That short, little post down there made me feel a whole lot better. This is one of those days that I just want to get through. I just want it to be over, and thankfully, my 7 o'clock bedtime is getting closer and closer. In the mean time, I kind of want to elaborate on the dog thing I mentioned down there.
There are two separate and distinct sides to my husband. There's the side that goes to work every day wearing dress pants from Banana Republic and $100 shoes, and there's the version that comes out on the weekends, usually wearing flannel with blaze orange accents.
It's very confusing. I'm like, "Jared. Are we going to the NPR benefit or the duck decoy expo??? Make up your mind."
And he's like, "Oh I don't know. Would you rather go bury your head in a bag of cheetos or exercise?"
Point taken. We want both.
So this redneck side of my husband is becoming more and more pronounced with every tick of the clock, and this gun slingin' man of mine really reeeeeeaaaaaalllly wants a huntin' dog. A German Shorthaired Pointer to be exact. A female....so they can make out....I think.
For the past three years, Jared's talked about his potential/conceptual/imaginary German Shorthaired Pointer every single day. He pours over names (like Copper and Zip), which breeder to use, studies up on bird dog training, clips Iams coupons, so on and so forth. And every single time I even begin to hear his mouth make the soft G sound (you know, for German Shorthaired Pointer), I literally stick my thumbs in my ears (so I can give him the double finger) and go LA LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAAA!!!!!
You see, I already have a 60 pound diaper eater. It would be quite self indulgent to have two:
Photo courtesy of James
This morning, Jared stayed home with a sick Maggie while I ran to a work meeting, and when I came home, his laptop was open to a screen sized picture of, what else? Say it with me in unison: A GERMAN SHORTHAIRED POINTER!
"Hey," he said, pointing to the computer screen. "Check her out. She's five, she's all trained to bird hunt, and she's right on the other side of the river."
Usually, that's my cue to slam the lap top shut, touch my nose to my husbands and go, "DUDE! YOU'RE CRAZY!"
But we all know I'm having a completely off day in the stable emotions department, and before I knew it, it's like I was looking in on myself saying the following phrase (in super slow motion of course), "She's cute. You should call about her."
And then, after a solid five minute dispute about whether or not to pick up the phone--I was completely egging him on--Jared called.
Well crap. Want to guess what the dog's name is?
Chocolate Cake. The dog's name is frigging Chocolate Cake. So of course we're going to see Chocolate Cake tonight.
We've made a solemn vow that we will not come home with Chocolate Cake tonight. We'll pet her and scratch her back and whatnot, but that bitch isn't setting a paw in our station wagon--not until we think it through for a couple of days. I don't care if she turns out to be a cartoon dog who farts hearts and reads the Scriptures in Hebrew, we're thinking this one through.
...but I do hear that she likes to run.