“Mangled by a Pug…

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…And Other Fond Recollections” is the tentative title for my autobiography. Though, I must admit it’s highly arrogant to proclaim oneself suitable for an autobio, when one has done little of anything classifiable as perceptibly interesting.

In my defense, however, I was indeed attacked one afternoon last summer by a neighbor’s bewitching little pug. The portly beast (it goes by “Napoleon”) was on its side of a wooden privacy fence separating our yards. The Emperor was going about his normal business, carefree in its affairs: shuffling along the grass, sniffing what needed sniffing, urinating on what obviously deserved it, all the while delightfully snorting and wheezing, as pugs have been witnessed to do. I, with little better to do, approached the fence, bent down, and slipped three fingers into an inch-wide gap in the fence as a gesture of greeting. I’m not sure what my particular plan was, but let’s just say I desired to pet his drooly snout. Nap’ apparently thought otherwise. Briskly, with a whistling grunt, he clamped his pebble-sized nibblers down—hard—on my right ring finger. I snapped my hand back reflexively, issued a pained “daah!” and slunk back to the patio. A gaping wound there was not, but partially bloodied skin there was.

Lesson learned: all future pug greetings must be accompanied by an adult and/or antisceptic spray.


At the Twin Shop

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The local organization of mothers of twins holds a quarterly flea market where one may score some used paraphernalia for multiples. The typical menu sees pre-owned objects ranging from strollers to toddler swimsuits to slightly gnawed books to brightly colored plastic blinker-and-beeper toys, harboring either loads of germs or loads of fun–it’s really your attitude that determines which.

This past Saturday saw another one of these bargain blowouts, kicking off at 7AM. As the kids have accustomed us to early weekend wake ups, a 630AM roll out of bed and down to road did not greatly contribute to feelings of self-pity. So, the kids went in their car seats, the dog in the downstairs bathroom, and I in new underwear–and off we went.

Prepping the kids and pets caused us to arrive at the church gym a solid 45 minutes following the opening bell. By then the room was already swarming with a crowd of recent mothers accompanied by recent grandmothers. Sidestepping them was a small dose of men, some shamelessly strutting about with infants strapped to their chests (that was me), and some peevishly glancing about for the exit (also me).

The card-carrying mothers enjoy the benefits of membership by being allowed into the room ahead of the unclean masses forming outside, who wait until 8AM before joining the frenzy. Fifteen minutes into our spree, the patient multitudes waiting outside were ushered in. That’s when the morning really took off. The room swelled from a density of one mother per square yard to that of a futures trading floor, and the accompanying din began to rub off some of the morning’s pleasant charm. After ten minutes of this I positioned myself near the exit, out of harm’s way, and suggestively started to rustle the cash in my pocket until my wife took pity and decided that the allure of not being jostled outweighed that of discounted socks.  

We came home with two armfuls of stuff and without 38 bucks. Though mostly books, our bounty did include a tightly-stuffed, oversized pea green frog sporting red overalls (ill-suited for its swampy habitat, one would think). Tad, as it calls itself, announces various colors and shapes when one presses a corresponding button on his amphibial abdomen. So far the twins think little of Tad. I’m with them on this one, and promised to make their next swap meet experience worth their time.

“We Should’ve Had Steaks—They Don’t Have Legs”

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Thus said Woody Allen while battling live lobsters scrambling about the kitchen in “Annie Hall”. The man is always on point. Steaks do not have legs. This fact is conclusively proven upon a close inspection.

I will expand this post in the near future following a closer inspection of my exact purpose for publishing it.

Enough Already

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The bed beckons. It is slumber-time. Surely the blogosphere can manage without my thoughts about the climatic preferences of the common garden snail. Still, let it be known, the topic will torment my dreamtime brain.

It’s High Time I Vacationed in El Salvador

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Nevermind that it has the highest murder rate in Central America and the third best in the world. Such statistics can really get in the way of a great time. The wonders one may encounter, if one stays alive, trump all common sense warnings to stay away. No, seriously.

Mighty India Pulls Through

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Today’s appearance of an Indian flag in my miserable blog tally deserves an honorary mention. I can now proudly refer to DCO as a blog of International Renown. Indian reader, accidental though you were, you are hereby honorably mentioned. In the words and simulated accent of revered Apu Nahasapeemapetilon, “Thank you, come again!”

West Side – Tailor Needed

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The seeds of this entry were planted last evening while watching, not by choice, 1961’s “West Side Story.” Our duplex-style living—I use the word ‘style’ loosely. Very loosely—and profusion of children and dogs (five in all) leaves scant space for alone time while a cinematic engagement is in progress. My cohabitants selected WSS as the evening’s entertainment. I, in turn, selected an ass-numbing rickety wooden dinette chair, scraped it up to the laptop and began clacking away at our twins blog. Before one paragraph was complete, the TV blared with a gang of gay acrobats in multi-hued denims prancing into an alley,  twirling here and hopping there. 

Distracted, I perused the trivia section of IMDb,  where I learned those lanky gents split 27 pairs of pants during filming. I just couldn’t go on without recording the stat on this blog. Apparently the Sharks’ and Jets’ threads weren’t adequately elastic, a quality not lacking in their vocal chords.

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