Some people do some weird things in their sleep.
My sister is someone who has done weird things. In grade school, she was a sleepwalker. She even put dog treats on a plate, walked outside and delivered the treats to our dog one night. Many times she woke up during the night with her incessant chatter. We shared a room and she talked in her sleep.
The best with Andrea was a night during the summer. Mom and I were watching a movie. Andrea had tried to watch the movie but fell asleep. Anyway, our attention was stuck to the TV until Andrea sprang up from the couch, shook her finger at me and said “I know what you’re doing. You’re going for the middle trash can!” then she closed her eyes, laid down and promptly went back to sleep.
To this day, no really understands the significance of the middle trash can. Was she a raccoon? A dumpster-diving bum? And what treasure exactly did the middle trash can hold?
These are questions the world will never know unfortunately.
Now, on the other hand, there is me. I’m the type of person who falls asleep and stays asleep. But even fast asleep, I am strangely conscious of another person in bed and have been known to roll to my corner of the bed and stay there huddled against the side of my bed in effort to get away from the other person’s body heat and flailing limbs. And yes, if I shared my twin-size bed with anyone in my college dorm room, this still held true (although the body heat rule, Mac has helped break me of since he so considerately lays on top of the comforter but is still laying right against my side).
A summer in between those magical college years changed my sleeping habits some. Working two jobs, I found it hard to settle into that sweet symphony of sleep and began using Sonata to put me under the Sandman’s spell quicker. I was rejuvenated. But I had the habit of picking up the phone in a disoriented state and carrying on ten to thirty second conversations that I had no recollection of the next morning.
It got to be such a common occurrence, something my friends all began to suspect if they heard that barely conscious tone in my voice, and they’d tell me to go back to bed. I then began waking up and checking my calls to see if anyone had called and whether or not I should get back with them.
But all of that was in the past. I had graduated college, was no longer stressed with my parents impending divorce, with last-minute term papers about books I hadn’t bothered to purchase from the bookstore, with chemistry ICE problem sets, Finite matrices, and looking at my checking account and gauging how much money that I could spend on alcohol for the weekend and still be able to afford that new bra from Victoria’s Secret and a pair of Lucky jeans.
As an (faux) adult, I went to bed at 10:00 p.m. so I could get all eight hours of sleep in by the time the alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. so I could get in my hour-long sojourn on the treadmill before work. Yes, I could go after work, but I maintain an anti-social air at the gym and abide by the one-treadmill cushion rule so I’d rather go at 6 a.m. over 5 p.m. or waiting until the gym cleared out until 8 p.m. because that is prime TV watching hours and I am addicted to several TV shows.
And yes, I DVR all the shows I watch. Yes, I could watch them later, but the point of coming home from work is doing nothing, not doing nothing and then heading to the gym to have to come back home and wind down all over again. Besides, I need at least two consecutive hours of solid decompressing before I can call it a night.
With that said, it should come as no surprise that I am a hard sleeper. I require four alarms to help me start the day going off at: 1.) 4:45 a.m.; 2.) 5:15 a.m.; 3.) 5:30 a.m.; and 4.) 5:55 a.m. The first three are to ease me into the idea of getting up. The fourth is a suggestion and I usually hit snooze twice (three times if I’m really tired and four times if I want to try to set a record on how quick I can get to the gym, get home, feed the dogs, shower, make my bed, get dressed and then get to work).
My brother, who often requires a ride home on the weekends, has commented on this fact rather negatively. He’ll call one time and if I don’t answer, he’ll either call my sister or a cab. If he calls the cab, he’ll call me again (only one time), then scale the six-foot privacy fence into the backyard to stand outside my bedroom window knocking until he rouses his sister from an extremely well-deserved sleep.
I’ve told him numerous times I need at least two phone calls to wake me up, that the first one just disorients, the second brings me to consciousness, and the third wakes me up.
You can imagine my confusion when I came to consciousness Sunday night/Monday morning and I was talking on the phone. My friend kept repeating his name over and over again.
I finally, said, yes, I know…you work at…and I named the place…then I said: “Are we bringing the girls by your work or are you doing a demo at camp?”
“Erin,” he said a little more firmly and then launched into his name again.
“Yes, I know. So, you’re not doing anything at camp,” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Are you drunk?”
“Huh?” I asked because having just been roused out of sleep to find myself having a conversation with someone is a little perplexing. “No, I was asleep.”
“You weren’t drinking?” he asked me.
