house.
Ding-dong .
“Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Let Earth receive her King …”
“Darling, how old are you?” asked this adorably sweet lady. I was afraid to answer her, because how many twenty-year-olds hustle the neighborhood singing songs for cash by themselves?
I was sure as shit the answer was none.
“Um, I’m twenty,” I said in the softest voice possible.
“It’s thirty below zero outside. Why don’t you get a job indoors?” she asked.
“I need to make some quick cash to buy my parents Christmas presents,” I said with the utmost honesty. “I don’t really have time to job hunt, fill out applications, et cetera.”
“That is so sweet of you, dear. So this isn’t for a boyfriend?”
I laughed. “The only man worth me freezing my butt off for is my dad. I love him. He’s the hardest-working guy I know.”
“Hold on a sec.” She left and came back with a twenty. “Hope you get them something wonderful!”
“Oh my God. Thank you so much. You have no idea how grateful I am! Do you want me to sing you another song?”
“No!” She giggled.
I laughed, thanked her again, and followed it with a “Merry Christmas!” I Christmas caroled by myself every day for eight days. I made $250. I had at least fifty doors slammed in my face, one person threatened to call the police, and one offered me an extra ten bucks if I sang and shook my ass back and forth. Of course I obliged.
On Christmas night, we all sat around the tree, and I felt so good handing my parents a gift I know they deserved.
My mom opened the envelope and read it out loud. “‘The last time you both went alone somewhere was your honeymoon. Here is one night free at the Love Shack Inn to get your freak on, but don’t make any more babies. We can’t afford them. Merry Christmas. I love you. Jenny.’”
“Wow, Jenny, that is so thoughtful. How did you pay for this?” my mom asked.
Amy said, “The idiot Christmas caroled for eight days.”
My mom and dad started laughing. Then my mom said to me, “Jenny, you have always amazed me with your clever ways to make money. You kill me.” They both got up and hugged me.
They had no idea just how clever I was about to get.
18
Can Someone Kill Our Dog, Please?
Our family dog was named Pickles. She was a mutt with scraggly black hair. If Pickles were a person, she would totally be Janeane Garofalo.
Living in a house with four little girls, Pickles had to endure getting dressed up in gowns and wigs for years. We loved her and treated her like a fifth sister.
When I was about ten years old, I was getting ready for school one morning when I noticed Pickles pushing like she was trying to poop. I stood there in shock because Pickles never pooped in the house.
“Mom, Mom, something is wrong with Pickles. It looks like she is trying to poop, but nothing is coming out.”
My mom ran over and started yelling for my dad. “Dan, come here. I think something is wrong with Pickles.”
My dad and all my sisters joined in to watch Pickles bear down.
Suddenly a black blob came out of her and hit the floor. The blob had legs! Pickles was giving birth! I was amazed and disgusted at the same time.
We all stood there not really knowing what to do. Within fifteen minutes, there were three blobs on the floor that came to life. Pickles continued to bear down and push, and we were all waiting for the fourth blob, but it never came.
After giving birth, Pickles started looking weak, and my mom and dad took her to the hospital. She had a dead, deformed puppy inside her that she couldn’t deliver. They removed the pup and brought Pickles back home to care for her litter.
It’s a beautiful thing to watch animals care for their pups. Without words, their energy and attention radiate love.
In the months that followed, we watched people come over and adopt all of Pickles’s babies. I wondered how Pickles didn’t get upset that people were stealing her babies. Another amazing thing
Ding-dong .
“Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Let Earth receive her King …”
“Darling, how old are you?” asked this adorably sweet lady. I was afraid to answer her, because how many twenty-year-olds hustle the neighborhood singing songs for cash by themselves?
I was sure as shit the answer was none.
“Um, I’m twenty,” I said in the softest voice possible.
“It’s thirty below zero outside. Why don’t you get a job indoors?” she asked.
“I need to make some quick cash to buy my parents Christmas presents,” I said with the utmost honesty. “I don’t really have time to job hunt, fill out applications, et cetera.”
“That is so sweet of you, dear. So this isn’t for a boyfriend?”
I laughed. “The only man worth me freezing my butt off for is my dad. I love him. He’s the hardest-working guy I know.”
“Hold on a sec.” She left and came back with a twenty. “Hope you get them something wonderful!”
“Oh my God. Thank you so much. You have no idea how grateful I am! Do you want me to sing you another song?”
“No!” She giggled.
I laughed, thanked her again, and followed it with a “Merry Christmas!” I Christmas caroled by myself every day for eight days. I made $250. I had at least fifty doors slammed in my face, one person threatened to call the police, and one offered me an extra ten bucks if I sang and shook my ass back and forth. Of course I obliged.
On Christmas night, we all sat around the tree, and I felt so good handing my parents a gift I know they deserved.
My mom opened the envelope and read it out loud. “‘The last time you both went alone somewhere was your honeymoon. Here is one night free at the Love Shack Inn to get your freak on, but don’t make any more babies. We can’t afford them. Merry Christmas. I love you. Jenny.’”
“Wow, Jenny, that is so thoughtful. How did you pay for this?” my mom asked.
Amy said, “The idiot Christmas caroled for eight days.”
My mom and dad started laughing. Then my mom said to me, “Jenny, you have always amazed me with your clever ways to make money. You kill me.” They both got up and hugged me.
They had no idea just how clever I was about to get.
18
Can Someone Kill Our Dog, Please?
Our family dog was named Pickles. She was a mutt with scraggly black hair. If Pickles were a person, she would totally be Janeane Garofalo.
Living in a house with four little girls, Pickles had to endure getting dressed up in gowns and wigs for years. We loved her and treated her like a fifth sister.
When I was about ten years old, I was getting ready for school one morning when I noticed Pickles pushing like she was trying to poop. I stood there in shock because Pickles never pooped in the house.
“Mom, Mom, something is wrong with Pickles. It looks like she is trying to poop, but nothing is coming out.”
My mom ran over and started yelling for my dad. “Dan, come here. I think something is wrong with Pickles.”
My dad and all my sisters joined in to watch Pickles bear down.
Suddenly a black blob came out of her and hit the floor. The blob had legs! Pickles was giving birth! I was amazed and disgusted at the same time.
We all stood there not really knowing what to do. Within fifteen minutes, there were three blobs on the floor that came to life. Pickles continued to bear down and push, and we were all waiting for the fourth blob, but it never came.
After giving birth, Pickles started looking weak, and my mom and dad took her to the hospital. She had a dead, deformed puppy inside her that she couldn’t deliver. They removed the pup and brought Pickles back home to care for her litter.
It’s a beautiful thing to watch animals care for their pups. Without words, their energy and attention radiate love.
In the months that followed, we watched people come over and adopt all of Pickles’s babies. I wondered how Pickles didn’t get upset that people were stealing her babies. Another amazing thing
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