Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Pasta?
There’s a restaurant in downtown Palo Alto called Pasta?
No, that’s not a question. That’s the name: Pasta?
Still looks like I’m asking a question, I realize. But I’m not the one who named the restaurant. Each time Alan and I walked by Pasta-question-mark we’d make jokes and ask each other the same question over and over, while raising our hands in a questioning manner: Pasta?
Pasta?’s name reminds me of that Head-On commercial that plays during Wheel of Fortune (yes, still watching). The group that is collectively watching the woman apply Head-On goes, “Apply directly to the forehead????” and the announcer goes, “Apply directly to the forehead!!” and then the group goes, “Apply directly to the forehead!!” as if they’ve had a Head-On epiphany. That may seem unrelated to Pasta? but my point is this: There is a place and time for punctuation (as an editor I know this) and sometimes unnecessary punctuation only serves to annoy.
We decided to try Pasta? after making fun of it so much. First of all, my ravioli tasted almost exactly like those Weight Watchers Smart Ones I eat for lunch. Which is fine when you’re paying $2.50 for a quick-and-easy low-cal lunch, but not fine when paying $10 and expecting restaurant quality. Alan’s fettucine alfredo was also unappetizing, and he insisted my version is better, which, hello, my fettucine alfredo is tasty so that’s no surprise. Now, when we see Pasta? we say “no-exclamation-point” and keep right on walking.
P.S. Just found a fantastic review on this place, another location, but the comments apply nevertheless: "Pasta? is aptly named. It's shorthand for so many questions that you might have: Is this stuff really pasta? Why did I eat here?" The reviewer also said he usually raises his middle finger when walking past the place. Looks like he says "Pasta? No!" as well.
No, that’s not a question. That’s the name: Pasta?
Still looks like I’m asking a question, I realize. But I’m not the one who named the restaurant. Each time Alan and I walked by Pasta-question-mark we’d make jokes and ask each other the same question over and over, while raising our hands in a questioning manner: Pasta?
Pasta?’s name reminds me of that Head-On commercial that plays during Wheel of Fortune (yes, still watching). The group that is collectively watching the woman apply Head-On goes, “Apply directly to the forehead????” and the announcer goes, “Apply directly to the forehead!!” and then the group goes, “Apply directly to the forehead!!” as if they’ve had a Head-On epiphany. That may seem unrelated to Pasta? but my point is this: There is a place and time for punctuation (as an editor I know this) and sometimes unnecessary punctuation only serves to annoy.
We decided to try Pasta? after making fun of it so much. First of all, my ravioli tasted almost exactly like those Weight Watchers Smart Ones I eat for lunch. Which is fine when you’re paying $2.50 for a quick-and-easy low-cal lunch, but not fine when paying $10 and expecting restaurant quality. Alan’s fettucine alfredo was also unappetizing, and he insisted my version is better, which, hello, my fettucine alfredo is tasty so that’s no surprise. Now, when we see Pasta? we say “no-exclamation-point” and keep right on walking.
P.S. Just found a fantastic review on this place, another location, but the comments apply nevertheless: "Pasta? is aptly named. It's shorthand for so many questions that you might have: Is this stuff really pasta? Why did I eat here?" The reviewer also said he usually raises his middle finger when walking past the place. Looks like he says "Pasta? No!" as well.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Scarlet Letter...of sorts
If people out here in California knew about my previous poo practices, I have no doubt that I would be tarred and feathered, or at the very least branded with a letter P. In California, though, I have been angelic and faithful in cleaning up after Marti. While it's the least glamorous aspect of dog ownership, I never fail. And here's why:
You see, in California, people make a big stink (pun intended) when you fail to pick up after your dog. I'd actually noticed the recalcitrant dog owner not taking care of business, if you will, but I hadn't yet gotten worked up to the point of making a pooping-dog circle-with-a-line-through-it sign yet, let alone three. That's right: There are three of these signs up within 10 feet of each other.
Alan thinks the dog on the signs look kinda like Marti. And it does. But as an eye witness, I can attest that the dog on the sign should be much, much larger.
