Monday, March 4, 2013


• Pus gives me the willies. The word “pus.” Seeing pus. Thinking about pus. Anything to do with pus sends shivers down my spine. Soph has some pus oozing by her eye. Oozing is an appalling word. The only positive in the situation: my vet office was able to get us in with my preferred animal doc this afternoon. So much for yoga. Good thing my priorities aren’t so screwed up that I don’t know that taking care of my beastie’s health comes before trying to push my backbends a little bit further. But dammit, you know?

• I didn’t need my Ambien last night. At, like, 9:30PM I got into bed for a minute before going into the bathroom to do my face-washed-contacts-out-teeth-brushed routine, and I got out of bed ten hours later. For the first time in seven months I passed out without pharmaceutical help! My internist would be very pleased since she wants me off prescription tranquilizers by the end of April.

• Let’s say your husband left you for another woman. I know: a nasty thought. But go with me here for a minute. Say the cretin you married ditched your 30-year-old ass for a married-with-four-kids 44-year-old ass, how long do you think it would take before you could find some Funny in the whole situation? Though I certainly have no experience with a circumstance like this one, I’d say that The Funny would hit you gradually, in spurts; and if you were, say, divorced for three months, you might find yourself standing in the shower one morning giggling about how Gilbert Blythe, who might bear a striking resemblance to El Ex, was totally right when he hollered at Anne Shirley: Cheaters never prosper! Best of luck finding happiness, morons.

• Why does my dog have to crap in other people’s houses? Though house-trained, she’s a vengeful pooper. If I leave her alone too long, she’ll deposit hate-poop under a table or chair. And when she’s at someone else’s house, rather than scratch at the door that she knows lets her outside where her ecological contributions belong, she’ll crap on the rug right in front of the door while I’m standing next to her. It’s always a really proud puppy-parent moment.

I do not call myself Sophie’s mom. Because I’m not. I own her. Sounds rude, I know, but we bought this dog. Her mom was a Yorkie named Emmy.

Yesterday Josie told me that my house is too big for one person. “Like, when do you ever use that table?” she asked, pointing at my round dining table that’s always decoratively set for eight. In the nearly-six years that that table’s been in this house, it’s been used twice. But that doesn’t irk me one tiny bit. If I use it I have to clean it more often. (Frowny face.) But she's not wrong—there is too much space for just me and my tiny, pus-oozing dog. Just what should I do with the empty room that used to be The Wasband's office?


Tia said...

Delightful reading. It's worthy of pouring up a drink of sorts (not caffeine-free) and "pouring" over your blog entry again. And know what? I miss you. I had a text message conversation with Branson today and recalled good times in The Big City. Maybe we can schedule a reunion. In the interim, keep on keepin' on. It's the name of the game.

Kate said...

I'm glad you're back, and I should have said that sooner. Flipboard makes me lazy about commenting.
The Funny hit me properly after a few months. Mainly because he appeared on my doorstep to collect something, and I already felt such a different person that I felt like I'd not seen him for years and years.