For some reason, this person has a habit of calling when I have been imbibing. “No, I was sleeping.” There’s a pause. “Ok, I had some sangria before bed. But I’m sober, I swear.” Lie. Anytime I swear about being sober, I am clearly not sober. It’s the same as if I tell you I’m good. Example: Erin, are you okay? “Yep, I’m good.” In my alcohol-addled mind, you are not asking me if I am sober, you are asking me how I am. I have been drinking and drinking has problem-relieving capabilities and with nothing plaguing me for an answer, I am so utterly good it is amazing.
Anyway, a few minute later, I hung up the phone and saw the call time register 16 minutes and 35 seconds. Of those 16 minutes I can recall approximately four minutes, 25%, of the conversation.
I was curious, but my friend was also a little drunk, so the convo could wait until the morning. My hand fumbled around in the dark for my sixth and final glass of sangria (The pitcher was empty. Quite sad.). There was about half a glass remaining and I quickly slurped up the remaining nightcap and enjoyed the wine-drench raspberries that had been in my glass. Delicious.
I got hold of my friend that afternoon and admitted to having no clue about a great majority of the phone call last night.
“You kept asking me who I was affiliated with,” he said. I was pretty impressed being my drunken unconscious self pulling out a word like ‘affiliated.’ I may have been drunk, I may have been asleep, but damnit, I was still going to be professional. “So I kept saying my name over and over. And then I thought, oh god, she’s at work. But how did I get her work number.”
I like how he never once questioned why I was working at 1:56 a.m. and assumed as I was at my office. That must’ve been the alcohol doing his thinking.
Anyway, we laughed at the conversation and said our goodbyes. Then I went into the living room and filled in the gaps from my story last night (because I had to tell Andrea about waking up on the phone) and we both decided that I gave new meaning to the phrase “Taking your work home.”
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
I'm going to be the drunk that everyone talks about...
At heart, I’m a masochist. I can admit this. I’ve never cut myself or anything like that, but pain from sports, exercise, and emotional pain, that is my stock in trade.
An ex-gymnast and a control freak, I’m obsessed with being perfect. Being the perfect daughter, sister, the perfect size two (I’m a four/six, depends), I’m crazy about Mac being the perfect weight, my clothes are organized by color (If my closet was bigger, I’d be so much happier because it would be so much more organized), getting wrinkles out of my sheets when I make the bed, keeping everything in its place, and yes, being good at my job.
The other part of being a gymnast is the pain. You practice with sore, stiff muscles, pulled muscles, and occasionally broken toes and fingers, sprained joints, hyper extended joints…my body is a veritable paradise of injuries. Toes? I’ve broken them by jamming against the bars numerous times. I’ve competed on a broken foot and a severely sprained ankle.
And when I didn’t perform up to my satisfaction, I was my own emotional terrorist. I’d cry on the way back. Blame myself for not working harder, for not squeezing my muscles harder enough to gain control of my balance on the beam, for taking an extra step on my dismount from bars, for a form break on floor.
The problem with perfection is that its subjective. It’s constantly changing. And opinions don’t quite always match.
I know all this, and still I strive for this perfection.
Then I wonder why I’m burned out, tired, without an appetite, and just plain exhausted.
Perfection is impossible.
Still I sought it out.
But now I’m tired. I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of killing myself for this impossible ideal.
I’m going to become a drunk. Then I’m going to become an alcoholic.
I’m not going to stop working out. Old habits die hard and all, and my weight is definitely something I can’t let get out of hand. In fact, I’m going to amp up my routine. The gym in the morning and evenings spent either running or doing yoga.
I plan on being in pain physically most of the day. Like I said, old habits die hard. But when I get home and all the exercising is done, I plan on getting drunk. The physical exertion will have me too tired to become my own emotional terrorist, and the alcohol will help dull the physical pain.
When I’m at work, I’ll be focusing on the pain in my legs, arms, back from the workouts and craving the love of my life, Jack…Daniels that is.
I’ll eat a little for breakfast (I’m not a total idiot), but my dinner will be one of fruit juice and empty calories. Coupled with the workouts, that should be more than enough to fight off any weight gain I might have. In fact, it might even get me down to that size two I so covet.
I’ll just have to pray that I can manage to pick up everything I need during the day, because once the drinks start coming, I’m not going to be able to get back out!
DRUNKENESS RULES!
An ex-gymnast and a control freak, I’m obsessed with being perfect. Being the perfect daughter, sister, the perfect size two (I’m a four/six, depends), I’m crazy about Mac being the perfect weight, my clothes are organized by color (If my closet was bigger, I’d be so much happier because it would be so much more organized), getting wrinkles out of my sheets when I make the bed, keeping everything in its place, and yes, being good at my job.
