Hey, guess what? Some people had Monday off this week… like D. (Don’t mind me, I’m always this lovely green color.)
We didn’t even realize it until Friday night, which is a good thing, because if we’d have realized it sooner, I’d have just been bitter and jealous even longer. Here’s kind of how it went:
D: “Hey… I think I’m off on Monday.”
D: “Yeah! I’m off! I’m pretty sure!”
D: “Yes, the lab is closed! I have a three-day weekend! Wow! That’s cool? Isn’t that cool?”
Apparently it was President’s Day. Now, I can’t remember the last time I had President’s Day off. I mean, I’m a good citizen and all, and I certainly appreciate the dedication of our fine leaders. (Well, most of them, anyway. Still not real happy with W.) But what’s not to like about Millard Fillmore, who was No. 13 (a fact I only remember because that was my jersey number all through high school and college)?
But if they’re really dedicated patriots, wouldn’t they want us to work and increase our nation’s productivity? Cash checks at the banks? Settle civil lawsuits? And in D’s case, put more bad guys away?
And I must confess, despite knowing that it was President’s Day because of that in-depth conversation with D, I STILL went and checked the mailbox. I hate it when I do that. Kinda like flipping the light switch even when the power’s out and I’m finding my way from room to room via flashlight.
At least the traffic was lighter today as I went to WORK. (Sorry. Was that bitterness again leaking out of my fingers? Sounds like someone could use a vacation. Or at least a normal old two-day weekend, which has been elusive, too — we’ve had a lot of news at the hospital lately). And where’s my Mardi Gras holiday, that’s what I want to know. Laissez les bon temps rouler and all.
I think we’re adjusting to the Dallas move pretty well. I should be, given that next month it’ll be a year for me now. But I have to say, I’m a little worried about the long-term effect on Chase. For some reason, the little guy has suddenly started FREAKING OUT. There’s no better way to describe it. In the mornings when it’s time to go into his kennel, he darts right in, but sits there and trembles and shakes and generally acts like as soon as I leave, some horrible demon will come terrorize him.
We’re trying a little Puppy Xanax, see if that helps. Given that it’s time for spring thunderstorms, we’ll really be doling out the meds. He’s gotten anxious about those recently, too. You should’ve seen the little dude when we had the thundersnow a couple of weeks ago. He was bouncing all over the walls, and nothing could comfort him. Tomorrow it’s supposed to be stormy here again, so it’ll be time in the morning for another half of a happy pill. Wish I knew how to fix that.
I realized just the other night that I needed to refill that Puppy Xanax. This epiphany arrived as we drove through a car wash to get some of the nasty salt-dirt off of the black car. I’m not sure exactly what reminded me, unless it was when the big whirly flappy things started spinning. That’s when Chase shot out of the back of the SUV like a golden rocket, crawled on top of my head, scrabbled his little claws all over my shoulders, and slobbered and panted hysterically.
Note to self: Don’t take your dog through the car wash if he’s scared of thunderstorms.
This is because, apparently, the big pounding slaps and slashing waves of water sound remarkably like … a thunderstorm.
I am, officially, the world’s worst parent. I make Joan Crawford look like Mother Teresa. I make those wackos who pretended their kid was trapped in the runaway hot-air balloon look like geniuses (even if F16s weren’t launched this time).
It’s not like I could do anything about it at the time, either. I seriously thought about grabbing the hysterical pup and leaping out of the car, timing it perfectly so that we slipped unscathed through the big blue whirly things.
I think you all know how that actually would have gone.
There would have been a loud noise (my car door ripping off), a caterwauling scream of pain (me, Chase or some combination thereof), a frantic 911 call (which soon would have aired on a cut-rate cable program named “America’s Dumbest People Call 911”). And we both would have drowned, although when they found our bodies, we’d have been shiny and clean and coated with that pretty rainbow-colored foam.
Another odd thing, from my eyes, anyway: We got a coupon book in the mail the other day. You know, the ones with a bunch of 5×7 sheets of paper, all promising great deals on things like oil changes, meals at restaurants “under new management!!,” new granite countertops for just $1.12 for the entire kitchen, that kind of thing. One of them, though, was for … a funeral.
Seriously. It had little coupons outlined in dotted-line boxes, promising “direct cremation” for just $795, or a complete Veteran’s Package for just $2,995. (The former includes refrigeration, too.)
Do people really clip those coupons out and stick them in their kitchen junk drawer, on the off-chance they’ll need a funeral one day soon? I mean, my devoted friends and readers know I love a good coupon better than anyone. (And not just because it gives me something to cross-file and alphabetize.) But even I see no need to save one of these.
Maybe some people do, because the coupons don’t have an expiration date.
I did find out, though, through this lovely marketing opportunity that the loss of a loved one is never an easy time, and that XXX Funeral Home is here to help me through this difficult process with simple, affordable funeral care. And that the funeral home understands the need for quality service and attention to detail at a value price.
Good to know.