You see, in California, people make a big stink (pun intended) when you fail to pick up after your dog. I'd actually noticed the recalcitrant dog owner not taking care of business, if you will, but I hadn't yet gotten worked up to the point of making a pooping-dog circle-with-a-line-through-it sign yet, let alone three. That's right: There are three of these signs up within 10 feet of each other.
Alan thinks the dog on the signs look kinda like Marti. And it does. But as an eye witness, I can attest that the dog on the sign should be much, much larger.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
No Reward for the Kind
I’ve been out of town for a few days, so those of you begging me to post are finally getting your wish. I had to go to Kansas City for a work meeting on Monday and Tuesday, so I made a weekend of it. After a crazy streak of travel, I’m officially done with flying until late October. And after my flight last night, I think I could go a year without flying and be fine.
I was on Southwest and had checked in early, so I was in group A, which meant I’d get the pick of the litter when choosing my seat. I picked my aisle seat toward the front of the plane and settled in for the three-hour flight. The empty middle seat next to me got filled by the third-to-last guy to board the plane. Then there are two kids left to find seats. A 5-year-old and a young teenager traveling alone. The flight attendants call for volunteers to give up their seats so the kids can sit next to each other. No one responds. The flight attendant asks again. No one responds. Finally the flight attendant is like “Please people, they’re KIDS TRAVELING ALONE.” It was a bit ridiculous. So I reach up and ring my attendant button. The guy next to me is like, “They need two seats together” like he’s not willing to move. Buddy, you were just one of the last people to get their seats, in the MIDDLE SEAT. It can’t get much worse than that (I soon learned that yes, yes it can get much worse, which he must have known). The girl caddy-corner from me volunteered to give up her seat so that the kids can at least see each other and talk. I then relocated to what I call “Hell on a Plane.”
I should have known. I should have known. Of course the only seats left on the plane are going to a) be middle seats and b and more importantly) next to people that the general public chose not to sit next to unless forced. Because the kid that I was forced to sit next to was a kid whose row I quickly passed up when I was finding my original seat. He was probably about 12, chubby and had trouble written all over him. In the course of the flight I found out that he can’t sit still, likes to kick and pester people, has a small bladder and smells foul. With a capital F.
The kid knew the two girls and grandma in front of us, and I soon knew why they’d stuck him in another row by himself. So, so luckily, I had a portable DVD player so I was able to stick on my headphones after I got tired of him constantly leaning over to look at my issue of O magazine. He proceeded to touch my untouched box of food, trying to get my attention to ask, probably, “Why the heck aren’t you eating this?” or “Can I have this?” The other kid to my right, luckily, was a gem. He was my ally during the flight, one of those people who is a kindred spirit because, although his luck wasn’t nearly as bad as mine, he still had a sense of smell and could feel the vibrations from the constant kicking. He would roll his eyes with me as we put up our tray tables and got out for Chump to go to the bathroom—twice. He held my DVD player when the girl in front of me dropped her pen and just KNEW that it was under her seat and could I please look for it?
My DVD player’s battery eventually died—after an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm in which Larry puts an “inappropriate” tape into a VCR and inappropriate scenes begin playing on my small screen. I felt a little bad, because the kid probably shouldn’t have seen what he did, but really, how was I to know that CYE would start showing a little skin? After the battery died, I pulled out my iPod as quickly as I could to avoid as much contact as possible. The headphones have never come in so handy, because even with them on, I knew that he never stopped talking out loud, trying to get someone to give him attention.
When the plane finally landed, Chump wanted to get off as quickly as possible. That entailed saying “Excuse me!” while trying to push me aside and out of his way when no one was even close to being able to move off the plane. I’m pretty proud of myself for being as calm and patient as I was during the whole flight. After that experience, I figure I’ve paid my dues. I should have at least a year of wonderful seatmates coming my way.
