Before we get into the somewhat off-putting though delightfully punny subject matter the title of this post hints at, I'd like to talk for a moment about what a colossal pain the ass I am. Please, join me in marveling at my own childishness:
I've spent the last two hours on the couch, slowly deciding not to start on my homework before the quarter officially starts (tomorrow) because that's just too crazy. I've exhausted all of my go-to procrastination websites, and it's come to the point where what I'd really like to do is snuggle up under a blanket with my husband and watch re-runs of Criminal Minds and really, is that so much to ask? Problem is, the husband is hard at work in the studio on some short deadline project. He keeps running out here between guitar riffs and bass lines with his head phones on, shouting, "Did you say something?" It's so cute. He has no idea how loud he's talking. I think he keeps checking on me because he's worried I might feel neglected. And he should. Because I would prefer that he bracket this project for just a minute and be just as lazy and unproductive as I am for once.
So when he runs out here and asks me if I'm OK, I've started telling him that I would be better if he would please come sit down by me and watch some TV like a normal person.
"Is this going to be like that night with the donuts?" he asks. "Only this time, I'm the donut?"
Alright. It's now time for the sexually suggestive post I know you've all been waiting for....
Pet-o-phelia...a term introduced to me, if not coined, by my dear old roommate, Holly. It is at once hilarious and accurately descriptive of my unnaturally strong attachment to other people's pets. Problem is, when Rob moved into our Silver Lake hovel he unwittingly signed a blood oath that niether he nor his animal-loving spouse of the future would ever bring a cat or dog under its roof. Now, after all these years without an animal of my own, I'm like freaking Elmyra Duff, loving and squeezing and hugging all of these poor animals that don't belong to me. Like Charlie, the strange cat who hangs around our house a few times a week, drinks our milk, and shows me he loves me by swatting at my hand whenever I scratch too close to his tail (or what my friend Brighton calls his "no-no" spot). Also there's Lily's Australian Cattle Dog, Kora, who can do no wrong in my eyes; Holly's energetic and vastly destructive puggle, Sadie; Jake and Rosie, who belong to Maria; the Gaslin's neurotic and adorable mutt, Sketch; Sadie the Shady Lady of Farnsworth fame, not to mention all the dogs in Silver Lake that frequent my store and the dog park across the street, etc. and so on, you get the picture, don't you?
Is this creeping you out? I have to admit, I'm starting to get creeped out by my own self. Somebody get this girl a pet!
OK! So I admit it! I'm a pet-o-phile! But is that so wrong? I just have so much love to share. So many ears to scratch. So much people food to sneak under the table.
So, I guess I need to register somewhere now, or something?