Month: August 2005

When I’m yelling at the dog to get out from underneath the desk for the 100th time, I decided he needs a middle name. Because you cannot yell at someone without using their middle name. So I decided he should have the same middle name as Mr. Dump. I tried Junior’s middle name but it didn’t work for me. So now he’s got a middle name and it just works better when I’m yelling “stop eating the blinds!” or “If you don’t hurry up and poop I’m going to scream!”

Mr. Dump brought Phantom to Junior’s summer camp and some woman started yelling “I just love a little rat dog!”

Uh, thanks? How is one supposed to respond to that? “He’s not a rat dog” is probably a good start. (For the record, we always call chihuahuas rat dogs because of the Mexican Rat Dog urban legend. But Phantom is a cockapoo, not a rat dog. )

This has been a public service announcement.

I may be the only person I know who can get injured by oatmeal.

I’m just saying.

(Okay, it was hot, cooked oatmeal, and it landed on my finger and gave me an ouchie. But still, it counts as an oatmeal injury.)

It’s been far too long between Little House on the Prairie books. I know that they’re probably labor-intensive, what with the small words and the big print. Maybe it’s the illustrations (which really, are some of the best ever done for chapter books – far far better than the Harry Potter illustrations). But because Laura Ingalls Wilder is taking so very very long to get the next book to her publisher, I’m going to step up to the plate and write my own, just like I am volunteering for HP7.

Let’s see. Manly and Laura are married, and their daughter Rose was born. Their house burned down but they saved the “Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread” plate. Okay, got it.

Okay, the book starts out with Laura announcing to Manly that she’s tired of being a stay-at-home mom, she wants to move to New York and try her hand as a Rockette. She tells him that there’s no future in farming, and that if he comes with her, he might be able to find work as a male model in the clothing district. He agrees to come with her for one year – if she doesn’t have any success, she agrees to move back to the dirt farm and feed the chickens until she dies. Hilarity ensues.

In case JK Rowling has a hand cramp, I’m willing to take a stab. I’ve made some notes.

The next book is going to be wildly different. Nobody goes back to Hogwarts. Instead they buy a van, paint it and call it the Magic Machine…Harry Hermoine, Ron, Ginny, Hagrid and their dog, Scooby Doo.

Sure, there’s an extra human. Ron can be Don Knotts.

How am I supposed to enjoy my salad here at my contrct job when they don’t have green olives available to me?

I am crushed.

Other than that, I’m busy. But no green olives, damnit!