There were so many things I wanted to do today, but in the end I did none of them, because I died.
It’s tragic, I know. I will miss me. Regardless–am now dead. Several times over, actually.
The nice folks who sometimes send me products to try sent along a new! improved! Swiffer, and I thought it would be quite amusing to line it up along with all of my other Swiffer and Swiffer-like products and take a picture (just to demonstrate that even though you would never know by looking at my dirty floors, I own a veritable museum of cleaning implements with jointed aluminum handles). Oh, the hilarity that would ensue from that photo! I have an original Swiffer! An improved Swiffer! A Swiffer Wet-Jet! A Swiffer Carpet Flick! And–cover your eyes, Swiffer people–whatever that Pledge thingie is that’s an imitation of the Wet-Jet but shoots foamy stuff!
Yes, I would take a picture, and then I would test it out, and all would be well. But then I died.
I went to take a picture, you see, forgetting that my camera is currently ill. It is possessed by evil spirits. This causes it to turn on, act more or less like, you know, a camera, and then insist after I press the button to take a picture that Oops! The batteries are dead! Sorry! The batteries are NOT dead. The camera is disturbed. And I, in turn, am fifty-seven different kinds of stressed out about it, because I don’t know what’s wrong or if I can/should get it fixed, and of course my reaction to this is to keep “forgetting” that there’s anything wrong, and taking out the camera, and then being surprised when it doesn’t work. And then dying a little when I realize that, in fact, denial does not fix an expensive camera.
So I couldn’t take a picture of my impressive assortment of handled cleaners. Hey, I’m adaptable! (You, back there–stop laughing.) I could test out the new Swiffer and just not take pictures. Except, I could not test out the Swiffer, because I was attacked. And killed.
By this thing. Could you live in the face of that? You could not. In fact, now you’re dead, too.
When I was trying to convince my camera that really the batteries were fresh, I got that one picture. About half a second later, a tongue was firmly lodged inside my nostril.
As for the Swiffer, well, there were two problems. First, the interloper keeps trying to eat the dust bunnies. So there’s not a lot to, er, Swiff, up. Second, when I DO try to get to the ones she hasn’t snorfed up? She tries to kill the Swiffer. Which would probably irritate me if I wasn’t so busy laughing my ass off, because there is nothing funnier than a 12-pound blob of fur convinced both that she is ferocious and that your pseudo-mop must be terrorized into submission.
No, she is not ours. She’s on loan while our friends are away, and every time she follows me around and lunges at me in ecstasy and an uncontrollable urge to coat me in puppy saliva I die all over again, because she is so cute and good and sweet and it is really, really nice to have someone around the house who loves me unconditionally.
All this time I thought I needed a man. I just needed a loaner puppy!
I thought I’d reached my maximum limit of cuteness-related deaths, today, but I was wrong. Unlike the last time we dogsat–when the relative ratio of dogness to children was quite high–this little puppy is just my kids’ speed. They adore her and play with her and want to know whyyyyy weeeee don’t have a dooooog anymore and wheeeeen can weeeeee get our oooooown puppy. And to top it all off, the little girl who complains if I ask her to close the car door after herself (“Why do I ALWAYS have to close the door??”) has appointed herself Ultimate Puppy Mommy.
Chickadee croons to this puppy and scratches behind her ears and gently but sternly tells her to “drop it” when she picks up any one of the thousand pieces of toys left on the floor that are not good for puppies to eat. It snowed and was windy and miserable here today and Chickadee insisted on taking the dog outside for me. She bundled up, uncomplaining, each time… grabbed the leash and headed out into the snow… and when she slipped on some ice and fell because the dog pulled her too hard, she got up LAUGHING.
My daughter has been REPLACED! She’s like a pod girl! And… I feel different, too! It’s The Invasion of the Grumpy Snatchers!
So I died again, and now I’m just about the most dead you can be and still type and rub a soft puppy belly with your foot.