Friday, March 16, 2007

Can You Carry That Box?

Because we're moving.

It's been fun over here at Blogger, but I'm picking up and heading over to Junk. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy that fifteen people per day (thanks for the ego boost, Sitemeter!) come to me due solely to my force of personal gravity. But Junk gets that in, like, half a second.

So hand me that tape and close up the van, 'cause we're gonna live at Junk now. Same stuff, just a different house.

I'll leave the light on, kiddos.

Sunday, March 04, 2007

Scrappy Doo

Our third foster dog is gone, and I'd like to think I was an okay parent for the few weeks he was with us. I showed him rain for the first time, at least. It freaked him right out. So did a lot of things, though, due to the nutso family that had him before us and did things like implant him with a chip in case he ever ran away. He was third in a line of increasingly strange transient pets--first DJ, the terrier with the heart of gold and the voice of a car alarm, then Billy, the Chihuahua with the nerves of Woody Allen and the breath of a landfill, and now Schatzi, the Chihuahua-terrier mix with the charm of a prince and the sense of a brick.

I think the thing that keeps me from really truly loving Chihuahuas is that they’re never scrappy, which I have recently discovered is the number one quality that makes me like someone (or somecanine) immediately. Brad and I watched the documentary 7-Up and its follow-up Seven Plus Seven last weekend, from that series that checks in with a bunch of British kids every seven years throughout their lives. Tony, the kid I liked instantaneously and far and away the best was the scrappiest one of the bunch. Climb a fence, threaten to sock someone, scrape your knees, smudge some dirt on your face, sport a black eye, I’ll love you forever.

Curiously (or, I guess, not so curiously if you’re to believe Paula Abdul hits) I’m probably the last scrappy person you’ll ever meet. My hair is occasionally scraggly, and that’s phonetically as close as I can get.

However, in my dreams I am the scrappiest. I had this fantastic adventure dream the other night that, in retrospect, was sort of similar to the plot of Goonies. But my dream co-starred Ryan Gosling, not Short Round. (Way to go, brain!) We were the scrappiest of daring duos ever to investigate the magical appearance of a pirate ship, evading, outsmarting and just plain outrunning vague dream-style bad guys at every turn. I’m pretty sure we were even covered with spider webs by the time we got to the part that required us to deafen our foes with a low blast from a pipe organ (see, totally Goonies).

How does one acquire a measure of scrappiness? So far I've got dirty fingernails covered. Maybe I should also start by dropping phrases like "acquire a measure of."
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