I just love when you come to a dead stop in front of me halfway up (or down) the stairs. I know in your sweet little peabrain mind that love means ensuring I keep my razor sharp reflexes as I desperately attempt to avoid going head over heels over your fuzzy little butt and/or not spill a full mug of scalding hot tea. You’re a sweet doggie octogenarian, but one of us isn’t going to survive this stair master routine. Kindly knock it off before I stop rubbing your belly in retaliation.
I realize you’re 12 years old and counting, but this was really a bad time to conk out. We rely on your hamster-wheel abuse; me for attempted weight loss, my beloved husband for lower back pain management. Repairing you nearly equals the cost of replacing you, and that isn’t in the cards right now. So…you’re a bugger and I dislike you even more than usual right now.
Do NOT, I repeat, NOT, get any ideas from the treadmill. I know you’re the same age, but we can walk for exercise; walking for transportation isn’t possible, we’re too far out in the sticks for that. I pinky promise to replace your brakes ASAP; just give me another 18 months/50,000miles. Please. Just…please.
You say you’ll do anything to earn money to buy yourselves a computer, but strangely enough the “Job Board,” complete with cold hard cash I will pay you, hasn’t been touched in weeks. Being programmers, I assumed you had a better grasp of cause and effect, but just in case, let’s review. You do these jobs around the house without parental nagging…I pay you. BOOM! Needless to say, your father and I are reevaluating the Job Board, as it doesn’t appear to be a strong enough motivator for you to help around the house. Also? We’re reviewing the tech usage around here. See, your father and I do have a grasp of cause and effect, and we totally see the connection between tech and stuff not getting done around here. Ya done messed up, dudes. Sorry/not sorry.
Adios! Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!
You’re certainly coming in like a lion today, though I do appreciate that you pulled back on the 8-11 inches of snow I expected when I went to bed last night. I will allow you another two weeks of snow and sleet and wind and general misery, and then I want to see my rhubarb popping up, m’kay?
Dear Super Tuesday Primary Voters/Caucusers,
Just…please…I can’t even…
Dear Perry the Parabolic Heater in my office,
I love you. You’re so hot. Let’s go steady.
I’m kinda over you. Maybe it’s because I have so many of you, or because you just never end, or because I desperately need a vacation somewhere warm, but you’re burning me out a bit. And by a bit I mean a lot. Kindly ease up so I can be and not always do.
You’re pretty cool and I’m grateful to have you.