I was on Southwest and had checked in early, so I was in group A, which meant I’d get the pick of the litter when choosing my seat. I picked my aisle seat toward the front of the plane and settled in for the three-hour flight. The empty middle seat next to me got filled by the third-to-last guy to board the plane. Then there are two kids left to find seats. A 5-year-old and a young teenager traveling alone. The flight attendants call for volunteers to give up their seats so the kids can sit next to each other. No one responds. The flight attendant asks again. No one responds. Finally the flight attendant is like “Please people, they’re KIDS TRAVELING ALONE.” It was a bit ridiculous. So I reach up and ring my attendant button. The guy next to me is like, “They need two seats together” like he’s not willing to move. Buddy, you were just one of the last people to get their seats, in the MIDDLE SEAT. It can’t get much worse than that (I soon learned that yes, yes it can get much worse, which he must have known). The girl caddy-corner from me volunteered to give up her seat so that the kids can at least see each other and talk. I then relocated to what I call “Hell on a Plane.”
I should have known. I should have known. Of course the only seats left on the plane are going to a) be middle seats and b and more importantly) next to people that the general public chose not to sit next to unless forced. Because the kid that I was forced to sit next to was a kid whose row I quickly passed up when I was finding my original seat. He was probably about 12, chubby and had trouble written all over him. In the course of the flight I found out that he can’t sit still, likes to kick and pester people, has a small bladder and smells foul. With a capital F.
The kid knew the two girls and grandma in front of us, and I soon knew why they’d stuck him in another row by himself. So, so luckily, I had a portable DVD player so I was able to stick on my headphones after I got tired of him constantly leaning over to look at my issue of O magazine. He proceeded to touch my untouched box of food, trying to get my attention to ask, probably, “Why the heck aren’t you eating this?” or “Can I have this?” The other kid to my right, luckily, was a gem. He was my ally during the flight, one of those people who is a kindred spirit because, although his luck wasn’t nearly as bad as mine, he still had a sense of smell and could feel the vibrations from the constant kicking. He would roll his eyes with me as we put up our tray tables and got out for Chump to go to the bathroom—twice. He held my DVD player when the girl in front of me dropped her pen and just KNEW that it was under her seat and could I please look for it?
My DVD player’s battery eventually died—after an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm in which Larry puts an “inappropriate” tape into a VCR and inappropriate scenes begin playing on my small screen. I felt a little bad, because the kid probably shouldn’t have seen what he did, but really, how was I to know that CYE would start showing a little skin? After the battery died, I pulled out my iPod as quickly as I could to avoid as much contact as possible. The headphones have never come in so handy, because even with them on, I knew that he never stopped talking out loud, trying to get someone to give him attention.
When the plane finally landed, Chump wanted to get off as quickly as possible. That entailed saying “Excuse me!” while trying to push me aside and out of his way when no one was even close to being able to move off the plane. I’m pretty proud of myself for being as calm and patient as I was during the whole flight. After that experience, I figure I’ve paid my dues. I should have at least a year of wonderful seatmates coming my way.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Me in the Kitchen
As I've mentioned before, cooking and I don't always get along. A couple of weeks ago, I did make a mean pot of chili, no recipe needed. I was pretty proud of myself, chopping onions and peppers and throwing ingredients willy-nilly into the mix. It came out deliciously spicy, and I'm hoping I can recreate it.
However, the gold standard of all baking perfection, the Chocolate Chip Cookie, has evaded me for a couple of years now. I follow the recipe to the letter, yet my cookies consistently fall flat. Before, I could blame my oven for my baking woes. But now that I've moved to a different oven, I can hardly point the finger at the appliance. After all, when you're pointing your finger at something, there are three more fingers pointing right back at you.
I've tried butter instead of margarine and vice versa. I've gotten new baking soda. I've mixed ingredients according to package instructions. For a while I was convinced that every time I was forgetting to add the 1/4 cup when the recipe called for 2-1/4 cups of flour, but I've been extra careful on that step for awhile now. The only thing I haven't tried is new measuring spoons.
I can't complain too much though because luckily, the pancake-flat cookies always taste delicious. My most recent batch of cookies was a near success. The first two cookie sheets came out in utter perfection. Beautiful cookies, not too flat, not too fat. But the third and fourth cookie sheets came out as thin as paper and crumbled to the touch once cool. And they came from the same batch! I'm baffled. Here, my poor, pathetic, delicious cookies.
As you can see, there are a few wonderful separate cookies in there. But the rest of it is one crumbled cookie mess. It just meant I had to take more caution when transporting them to eat them at my desk. And Marti doesn't care what the cookies look like. She wants one. NOW. Here she is, using her paw to reel in my hand in hopes of getting a cookie. This is how she tries to fish for food, whether it's cookies or broccoli.