The other part of being a gymnast is the pain. You practice with sore, stiff muscles, pulled muscles, and occasionally broken toes and fingers, sprained joints, hyper extended joints…my body is a veritable paradise of injuries. Toes? I’ve broken them by jamming against the bars numerous times. I’ve competed on a broken foot and a severely sprained ankle.
And when I didn’t perform up to my satisfaction, I was my own emotional terrorist. I’d cry on the way back. Blame myself for not working harder, for not squeezing my muscles harder enough to gain control of my balance on the beam, for taking an extra step on my dismount from bars, for a form break on floor.
The problem with perfection is that its subjective. It’s constantly changing. And opinions don’t quite always match.
I know all this, and still I strive for this perfection.
Then I wonder why I’m burned out, tired, without an appetite, and just plain exhausted.
Perfection is impossible.
Still I sought it out.
But now I’m tired. I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of killing myself for this impossible ideal.
I’m going to become a drunk. Then I’m going to become an alcoholic.
I’m not going to stop working out. Old habits die hard and all, and my weight is definitely something I can’t let get out of hand. In fact, I’m going to amp up my routine. The gym in the morning and evenings spent either running or doing yoga.
I plan on being in pain physically most of the day. Like I said, old habits die hard. But when I get home and all the exercising is done, I plan on getting drunk. The physical exertion will have me too tired to become my own emotional terrorist, and the alcohol will help dull the physical pain.
When I’m at work, I’ll be focusing on the pain in my legs, arms, back from the workouts and craving the love of my life, Jack…Daniels that is.
I’ll eat a little for breakfast (I’m not a total idiot), but my dinner will be one of fruit juice and empty calories. Coupled with the workouts, that should be more than enough to fight off any weight gain I might have. In fact, it might even get me down to that size two I so covet.
I’ll just have to pray that I can manage to pick up everything I need during the day, because once the drinks start coming, I’m not going to be able to get back out!
DRUNKENESS RULES!
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The Return of the Sister and the Extremely Short Fuse - A Journey in Randomness
My sister is back in town. She was in Denmark for ten days. Life didn’t suck, but seeing as how she’s my best friend, I did miss her.
So last night, she called when her plane landed. I was a pageant judging the competitors, and it had just wrapped so I’m all dressed to the nines with my hair, my make up, and a pretty green dress and heels (and I did get compliments on the dress…sometimes it pays to have a dress-buying compulsion even though I may only wear said dress one time).
I come into the airport all dressed to the nines and see her standing with her falling out of a pony, a pair of Victoria’s Secret Led Zeppelin sweatpants, and a t-shirt that I’m sure she swiped from Hans before she left (Hans is 6’7, she’s 5’5).
She sees me and asks what I’m wearing. I tell her the pageant just wrapped and she says “How in the fuck are you going to dive for my luggage in that.”
“Like I care what anyone sees,” I say because honestly, a dress and make up will not stop me from making an ass of myself.
So we get home and ask her if she’s hungry because I’m pretty famished. She’s not, but always up for margaritas so we head to…wait for it…wait for it…Hacienda!
Seeing as how I’m an adventurous eater, I order the kids chicken strips and fries and began my first of two mugs of margarita.
I begin to fill Andrea in on what happened during the week, starting first with Manny Ramirez and his 50-day Viagra induced suspension.
“Aw, poor guy,” she says. “As if he doesn’t have enough problems getting it up, he now has to be suspended and everyone ahs to know. He just wants to have a little fun, to do it, you know.”
Now, I’m not sure what happened in the middle, but somehow we began talking about the Miracle Worker and Helen Keller. I know, I KNOW, that Helen Keller is a very successful individual and that we shouldn’t make fun of her, but if you watch her at the beginning of the movie THE MIRACLE WORKER and see her violent, non-sensical actions, it’s pretty damn funny.
I cough because a chick is smoking a cigarette nearby and just wafting smoke everywhere. I understand that we're in a bar, but please keep your smoke to yourself. That is how I feel.
Andrea says, "Home girl is just letting her smoke blow everywhere. That would be great if she caught her hair on fire. If we could see it go up in flames."
"Or if I was pyro," I say and snap my fingers in home girl's general direction.
Andrea starts cracking up and I mimic my finger snap several times. "That is a super power I would want to have. And how his lighter is attached to his wrist so he shoots fire kind of like Spiderman shoots his webs." I mimic Pyro or Spiderman shooting fire or webs, whichever you prefer, "Yeah," she says. "That'd be great.
