Here is a picture of Django & Bucket on one of their morning top speed stick chewing "walks". I am not, however, going to say anything nice about the dogs because every time I do that, like I did a couple days ago, I come home after work and find that they've been terribly bad. As in, the little shits ate a big hole in my comforter and took an Ingles soft cooler bag thing off the kitchen counter and ate that. I was seriously pissed off about the comforter and I'm not particularly happy about the cooler either, although my ire was diluted a bit on that one by watching Django get his head stuck in it for a while. He got out, though. Still, it's unnerving to realize that the dogs read this blog while I'm at work and whenever I say something kind or loving about them, they realize that they have stored up brownie points that they can now squander.
The kids are sort of the same way, except they are more devious, in that they have long since figured out how to bend me to their will. Actually, they've known all their lives that if you just get Mom off on one of her favorite tangents, bedtime will be delayed almost indefinitely. This was clearly demonstrated by young A's counterfeit interest, at age 5, in the cover art on the Yessongs album. Nowadays, they use the same tactic for different aims. A will tell me mournfully that the tax people took her money because the system is slanted by the evil Republicans against the working poor "W took my money, Mom!" knowing perfectly well that that means I will immediately go, "Oh my god, darling, you're so right and of course you don't have to pay me back." And young M will explain how the forces of the evil Right are conspiring against teenagers and before I know it I'll be agreeing that it's time for a Revolution and of course the cell can meet in the garage and yeah, honey, you totally deserve an ipod. It's tough to be on the side of Good and the (slightly confused, but wellmeaning) Left all the time.
In other news, a penguin has been saved from embarrassment and the horrors of old age by a wetsuit. This story made me get all teary eyed, because, hey, there are only nine shopping days left before my birthday so I'm feeling a certain kinship with balding elderly penguins. Although I'm not balding. Yet. Still, I hope someone makes me a wetsuit when I start to, because, hey, let's face it, nothing eases the eye away from the unsettling sight of a tall bald woman like a wetsuit. It's odd, though, because usually I'm not much a sucker for animals in clothes - dogs always look so unhappy in them and we're not even going to talk about the outraged dignity of cats - but something about penguins in clothes is so . . so. . I don't know, there doesn't seem to be an English word for it. It's just right, somehow, terribly, terribly right and it makes me nearly weep with joy.
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