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she· verb
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07.02.03
I like how when I look at my dogs as they are hanging out on the couch, or hanging out on the bed, or hanging out at my feet, just sitting there being dogs--that when I look at them and say something in a squeaky voice, they wag their tails. Not just gentle dainty wags, but vigorous, thumping, lightning-fast bunny wags. It doesn't matter what I say. The line, "Ouija, you're the bestest little doggie in the world" elicits the same response as, "Theo, is that a garbage pile or is that your face?" provided they are delivered in the same silly high-pitched voice. Hours of enjoyment for the entire family. Family. It's clear that while at home, I spend a little too much time preoccupied with the dogs. It leads me to notions of procreating, a suddenly oddly delightful notion to me that both intrigues and frightens Hula. It started on the 12 hour ride home from West Virginia and snowballed from there. I haven't the foggiest idea where we're going with this, but we're officially Thinking About It. I thought you might like to know. Eek! I've become a giant fuzzy ball of slack at work this week. I'm not certain if it's my chronic staying-up-past-midnight-flipping-between-Jackass-and-Letterman that causes me to be sleepy and tardy in the mornings or if it's a sense that my time is short at the House of Pain. I just can't get my act together. Late on Tuesday, I intentionally drove PAST the House of Pain in search of six little chocolate doughnuts (or "donuts" as the package defiantly proclaims). I don't even LIKE little chocolate donuts. In fact, I have been known to mock both those who indulge in them and spell like them. Regardless, I spent a good 20 minutes hunting them down in the country town of old Alahchu-ay. I really need to go to bed at a normal grown-up time tonight. I'm exhausted and making little sense. Oh! How convenient for you. I hear a car outside, which means my dinner is here and I have to go. Pizza Pizza.
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