Then the conversation inexplicably moved to Marvin Hamlish and Harry Hamlin. We really don’t know who Marvin Hamlish is, but Harry Hamlin is Lisa Rinna’s husband and was on Dancing with the Stars.
Then an advertisement for TAKEN came on and Andrea and I talked about how bad ass Liam Neeson was in that film and wondered why our father couldn’t be that cool.
“How cute is that,” Andrea said, “He got her a karaoke machine. I mean, he tried to be a good father.”
I laughed, “If I have a late meeting, I call people and tell them to be prepared because if I’m attack I’m going to start describing the person.”
“I think I’m going to make Hans take Karate. Or Jujitsu. Or Tae Kwon Do. Something because if my kid ever gets taken, I’m going to get them back.”
A few more quotes were said and then Andrea talked about the other movies she saw – Bride Wars, Hotel for Dogs, and Changeling. That prompted a phone call to Family Video to have them hold Bride Wars and Hotel for Dogs.
Anyway, we finish our margaritas and Andrea decides to blare Enrique Iglesias from the radio.
“Did I tell you Hans took me to see him in concert?” she says for the millionth time and then skips through to my favorite song of his.
She then turns the radio off and says, “Hans told me that he always closes with Hero and then Escape. And I was like, Escape? What is Escape? So he began to sing the chorus. And I was like, Oh! That’s the Stalker Song! And he was like no, Andrea, that is Escape!”
I laugh at her. Andrea has several Enrique CDs. And apparently she has never paid attention to the names of the song because she has obviously though the song “Escape” was named Stalker Song, a name a bestowed upon the song as it says “You can run, you can hide, but you can’t escape my love.”
The first time I heard this song, I was with my dear friend Henry. And we listened to the words and started cracking up because honestly, you either crack up or call the police when you hear someone say something like that. From that point on, we named it The Stalker Song. And whenever the Stalker Song played, I would phone Henry and sing it to him. I’m such a nice friend!
Anyway, we’re breaking it down to Stalker Song when we pull into the parking lot at Family Video and park next to a Fast and the Furious-style Beretta. We make fun of the car, head inside and rent our movies, and come out.
As we are pulling out, I glimpse at the bumper of the Beratta…there’s a bumper stick that says…
Who lit the fuse on your tampon.
And that…that is for me! I am out!
So last night, she called when her plane landed. I was a pageant judging the competitors, and it had just wrapped so I’m all dressed to the nines with my hair, my make up, and a pretty green dress and heels (and I did get compliments on the dress…sometimes it pays to have a dress-buying compulsion even though I may only wear said dress one time).
I come into the airport all dressed to the nines and see her standing with her falling out of a pony, a pair of Victoria’s Secret Led Zeppelin sweatpants, and a t-shirt that I’m sure she swiped from Hans before she left (Hans is 6’7, she’s 5’5).
She sees me and asks what I’m wearing. I tell her the pageant just wrapped and she says “How in the fuck are you going to dive for my luggage in that.”
“Like I care what anyone sees,” I say because honestly, a dress and make up will not stop me from making an ass of myself.
So we get home and ask her if she’s hungry because I’m pretty famished. She’s not, but always up for margaritas so we head to…wait for it…wait for it…Hacienda!
Seeing as how I’m an adventurous eater, I order the kids chicken strips and fries and began my first of two mugs of margarita.
I begin to fill Andrea in on what happened during the week, starting first with Manny Ramirez and his 50-day Viagra induced suspension.
“Aw, poor guy,” she says. “As if he doesn’t have enough problems getting it up, he now has to be suspended and everyone ahs to know. He just wants to have a little fun, to do it, you know.”
Now, I’m not sure what happened in the middle, but somehow we began talking about the Miracle Worker and Helen Keller. I know, I KNOW, that Helen Keller is a very successful individual and that we shouldn’t make fun of her, but if you watch her at the beginning of the movie THE MIRACLE WORKER and see her violent, non-sensical actions, it’s pretty damn funny.
I cough because a chick is smoking a cigarette nearby and just wafting smoke everywhere. I understand that we're in a bar, but please keep your smoke to yourself. That is how I feel.
Andrea says, "Home girl is just letting her smoke blow everywhere. That would be great if she caught her hair on fire. If we could see it go up in flames."
"Or if I was pyro," I say and snap my fingers in home girl's general direction.