However, the gold standard of all baking perfection, the Chocolate Chip Cookie, has evaded me for a couple of years now. I follow the recipe to the letter, yet my cookies consistently fall flat. Before, I could blame my oven for my baking woes. But now that I've moved to a different oven, I can hardly point the finger at the appliance. After all, when you're pointing your finger at something, there are three more fingers pointing right back at you.
I've tried butter instead of margarine and vice versa. I've gotten new baking soda. I've mixed ingredients according to package instructions. For a while I was convinced that every time I was forgetting to add the 1/4 cup when the recipe called for 2-1/4 cups of flour, but I've been extra careful on that step for awhile now. The only thing I haven't tried is new measuring spoons.
I can't complain too much though because luckily, the pancake-flat cookies always taste delicious. My most recent batch of cookies was a near success. The first two cookie sheets came out in utter perfection. Beautiful cookies, not too flat, not too fat. But the third and fourth cookie sheets came out as thin as paper and crumbled to the touch once cool. And they came from the same batch! I'm baffled. Here, my poor, pathetic, delicious cookies.
As you can see, there are a few wonderful separate cookies in there. But the rest of it is one crumbled cookie mess. It just meant I had to take more caution when transporting them to eat them at my desk. And Marti doesn't care what the cookies look like. She wants one. NOW. Here she is, using her paw to reel in my hand in hopes of getting a cookie. This is how she tries to fish for food, whether it's cookies or broccoli.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Wheel of F_rt_ne
Luckily, Alan’s grant will be submitted next week, so my lonely nights should soon be ending. Or getting a little less lonely, anway. Our nights right now consist of Alan coming home at about 6:30, eating dinner, watching Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune, and then Alan heading back up to work. Sounds dorky and boring, I know. But these shows have become the highlight of the night and have given us many laughs over the past week or so.
First, Jeopardy! has been the celebrity version for the past week, which means: Much easier! We spit out answers left and right and feel really smart. We pretend it’s the real version.
But Wheel of Fortune is where the fun begins. A few weeks ago on Friends Week the puzzle was:
All you can eat tac_ bar
Two minds are better than one, so the friends opt to solve the puzzle…and can’t get it! It came out as “All you can eat taaaaacccc bar!” Too funny. (If you still haven’t guessed: Taco. Taco, people!)
Now, when solving Wheel of Fortune puzzles at home, it’s common to shout out guesses in the hopes of getting it right. Which is what Alan does. But on some occasions, I know that his shout-out is what he really thinks is the correct answer. The clue:
__tter_ups
In his most amazing guess ever, Alan shouts, with conviction: OTTERPUPS! Oh. Of course. Otterpups. As in offspring of otters. That’s right. Because we all know about lioncubs and humanbabies and such.
The answer is actually “buttercups.” I hardly got any glory for guessing, but that was only because I couldn’t stop crying, I was laughing so hard at OTTERPUPS!
And because you’re in a hurry to guess, you don’t always get to put a lot of thought into your guess. In this clue, Alan and I both made terrible guesses. Category: Living Thing
Fini__y
_a_s
I yell, “Finicky Lass!” while Alan shouts, “Finicky Mass!” while the guy on the show yells, “Finicky Cats!” which of course makes way more sense than our guesses. I didn’t realize that the second “s” in lass should have been up there if that was right; Alan’s scientific rationalization that “mass” could be a living blob of some sort; why it would be finicky, only Alan knows. We obviously aren’t that great at Wheel of Fortune. I guess that’s why we’re at home, not at the wheel, winning thousands of dollars.
First, Jeopardy! has been the celebrity version for the past week, which means: Much easier! We spit out answers left and right and feel really smart. We pretend it’s the real version.
But Wheel of Fortune is where the fun begins. A few weeks ago on Friends Week the puzzle was:
All you can eat tac_ bar
Two minds are better than one, so the friends opt to solve the puzzle…and can’t get it! It came out as “All you can eat taaaaacccc bar!” Too funny. (If you still haven’t guessed: Taco. Taco, people!)
