The Way Things Are



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Don’t you wish you were my dog?
2005-11-09, 8:38 a.m.

Don’t you wish you were my dog? Because if you were, you (1) would have your own bedroom; (2) would not have had your owners kill you yet despite your TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, no good, very bad behavior; and (3) would spend your Sunday evenings like this:


Beans on the couch. Her rope toy is situated for maximum convenience.


When the couch is no longer any good, why not try the chair? Beans majored in couch-napping and chair-lounging in college.


Beansie’s room. My mom says we’re not fooling anyone – that’s no bedside table, it’s a dog crate.


Stairway to Heathen.

Lil Guy has a vocab test today, a big one. There were about a dozen words that he was having a little trouble with, so he studied them with DW last night, and I had him quiz me on them this morning in the car. I have found that that strategy works out pretty well. Anyway, one of his words is “wayward”, so I did like any good mother would do, and belted:

“Carry on my WAYWARD son!
There’ll be peace when you are done!
Lay your weary head to reh-eh-est.
Don’t you cry no more. NO!

(guitar solo)

::dow dow dow DOWWWWW::”

“MOM!”

“::dow dow dow DOW::”

“MOM!”

“::dow dow dow dow DOW DOW…DOW DOW::”

“MOM! MOOOOMMMM! It’s okay! I get it!”

“Will you sing that to yourself during your test?”

“YES. Please stop.”

You’re all welcome for the ear worm. NOW GET BACK TO WORK!

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