Andrea starts cracking up and I mimic my finger snap several times. "That is a super power I would want to have. And how his lighter is attached to his wrist so he shoots fire kind of like Spiderman shoots his webs." I mimic Pyro or Spiderman shooting fire or webs, whichever you prefer, "Yeah," she says. "That'd be great.
Then the conversation inexplicably moved to Marvin Hamlish and Harry Hamlin. We really don’t know who Marvin Hamlish is, but Harry Hamlin is Lisa Rinna’s husband and was on Dancing with the Stars.
Then an advertisement for TAKEN came on and Andrea and I talked about how bad ass Liam Neeson was in that film and wondered why our father couldn’t be that cool.
“How cute is that,” Andrea said, “He got her a karaoke machine. I mean, he tried to be a good father.”
I laughed, “If I have a late meeting, I call people and tell them to be prepared because if I’m attack I’m going to start describing the person.”
“I think I’m going to make Hans take Karate. Or Jujitsu. Or Tae Kwon Do. Something because if my kid ever gets taken, I’m going to get them back.”
A few more quotes were said and then Andrea talked about the other movies she saw – Bride Wars, Hotel for Dogs, and Changeling. That prompted a phone call to Family Video to have them hold Bride Wars and Hotel for Dogs.
Anyway, we finish our margaritas and Andrea decides to blare Enrique Iglesias from the radio.
“Did I tell you Hans took me to see him in concert?” she says for the millionth time and then skips through to my favorite song of his.
She then turns the radio off and says, “Hans told me that he always closes with Hero and then Escape. And I was like, Escape? What is Escape? So he began to sing the chorus. And I was like, Oh! That’s the Stalker Song! And he was like no, Andrea, that is Escape!”
I laugh at her. Andrea has several Enrique CDs. And apparently she has never paid attention to the names of the song because she has obviously though the song “Escape” was named Stalker Song, a name a bestowed upon the song as it says “You can run, you can hide, but you can’t escape my love.”
The first time I heard this song, I was with my dear friend Henry. And we listened to the words and started cracking up because honestly, you either crack up or call the police when you hear someone say something like that. From that point on, we named it The Stalker Song. And whenever the Stalker Song played, I would phone Henry and sing it to him. I’m such a nice friend!
Anyway, we’re breaking it down to Stalker Song when we pull into the parking lot at Family Video and park next to a Fast and the Furious-style Beretta. We make fun of the car, head inside and rent our movies, and come out.
As we are pulling out, I glimpse at the bumper of the Beratta…there’s a bumper stick that says…
Who lit the fuse on your tampon.
And that…that is for me! I am out!
Monday, May 4, 2009
Is There No Way to Escape Family?!
Family. Seriously, we wouldn’t be here without them. And there in lies the dilemma.
If it wasn’t for family, we literally wouldn’t exist. So, we’re thankful (some of us anyway) for the life they have given us.
Ironically, they also seem to be the root of most of our problems.
Example: My father
Ever since my parents divorced he’s been certifiable. Seriously. The man is ready for the loony bin. He wrote the book on not to be trusted.
But when Hans forced Andrea to go and ask my dad if he wanted to help with the wedding, the two were pleasantly surprised that he didn’t seem to mind helping.
It’s just their ideas of helping have differed.
Since they’ve settled on their July 2010 date, Andrea’s been looking at a few different venues. Hans’s family isn’t destitute and with my relatives being members at the local country club, she’s checked into having it there. For members, they are decently priced – especially for everything you get.
Anyway, she is in Denmark at the moment, and Hans’s mother and sister asked her about a certain venue – West Baden. West Baden is a nice resort, spa, and casino in French Lick, Indiana (birthplace of Larry Byrd). It’s a little over a two-hour drive from where we are in southern Indiana. Of course, she’d love to have it there and if Hans’s parents aren’t scared off by the price, she’d have no problem with it.
But having family travel two hours would be a bummer. Most would have to spend the night and she’s now defeated the purpose of having the wedding locally.
Anyway, my mother hears through the grapevine that my father has approached an old neighbor about catering the wedding. The woman’s daughter tells her that they work at the venue all the time.
The venue is a men’s club in the middle of BFE. The menu he has put together with no knowledge from my sister or Han’s is fried chicken and ham.
We only learn of this while she’s in Denmark. So, she sucks it up and calls my dad to let him know that monetary help and not his cultured party-planning expertise is needed.
Of course, like the nut job he has become, he is not pleased.
And then Andrea tells him that Hans’ family has looked at French Lick.
“Well, French Lick,” he says. “What would I do about my dog.”
