Tuesday, August 31, 2010

It's Hard To Type and Hold My Breath = a Letter to my dog

Dear Rabi -

You are my favorite pet. You are my shadow and my constant companion.

I forgave you when you ate my camera and the bag it was in. I didn't even make you eat store brand dog food and live in your kennel for a month like I threatened.

I got over your ingestion of my favorite black stilleto heels - the ones that were perfect with THe black dress. Even when the cobbler told me they were mangled beyond repair, I forgave you.

I think it's cute the way you and Ginger nap together - even though he's a cat.

I secretly find the guilty look you give me when you lay on the leather couch - even though you know it is forbidden - cute.

I didn't scream or yell when you dug in the back yardand then tracked mud in on the freshly mopped kitchen floor or when the animal catcher chased you home after you followed Joey to school.

But we have to talk.

You have gas.I know as ladies, we don't speak of such things.

Gas that could kill people if used in mass quantities

Green fog-like gas that makes my eyes water and makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

This could be used as a weapon of mass destruction. Heaven forbid you let one go near a military installation - the silent but deadly fumes would make soldiers don their gas mask in fear of biological weapon contamination.

Charles has less body odor after he comes home from a run or a week long campout.

So tonight, while you sleep outside because I don't think there is a clause in pour home owner's policy about natural gas explosions. I'll be contacting the EPA about a warning label for your butt.

Love, Mom

PS - Dear neighbors with the chickens - this is a far more gentle way for your chickens to go to the stock pot in the sky - and a lot less noisy.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Hey God, Are You Trying to Tell Me Something?

Charles and I were sitting here 30 minutes ago enjoying a movie when the phone rang. Eric is still at work so I answered it, knowing that whomever is calling at this hour had to be family.

A creepyish voice, something like a voice like a mating of Marvin the Martian and Darth Vader asked to speak to me - using my maiden name. I hadn't used my maiden name in years - many many years.

Martian Vader bid me good evening and inquired about my day. Then he launched his speel.

"Mrs. Svetlik have you thought about your funeral in the event of your eventual demise?"

"Mrs. Svetlik is my mother and my grandmother - but she's already intered I hadn't thought about anything other than doing the dishes and going to bed - death isn't on my 'to do' list tonight"

Miss, we here at Restland can help you with all of your funeral preplanning needs so your family won't have to wonder what your funeral wishes are."

"Dude, I'll be dead , they can put me in a Hefty Bag and sing kumbya - I'll be dead I won't care."

"Ma'am imagine the pain and aguish you'll leave your children."

"My oldest child is 15, the only mental anguish he'll suffer is if someone forgets to buy groceries - even upon my eternal departure from this planet. Furthermore, I'm just pleased I finally remembered the brown sugar at WalMart today. The people in my house are happy if there's fruit snacks and string cheese. Titanium inlaid coffins and solid gold overlayed urns are not anything we're ready to give much thought to."

"But ma'am you could die."

"Sir I promise you, we're all gonna die - Prince wrote a song about it, I'm not interested in any tours or time share plans for funeral plots. but you have a good night ."

The economy must be really rough if the Grim Reaper is resorting to cold calls.