First, this is the post that I am the most proud of, and, of course, it is not here. Which makes no sense, but, you know.
Today is Tuesday, and all of you brilliant and gorgeous readers (wait–have you lost weight? Your looks hot as hell!) readers know what that means: Beaver Talk With Aunt Becky, over at Toy With Me.
Thank you to anyone who has come by to support me over there. I’m still getting my sea legs and feeling a bit wobbly. All of your comments are cherished and loved and crocheted into tiny wee plaques that I hang onto my walls. Or maybe just really, really appreciated.
For anyone who–understandably–does not want to hear me talk about my lady bits, I am rewriting a (probably) unread old post from the vaults, written shortly after Alex was born, and airing it below.
I weighed myself this week.
This is kind of a masochistic big deal, considering that I had no earthly idea what kind of poundage I put on with this crotch parasite. After I continued gaining weight WHILE BARFING MY BRAINS OUT, I decided that maybe I just didn’t need to know just how efficient my metabolism could be.
Turns out, you don’t have to look when you get weighed in.
I mean, I gained a bunch with my first and all, but I ate garbage nonstop, so yeah, of course I got fat. Well, this time, I did not. And yet I STILL got fat. I feel loftily sure that I would kick some major ass in a famine, but now, my dimpled white ass needs some major work.
Let’s just say that I have my work cut out for me.
Operation Remove My Fat Ass has begun.
So after I got my good cry out, I decided to get productive and go on a walk as I have not been cleared to lift anything heavier than the baby, a walk would be nice and low impact.
I bundled Cletus the Former Fetus (ed note: Alex) up into my fancy stroller, threw my iPod over my ears to drown out his indignant “I can’t believe you’re not holding me to your breast Slave Woman! Where is my nipple? It’s not in my mouth where it belongs, you bitch!” screams, and began to enjoy the motherfucking scenery.
(as an aside, I can only imagine the horrible mother that my neighbors thought that I must be, letting my child cry like that while I grimly, determinedly walk on. I CLEARLY do not deserve to be a parent.)
As I rounded a corner, I saw the strangest thing. For the *second* time in my life.
There was a dog on a roof.
There was a (motherfucking) dog on the roof of a (motherfucking) house.
He just stood there, staring back at me as thought it was the most normal thing in the world for dogs everywhere to lounge about on tops of houses reaching two stories high.
Having had to run on no appreciable sleep for the past six weeks, I many had problems deciding how to react to the situation.
Do I call the dog? Do I keep walking? Do I want a tuna sandwich? Do I EVEN LIKE TUNA? Slowly but surely, my memory banks began to cross reference the situation: where had I seen this before? A whimsical romantically comedy? Possibly a dream I had when I was a kid? Do I even like tuna sandwiches?
And it dawned on me: several years ago, my neighbor called me outside to bear witness a dog sitting on the roof of a house across the street. A couple of us gathered out there, discussing the dog, who looked as befuddled as we were, unsure as to how it got up and as to how it was going to get back down again.
Somebody needed to do…something. If this was a made-for-TV-movie, a hot-as-hell fireman with twinkly green eyes would rescue the dog and maybe he and I would fall in love. And live happily ever after.
I offered to call the fire department, since my neighbors all seemed more interested in gawking and gaping than the poor pooch who was stuck up on the roof.
Figuring this was my shot at my one true love, I did. They directed me to animal control. Who directed me to the police. Who directed me to public works. Who told me to call the fire department.
I’m pretty sure they all looped to the same person, because I had the same fucking conversation. Either that or it was my own version of Groundhog Day:
Me: “Hi, my name is Becky Sherrick and I live here. My neighbor has a dog on his roof.”
Pick One (fire dept, animal control, police): “What?!?”
Aunt Becky: “I *said* that there is a dog on my neighbors roof. A big one.”
Public Service Official (incredulous): “You’re kidding me.”
PSO (to coworkers): “This lady is calling in a dog on a roof! Bwahahaha!”
Aunt Becky: “Why would I joke? I’m seriously afraid it’s going to jump.”
PSO (to coworkers): Now the dog is suicidal! Bwahahaha!
PSO: “Well, there’s nothing *we* can do about it. Try calling (choose one: fire dept, police, animal control, etc).”
Me:”That’s what (fire dept, police, animal..) said. oh NEVERMIND!”
Finally remembering that the public works in town have absolutely no idea what to do with a (motherfucking) dog on a (motherfucking) roof, I decided that the best course of action was one of complete inaction.
I just kept on walking, the dog and I eyeballing each other warily as Alex wailed for his breast, bitch.
And then, just like that, like a bolt of lighting out of the clear blue sky I remembered that I loathe tuna sandwiches.
What’s the weirdest thing you’ve come across lately?