It’s a perfect Friday night.
Catie’s farting and Mom’s drinking a hot buttered rum because it’s a gazillion degrees below zero outside (not that I care, mind you; I’m pretty tough) and she insists the cinnamon stick in the drink will help freshen the air.
Me? I’ve just finished shredding Mom’s new slippers that she wore three times since bringing them home. They have (had) all this fluffy stuff on the inside and suede on the outside and, besides, Mom won’t stop listening to Josh Groban. It’s a protest destruction. You see, Josh makes her cry but she listens to him anyways. She says it’s because he has such a beautiful voice. I don’t get it though – if something makes you cry like a baby why would you keep playing it?
Over and over and over again.
Catie’s doing well except for the unrelenting gas. I have to say – and remember I have super powerful old factory senses – she’s pretty stinky. Not sure what’s going on there. Everyone in the household has begged her to please stop.
Catie is oblivious to human entreaties and my barking. She thinks she can do whatever she wants now because she’s 7.
Just wait until I turn 6 next month!
The sudden cold weather has meant the Weather Channel is once again Mom’s favourite channel and it’s on pretty much 24/7. When Mom leaves for work in the morning she’s scary unrecognizable in a big ugly down-filled coat she keeps promising to replace, and she’s strangled under scarves and has the exact same look on her face she has right now listening to Josh.
You can see why I’m confused.
That’s it for now. Mom looks like she’s ready to turn in – it’s almost 9:30 PM (yes, bedtime gets earlier and earlier). Time to do my job and warm up the bed for her.
Disclaimer: Even though Mom’s been a slacker about blogging, she wouldn’t have let me write any of this if it hadn’t been for the hot buttered rum. It’s true.
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