive attribute, but there gets to be a point where one can take things too far. And here I am thinking of that time that Britney (back when she was not yet batshit insane) showed up with Justin Timberlake at some awards show, and I don’t really remember anything else about that except that (a) she was not yet batshit insane; (b) we were all living in a blissful and innocent time when we had never heard of someone called K-Fed or his armor-piercing sperm, and (c) BRITNEY AND JUSTIN WERE WEARING MATCHING DENIM FORMALWEAR. I could probably find what I’m talking about on Google, but I have already subjected us all to so much fashion-related pain these last few days, and Britney is kind of having a shitty week anyway, that I am not going to kick any of us when we are down. Instead, I am just going to say that matching denim formalwear is an example of going overboard, and that it is very similar to what was apparently happening in a number of my own ensembles.
Like, you know. Here. Please note my socks, which may, in fact, be pulled up over my coordinating turquoise jeans (note also that "coordinating turquoise jeans" is a phrase that should never be uttered by anyone at any time):
Bitch took my balloon.
And again here, where we can marvel at the red and yellow interplay going on all over my body, recognizing that this is a color combination usually (and wisely) reserved for condiments and fast food establishments:
A young Miss Doxie uses her chameleon powers to blend in with the underbelly of this dinosaur until all danger has passed.
Here I am, dressed like a geriatric and scaring the shit out of Phudge, long-suffering childhood pet who played a major role in the discovery that Cabbage Patch Kid clothes fit on dachshunds:
Bright blue slacks and toucan sweatshirts: official uniform of grandmothers everywhere!
And finally, we have this, which would be an example of being matchy, what with the matching peach sweater and pants set (because, peach: the color that’s flattering on everyone!), but I have inexplicably paired these casual coordinates with a black leather motorcycle jacket, (because, peach: the color that goes so well with black leather!). Obviously, I am just a stack of tough, what with my little white handbag, side ponytail, and keds. I mean…what was that, Punky Brewster? You think you're punk? Uh, sorry, bitch, but I’m punk. I'll rip those little ponytails slap off your head. DO NOT FUCK WITH ME.
My gang colors are blush and bashful!
…and, so it went, apparently. Leather ‘n lace, turquoise ‘n fuchsia, toucans ‘n stirrups. Unholy alliances all, making the mind boggle, the eyeballs weep, and the stomach churn. And explaining why I wear all black pretty much every day of my adult life, and also why everyone who knows me is under strict orders to feed me to a coordinated dinosaur if this particular trend ever recurs.
Y’all have a great evening, and I’ll be back tomorrow, when we will explore some really uncomfortable times in the history of my hair. Stay strong, and if you happen to have any turquoise pants lying around, please do the world a favor and keep them far, far away from me.
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