Now, when solving Wheel of Fortune puzzles at home, it’s common to shout out guesses in the hopes of getting it right. Which is what Alan does. But on some occasions, I know that his shout-out is what he really thinks is the correct answer. The clue:
__tter_ups
In his most amazing guess ever, Alan shouts, with conviction: OTTERPUPS! Oh. Of course. Otterpups. As in offspring of otters. That’s right. Because we all know about lioncubs and humanbabies and such.
The answer is actually “buttercups.” I hardly got any glory for guessing, but that was only because I couldn’t stop crying, I was laughing so hard at OTTERPUPS!
And because you’re in a hurry to guess, you don’t always get to put a lot of thought into your guess. In this clue, Alan and I both made terrible guesses. Category: Living Thing
Fini__y
_a_s
I yell, “Finicky Lass!” while Alan shouts, “Finicky Mass!” while the guy on the show yells, “Finicky Cats!” which of course makes way more sense than our guesses. I didn’t realize that the second “s” in lass should have been up there if that was right; Alan’s scientific rationalization that “mass” could be a living blob of some sort; why it would be finicky, only Alan knows. We obviously aren’t that great at Wheel of Fortune. I guess that’s why we’re at home, not at the wheel, winning thousands of dollars.
Friday, August 3, 2007
My Puppy and Me
The daily excursion to the dog park is now an unbreakable habit. Even if I'm not planning to go, if it's around 5 o'clock, Marti will start walking in that direction. And since it's a great way for her to wear herself out and get all of her business done, it's hard to find reasons not to go.
Alan has never been a fan of the dog park. He thinks dog park people are weird. Granted, some of them are weird. There are the ones who take their dogs to daycare; some who go to the dog park twice a day; some who don't even own dogs. But mostly, they are people, like me, who love their dogs and want to get their dogs out to exercise. The dog park culture is highly amusing, though. There are rules of etiquette; the cardinal rule being Always Pick Up After Your Dog. Also important is Ask Before You Give Other Dogs Treats. It also happens that you learn all the dogs' names before you actually learn any of the humans' names. I know Buster, Luca, Bogey, Otto, Sierra, and Champ, but I don't know any Sue, Martha or Kevin.
When Alan's at the dog park he's like a dog trapped in a cage. He's plotting his escape route. Just look at the fire, the passion, the excitement on his face.
Marti doesn't understand what Alan's problem is. The dog park is THE BEST PLACE TO BE, EVER. Except maybe bed. Marti has a blast at the dog park.
And everyone at the park knows that Marti is the most submissive pug ever. Her handshake-nice-to-meet-you consists of lay-down-roll-onto-back-and-allow-sniffing. Which is fine. I mean, it's better than some of these little bullies out there. That sounds really "parenty," but no one likes to see their baby getting pushed around.
Here's Bogey, the behemoth of the dog park.
And here's Marti's latest stalker, Buster. The first time Buster met Marti, you couldn't get him out of this position. Marti says, "I have a boyfriend in Kansas; you're not Chuck!"
Alan has never been a fan of the dog park. He thinks dog park people are weird. Granted, some of them are weird. There are the ones who take their dogs to daycare; some who go to the dog park twice a day; some who don't even own dogs. But mostly, they are people, like me, who love their dogs and want to get their dogs out to exercise. The dog park culture is highly amusing, though. There are rules of etiquette; the cardinal rule being Always Pick Up After Your Dog. Also important is Ask Before You Give Other Dogs Treats. It also happens that you learn all the dogs' names before you actually learn any of the humans' names. I know Buster, Luca, Bogey, Otto, Sierra, and Champ, but I don't know any Sue, Martha or Kevin.
When Alan's at the dog park he's like a dog trapped in a cage. He's plotting his escape route. Just look at the fire, the passion, the excitement on his face.
Marti doesn't understand what Alan's problem is. The dog park is THE BEST PLACE TO BE, EVER. Except maybe bed. Marti has a blast at the dog park.
And everyone at the park knows that Marti is the most submissive pug ever. Her handshake-nice-to-meet-you consists of lay-down-roll-onto-back-and-allow-sniffing. Which is fine. I mean, it's better than some of these little bullies out there. That sounds really "parenty," but no one likes to see their baby getting pushed around.
