New Arrival

So I’m hoping this comes through all right; I couldn’t post yesterday since the site was having maintenance issues. We’ll see.

I was making my shopping list for this weekend, and it has to be the oddest collection of random items, ever. Without all the food, which is pretty basic, it goes a little something like this:

Dowel rod
Windshield wiper (driver’s side)
K.T. Tunstall CD
Running shoes

Now, if you were ringing me up for all this, what would you think I was making? A mini-trebuchet that would throw tampons soaked in antifreeze at my enemies? And then, having successfully kicked my headache, go for a nice run (so I have an alibi for the cops, natch) while listening to “Suddenly I See?” Would you break it into many small tasks, like using the windshield wiper to squeegee pudding off my ceiling from a particularly wild party or babysitting fiasco, and the tampons and dowel rod for my night job as a large animal vet because it’s the only effective way to clean the giraffe’s ears? This is what I loved about my writing classes—the fun to be had when you let your imagination run wild.

What actually will be done with these items: I will be able to drive in the rain again, not worry about my car failing to start, run without fallen arches, make a toy for my fat cat so she burns a little of the junk off her trunk, hear the “Black Horse and Cherry Tree” song whenever I feel like it and generally deal with the stress headaches and curse of life that comes with the average woman’s period.

Reality’s much less exciting. It doesn’t involve giraffes.

My brother recently acquired a dog. He went to the breeder’s (YOU: “Evil!” ME: “I know”) with his girlfriend’s parents, as they were looking for a new dog. It feels weird to type that, like, it’s not like the old one broke down. You know what I mean. Anyways, the in-laws found what they wanted, and my brother, impulse-buyer that he is, had to have one as well. He and his girlfriend had been discussing getting a golden retriever, so naturally, he comes home with a shih-tzu.

His name is Chester.

I, of course, do not call him Chester. I call him Brian, because he looks exactly like Brian Blessed. You linked; you tell me I’m wrong.

My sister has been over there everyday, cooing over the puppy and insisting he’s the cutest thing, which is to be expected, as she has a shih-tzu herself. I do not agree with the cute. He’s sweet enough, and he’s got a very soulful face, I‘ll give him that much, but not cute. Shih-tzus as a rule are uncute, and it is up to their personality to make up the difference. I have high hopes for Brian there—he’s pretty even-tempered, even considering the amount of pampering he endures from my brother, who has treated him like a proverbial blessed event. Having mocked him severely for it, I must now say that it is really adorable how he carries on with the dog, and I can see he’s going to be a good father. Which is a weird thing to realize, that transition when your siblings become adults. The people you blamed for your petty crimes and lip-synched to Debbie Gibson tunes are on the road to becoming parents. It’s not exactly frightening, but does give me pause. And you’d better pause, because otherwise you might miss it.

I’m getting ahead of myself. None of us are that old yet.
Now if you’ll excuse me, [splashes on Petite Nate] I have a date with Teddy Ruxpin.


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