I sat down to write a fresh blog today. I imagined writing something that would be amusing, touching and entertaining. Something that would delight the masses. Or at least the three people who read my blog (Hi, friends!). That did not happen.
Every time my butt hit the seat, something else demanded my attention. First, a dog wanted to sit in my lap. Since she is the size of a chinchilla and has the saddest, most soulful eyes, I can’t say no. So, I pause and get her settled. Then the other dog wants me to throw her ball for her. And you can’t ignore her either, because she drops the ball on your lap, staring at you intently. If you ignore her, she will bore into your skull with her eye lasers. Not wanting to ruin any part of my pretty little puss, I oblige. Then, when I throw said ball, it causes the little one to shift, and then she looks up at me with hurtful eyes because, in her mind, we were having a nice, quiet, snuggly moment and I RUINED it by throwing the ball. How could I be so cruel, her chocolatey eyes say. How could I?
I get the little one settled, and then I completely lose my train of thought. I do not have one funny, insightful topic in my head. I rack my brain for something I can write about. I start to reach for a thought when… my husband needs something. Holy hell. Why can’t this man find anything? It’s not like I put things in odd places so he can’t find them. Keys? Hanging up where they usually are. Gloves? In the basket with all of the other gloves, scarves and random ass crap that I happen to toss in there.
Then, I spot a weird dinosaur squirt gun. Seriously, why is that thing in there? It’s creepy. You have to wrap your hands around his nether-regions to squirt the water. I don’t get it. Maybe I’ll take five minutes and clean out the basket. Of course, I find too small gloves, summer hats and dog hair.
I find dog hair everywhere! I swear I clean my house, but gnomes come in the middle of the night, rip fur off my dogs and sprinkle it all over the bloody house. The probably also bring dog poop inside and deposit on my carpets. I’m always finding a dried up turd wherever I go. Or, if it isn’t gnomes, it’s probably my kids pooping in a corner and laughing their heads off when I have to clean it up.
OK. Dogs happy, husband gone, dog hair vacuumed, poop picked up… and I’m ready to be brilliant. Here comes something interesting…
And my husband calls while running errands. Can I…..? And would I also…? Sweet baby Jesus. He better come home with wine and a funny story for me to blog about. If not, I’ll be forced to write about sorting gloves or I’ll start taking pictures of dog hair tumbleweeds. No one wants it to come to that.