Dogs, Laundry and What's Goin' On?

My Lily Girl with her buddy, Dr. Seuss. RIP, sweet girl!

I am trying to eat a giant plate of red potatoes, grilled portabella mushrooms, peas and a Cluckphrey patty covered in a delicious marinara sauce while I write. It's next to impossible.

Ok, done eating.

It was really good.

Down to business.

I worked last night (during what I hope to be the worst Bears' game of the season) and it was one of those nights. One of those nights where everyone who walked through the door was crazy. C R A Z Y.

I thought I was going to have to call the police at one point, fo' rizzle.

I spent forty-five minutes trying to avoid a screaming baby and his impossibly louder, crazy mother. I spent much of the night trying to love humanity instead of wishing for the fire or ice. I survived. Barely.

Yesterday, before work I watched a bit of Sunday football pregame. I stayed tuned in for a while, because they were interviewing Michael Vick. You remember him, right? Good quarterback; Bad person. He couldn't be happy living in a big house, playing a sport he loves for a living, making tons of money. Noooo. He had be all gansta and have a pitbull fighting ring housed right on his own million dollar property. He scores the most points in the "Stupid Idea" column.

I've never heard him say he is sorry for the dogs he killed and maimed. All I've ever heard is he's sorry for "things he did". What things? How about naming them? How about taking some ownership? Now he's a spokesperson for the ASPCA. Really? As much as I would like to think that he has changed in his heart and soul, I can't help but think his agent made him do it. That it is all for show. And it's sad.

I want to think that people can change. I know I want to believe it for myself.

This reminds me of the guy I saw walking down the street today. I was sitting at the light after dropping off the kids and there he was. He was wearing shorts and looked pretty ordinary, maybe a little disheveled, a little dirty, but, otherwise, pretty ordinary. What was not ordinary was the HUGE gash on his calf. I mean HUGE. It was at least six inches long and two inches wide and it looked deep. It looked like he had been surfing with Great White sharks. Um, bandage? Stiches? Something??? I was totally grossing out. I almost pulled over to ask if he was alright, it looked so bad. But, as I gazed at it (I couldn't take my eyes off of it!) I realized it had to be old. It wasn't bleeding or anything, it was just gruesome! Weird. What is going on with that?

Forgive my crazy brain as it bounces from one subject to the next like a pinball with less obvious direction...

I believe the act of doing laundry is not over until the clothes are IN THE DRAWERS. Someone very close to me, who shall remain nameless, does lots of laundry up until this point and then assumes that it magically appears in the correct drawers later on. This person is really smart in almost every other way. How folded clothes actually get into the drawers continues to elude him, however.

Have a nice day!