yesterday” was the message he sent me. “I’m going to pee on something you just bought!”
They were right. We had lost complete control of our house, relinquished it to a three-pound hairball of terror that caused my husband to speculate aloud, “I think at night . . . IT FLIES.”
How were we supposed to know about the dangers? There certainly wasn’t a sign posted outside of her cage that read, “This puppy will cost you 742 hours of sleep, six fights with your spouse, the respect of your other pets, $3,000 to repair valuable antiques, and will think for a very long time that ‘no-no’ means ‘Good girl! Do it again!’ ”
After taking her to the vet and confirming that she was not rabid or an infant grizzly bear left at the pound by mistake, my husband decided to try his own method of reclaiming control.
“GRRRR! GRRRR!” he mimicked as he played with the puppy on the couch.
“I don’t think you should do that,” I snapped. “You’re teaching her to be vicious!”
“Don’t pick at your ankle scabs. The smell of fresh blood excites her,” he whispered back. “GRRRR! I’m teaching her that I’m in charge. I am the alpha dog!”
The puppy backed down for a minute, rolled onto her back, and grew quiet.
He looked up and smiled. “See?” he said.
“Well, then, I’m not going to bother making dinner,” I said. “The cat just had a bowel movement big enough for the both of you.”
“GRRRR,” he said, lunging for my ankle.
Sweet Ride
T he key was gone.
It was GONE.
It had been looped around my finger the second before, and now it had vanished. I was in big, BIG trouble.
The first thing I did was leave my groceries in front of the checkout and I ran as fast as my two-ton legs would carry me.
Oh God, oh God, I kept thinking as I felt my fat, and particularly my two most prominent abdominal tubes, bounce up and down as I gathered all of the energy I had been storing for the past fifteen years precisely for an emergency just like this and RAN.
I ran out of the store like a quarterback, complete with noises. I didn’t really care. I just needed to know if I was going to live to see another day.
I ran into the parking lot, stopped short, and skimmed the horizon. Red roof, brown roof, truck roof. BING! Silver roof, black louvers on the back window of the 1984 300ZX, she’s safe.
I breathed a sigh of relief. She’s safe.
My mother’s car was SAFE.
I was already back in the store when I realized that although the car was still there—no one had stolen it—I still couldn’t get in it. The key was mysteriously gone. Vanished.
I have nightmares about things like this, stress dreams that cause me to wake up in the middle of the blackness, clawing at my own skin. In these dreams, I have my mom’s car, and I have eaten the key. Or I have fed it to my monkey-baby. Or have traded it for a fifteen-year-old Monte Carlo with a chain steering wheel and a barely clothed, abundantly endowed, and lust-absorbed Viking maiden painted on the hood.
It’s true. I hate that car.
Haaaaaaaaate it.
When I’m driving that car, I feel as if danger is all around me, ready to give me a big hug. I feel like I’m a target for every driver who didn’t make their last insurance payment. I feel like there is no safe place to park it, that as soon as I walk away, the battered door of a 1975 Plymouth will rip through the body of my mother’s car like a can of tuna. Every time I pull into my driveway, I pray that my foot correctly hits the brakes and not the gas, because I feel like I’m going to drive the Z right through my kitchen. I feel like a midget because it’s so low to the ground, and I basically have to roll out of it. And, worst of all, when I’m driving it, I feel like Stevie Nicks. I constantly find the words “Stand back, stand back,” “Chain, keep us together,” and “TUSK!” running through my head, and on more than one occasion, I’ve had to look into the rearview mirror to
They were right. We had lost complete control of our house, relinquished it to a three-pound hairball of terror that caused my husband to speculate aloud, “I think at night . . . IT FLIES.”
How were we supposed to know about the dangers? There certainly wasn’t a sign posted outside of her cage that read, “This puppy will cost you 742 hours of sleep, six fights with your spouse, the respect of your other pets, $3,000 to repair valuable antiques, and will think for a very long time that ‘no-no’ means ‘Good girl! Do it again!’ ”
After taking her to the vet and confirming that she was not rabid or an infant grizzly bear left at the pound by mistake, my husband decided to try his own method of reclaiming control.
“GRRRR! GRRRR!” he mimicked as he played with the puppy on the couch.
“I don’t think you should do that,” I snapped. “You’re teaching her to be vicious!”
“Don’t pick at your ankle scabs. The smell of fresh blood excites her,” he whispered back. “GRRRR! I’m teaching her that I’m in charge. I am the alpha dog!”
The puppy backed down for a minute, rolled onto her back, and grew quiet.
He looked up and smiled. “See?” he said.
“Well, then, I’m not going to bother making dinner,” I said. “The cat just had a bowel movement big enough for the both of you.”
“GRRRR,” he said, lunging for my ankle.
Sweet Ride
T he key was gone.
It was GONE.
It had been looped around my finger the second before, and now it had vanished. I was in big, BIG trouble.
The first thing I did was leave my groceries in front of the checkout and I ran as fast as my two-ton legs would carry me.
Oh God, oh God, I kept thinking as I felt my fat, and particularly my two most prominent abdominal tubes, bounce up and down as I gathered all of the energy I had been storing for the past fifteen years precisely for an emergency just like this and RAN.
I ran out of the store like a quarterback, complete with noises. I didn’t really care. I just needed to know if I was going to live to see another day.
I ran into the parking lot, stopped short, and skimmed the horizon. Red roof, brown roof, truck roof. BING! Silver roof, black louvers on the back window of the 1984 300ZX, she’s safe.
I breathed a sigh of relief. She’s safe.
My mother’s car was SAFE.
I was already back in the store when I realized that although the car was still there—no one had stolen it—I still couldn’t get in it. The key was mysteriously gone. Vanished.
I have nightmares about things like this, stress dreams that cause me to wake up in the middle of the blackness, clawing at my own skin. In these dreams, I have my mom’s car, and I have eaten the key. Or I have fed it to my monkey-baby. Or have traded it for a fifteen-year-old Monte Carlo with a chain steering wheel and a barely clothed, abundantly endowed, and lust-absorbed Viking maiden painted on the hood.
It’s true. I hate that car.
Haaaaaaaaate it.
When I’m driving that car, I feel as if danger is all around me, ready to give me a big hug. I feel like I’m a target for every driver who didn’t make their last insurance payment. I feel like there is no safe place to park it, that as soon as I walk away, the battered door of a 1975 Plymouth will rip through the body of my mother’s car like a can of tuna. Every time I pull into my driveway, I pray that my foot correctly hits the brakes and not the gas, because I feel like I’m going to drive the Z right through my kitchen. I feel like a midget because it’s so low to the ground, and I basically have to roll out of it. And, worst of all, when I’m driving it, I feel like Stevie Nicks. I constantly find the words “Stand back, stand back,” “Chain, keep us together,” and “TUSK!” running through my head, and on more than one occasion, I’ve had to look into the rearview mirror to
Similar Books
