boy: are you almost here?
me: um, yeah. a few minutes i think. why? you sound weird.
boy: i don't know if i should tell you.
me: tell me now. (danger! danger! happiness depleting!)
boy: well... the ants are back. but i don't want to tell you where.
me: please tell me they're not in the bedroom.
boy: ok... but they are in the bed.
so my general mood before. slightly disheveled, but totally cute and happy. my mood after? click here for generally indicative of mood, but not in any way gross.* click here for a far more accurate idea.
so i hate ants. they are having a party in my apartment and inviting all the neighbors. and the exterminator can't come spray till tomorrow, which doesn't help today and really didn't help last night. when Boy and i did 247 loads of hot water laundry and dismantled our entire bed to see if the ants were making babies in our box spring. pay attention, future infestations. nobody makes babies in that bed but us. except we don't either, dad. really.
and now i have to find somewhere to keep pickles all day long. because they can't spray with him there. but it has to be relatively close by because i still have to give him the effing pills. which leads me to a whole new set of problems. sometime in the last week, my dog has become a pop star. he has a tour rider. and unlike ozzy's it's not just a couple million cases of orangina.
tour rider for pickles, as written by pickles, star of pickles-- fully loaded:
1. i must have brita water. not that my mom would give me plain tap water anyway. we live Here, remember? i also refuse to drink from the doggie fountain at the park or beach. other dogs have cooties.
2. i will not go to the dog beach and/or park. if you bring me there, i will run back to the car in a panic. there are papparazzi just waiting to see me do something ridiculous. like play, or sniff some other dog, which incidentally i also will not do. nor may they sniff me. that's how rumors get started.
3. i would rather run into the freaking street than get wet from that sprinkler at the top of our hill. so tell them i said to fix it.
4. i must have my pills, which i will pretend not to want but secretly crave. that's why i'm always on them. antibiotics? steroids? sure. they'll make me bionic!
5. i demand your full and complete attention. i suffer from bdd (body dysmorphic disorder) which leads me to believe i am ten pounds and that i can comfortably sit in your lap.
6. i will not eat unless the mommy holds the food under my face. in her bare hands. and chases me around with the little kibbles and a bowl for the sloppy mess and talks to me in an encouraging tone. i suggest something like this:
"good pickles. you're so good. you like that? you wanna lick it up? mmmmm pickles, eat it. eat it like a good boy."
*to you people. eggs are totally gross to me. and completely inedible.