If this had been me my reply would have been: Maybe put it down.
Now, I’d like to make a note: I live nearly ALL animals (with the exception of snakes). I would advocate for all animals if I could (however, I’m not going to become a PETA-card-carrying crazy. I like my chicken and turkey). I’ve never met a dog I didn’t like. For more own dog, he eats organic dog food and treats and goes on runs with his mommy despite how much she really dislikes running. But this dog….this dog is as nuts as its owner (maybe that has something to do with all this). He’s skittish and totally unsocialized.
And the dog bit me.
Yes. We were playing fetch. I’d thrown this toy of his four and five times when he clamped down on my right forearm FOR NO REASON AT ALL. I remained calm even when I saw the multiple gashes that wouldn’t stop bleeding. However, I got a little hysterical on the way to the hospital when it hurt to wiggle my fingers. Nerve damage was my first thought and I promptly worked myself into an emotional panic attack.
No nerve damage was done. The marks were deep enough to require stitches, but they don’t like to stitch animal bites because of the germs and bacteria.
Long story short, I don’t like this dog.
Anyway, back to the phone call with my dad and sister.
Since he was being cut out of the planning committee, he told them that should just elope, that he give them money for that.
Gee, he’s such a nice guy.
But an elopement means he doesn’t have to worry about his dog!
I’d hate for something to happen to that dog.
If it wasn’t for family, we literally wouldn’t exist. So, we’re thankful (some of us anyway) for the life they have given us.
Ironically, they also seem to be the root of most of our problems.
Example: My father
Ever since my parents divorced he’s been certifiable. Seriously. The man is ready for the loony bin. He wrote the book on not to be trusted.
But when Hans forced Andrea to go and ask my dad if he wanted to help with the wedding, the two were pleasantly surprised that he didn’t seem to mind helping.
It’s just their ideas of helping have differed.
Since they’ve settled on their July 2010 date, Andrea’s been looking at a few different venues. Hans’s family isn’t destitute and with my relatives being members at the local country club, she’s checked into having it there. For members, they are decently priced – especially for everything you get.
Anyway, she is in Denmark at the moment, and Hans’s mother and sister asked her about a certain venue – West Baden. West Baden is a nice resort, spa, and casino in French Lick, Indiana (birthplace of Larry Byrd). It’s a little over a two-hour drive from where we are in southern Indiana. Of course, she’d love to have it there and if Hans’s parents aren’t scared off by the price, she’d have no problem with it.
But having family travel two hours would be a bummer. Most would have to spend the night and she’s now defeated the purpose of having the wedding locally.
Anyway, my mother hears through the grapevine that my father has approached an old neighbor about catering the wedding. The woman’s daughter tells her that they work at the venue all the time.
The venue is a men’s club in the middle of BFE. The menu he has put together with no knowledge from my sister or Han’s is fried chicken and ham.
We only learn of this while she’s in Denmark. So, she sucks it up and calls my dad to let him know that monetary help and not his cultured party-planning expertise is needed.
Of course, like the nut job he has become, he is not pleased.
And then Andrea tells him that Hans’ family has looked at French Lick.
“Well, French Lick,” he says. “What would I do about my dog.”
If this had been me my reply would have been: Maybe put it down.
Now, I’d like to make a note: I live nearly ALL animals (with the exception of snakes). I would advocate for all animals if I could (however, I’m not going to become a PETA-card-carrying crazy. I like my chicken and turkey). I’ve never met a dog I didn’t like. For more own dog, he eats organic dog food and treats and goes on runs with his mommy despite how much she really dislikes running. But this dog….this dog is as nuts as its owner (maybe that has something to do with all this). He’s skittish and totally unsocialized.
And the dog bit me.
Yes. We were playing fetch. I’d thrown this toy of his four and five times when he clamped down on my right forearm FOR NO REASON AT ALL. I remained calm even when I saw the multiple gashes that wouldn’t stop bleeding. However, I got a little hysterical on the way to the hospital when it hurt to wiggle my fingers. Nerve damage was my first thought and I promptly worked myself into an emotional panic attack.
No nerve damage was done. The marks were deep enough to require stitches, but they don’t like to stitch animal bites because of the germs and bacteria.
Long story short, I don’t like this dog.
Anyway, back to the phone call with my dad and sister.
Since he was being cut out of the planning committee, he told them that should just elope, that he give them money for that.
Gee, he’s such a nice guy.
But an elopement means he doesn’t have to worry about his dog!
I’d hate for something to happen to that dog.
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