Strange Urges

Dear Mrs. Higgins,

Made a roast last night for supper. Turned out pretty good. I even mashed a few potatoes and conjured up some gravy.

Took my feast into the living room to watch the debate, and almost lost my appetite. (key word here: almost)

I thought Obama carried himself pretty well but more than ever do I disagree with the man. McCain seemed a little too fiesty and defensive. I was waiting for him to leap to his feet, point at Obama, and yell “and did you notice he’s black!!”

Pretty cute how neither one of them answered the questions. It was sound bite city.

And I know I’m not the brightest star on the Christmas tree, but I absolutely couldn’t understand either one of their “plans” for health care. (note to self: stay healthy)

All I was able to discern was that: we have a record setting deficit for the year just ended, since then we’ve spend hundreds of billions bailing out every financial institution larger than a lemonade stand, we are going to add a whole bunch of new government programs to solve everyones problems, and everyone is going to pay less taxes.

Sweet math! That’s how I run my checkbook!

So anyway, this morning I had a little chunk of leftover beef and a couple hard boiled eggs for breakfast. Joe, of course, was begging the entire time. I have no idea how or why he learned to do that. Naturally, I left a couple scraps on the plate and let the little guy finish em off.

Several hours later (ok, maybe it was 2) I decide on lunch of tuna and salad. Only first, I had to walk past the fridge with the leftover beef, potatoes, and gravy.

I think I would have made it except for the gravy.

Justified by the undeniable fact that tuna will keep longer than leftover spuds, I loaded up a plate and had an awesome lunch.

As I was letting the K9 unit finish up the scraps (again), it dawned on me that that was the same plate I used for breakfast.

Yup, no dishwasher. Just Joe. I’d grabbed the plate off the counter that I (uh, I mean WE) used for breakfast.

Now Mrs. Higgins, I’m concerned: I really, really want to chase a tennis ball. I mean that’s all I can think about. The tennis ball. Its right there - and I get it - and I want it so much - and I throw it - and I get it again - and I bounce it, and I can’t seem to stop….

That’s not all. I keep trying to groom myself in a strange, and totally inappropriate way.

Can you help me, Mrs. H?

Mike



Dear Mike,

Not without a lobotomy.

If I lived closer I’d scratch behind your ear and swat you with a newspaper.

Try a clean dish next time.

Cannot believe you have lived this long.

Love,

Mrs H.
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