Here's Bogey, the behemoth of the dog park.
And here's Marti's latest stalker, Buster. The first time Buster met Marti, you couldn't get him out of this position. Marti says, "I have a boyfriend in Kansas; you're not Chuck!"
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Pug with Me
You're all going to have to bear with me on my next couple of pug-heavy posts. As I have no friends, no out-of-home job, and no Alan (an hour at dinner and sleeping next to him hardly count), Marti provides my entertainment a lot of days. Lucky for me, the darn pug is hilarious.
The dog park that we go to almost daily is just a short walk away; it probably takes us 3 minutes to get there. It's really funny how God dropped us right into this little neighborhood. He must have known that I was one of those people with no social outlets who depend on the other dog park people for their human interaction. I take Marti almost every day at 5 o'clock to the park. She now knows what's coming (dogs, yipppeeee!) and tries to pull me into traffic to get there more quickly.
Each and every day on this walk to the dog park we deal with The Grouchiest Dog Ever. He hears us coming and is on red alert to bark at us while we pass, and while we wait for the light to turn. The fence curves around to a gate, so even if we think the coast is clear he might just be out of our sight, at the gate, waiting to attack. Marti, of course, quickly learned that The Grouchiest Dog Ever is stuck behind bars. Where he can't reach her.* This allows her to run up to the fence and bark her little heart out at him, while I'm dragging her along, trying to calm the whole situation. The Grouchiest Dog Ever, stuck behind bars. Until...
One day we're walking back home, for pass number two by Grouchy. We get to the gate, and OUT COMES THE GROUCHIEST DOG EVER. Out from behind bars. Barking like a mad dog. At me. And Marti. My heart jumped through my throat. Marti started barking. And TGDE headed back in the gate because he knew Mommy would be mad if he was caught out barking at passersby. Scared me to death.
A couple of trips later, Alan was along for the dog park fun. He decided to pick Marti up as we walked by so that her jingling collar wouldn't attract his attention. He picked her up, but Grouch must have a keen sense of smell. Alan was holding her, but Grouch started barking anyway. At the ground. Where Marti should be, but not where she was. We realized that The Grouchiest Dog Ever is actually The Blindest Dog Ever, and now we feel bad that he was our nemesis for so long. It makes me want to take him under my wing and take him to the dog park with us, but then, the next time I walk by and he's flashing his fangs at me--or what he thinks is an evil monster out to get him--I kinda change my mind.
Here he is in all of his blind ferocious glory.**
The picture is a little blurry, but you get the idea. It's kind of hard to take a quality picture when your picture-taking hand is shaking in fear and your pug is dragging you the other direction while trying to attack The Blindest Dog Ever.
*I've always just assumed it was a "he," although I just realized I don't actually know. We're not that good of friends, you see.
**The fuzziness of the picture makes him look sweeter and more cuddly than he really is. He's really mean looking.
The dog park that we go to almost daily is just a short walk away; it probably takes us 3 minutes to get there. It's really funny how God dropped us right into this little neighborhood. He must have known that I was one of those people with no social outlets who depend on the other dog park people for their human interaction. I take Marti almost every day at 5 o'clock to the park. She now knows what's coming (dogs, yipppeeee!) and tries to pull me into traffic to get there more quickly.
Each and every day on this walk to the dog park we deal with The Grouchiest Dog Ever. He hears us coming and is on red alert to bark at us while we pass, and while we wait for the light to turn. The fence curves around to a gate, so even if we think the coast is clear he might just be out of our sight, at the gate, waiting to attack. Marti, of course, quickly learned that The Grouchiest Dog Ever is stuck behind bars. Where he can't reach her.* This allows her to run up to the fence and bark her little heart out at him, while I'm dragging her along, trying to calm the whole situation. The Grouchiest Dog Ever, stuck behind bars. Until...
One day we're walking back home, for pass number two by Grouchy. We get to the gate, and OUT COMES THE GROUCHIEST DOG EVER. Out from behind bars. Barking like a mad dog. At me. And Marti. My heart jumped through my throat. Marti started barking. And TGDE headed back in the gate because he knew Mommy would be mad if he was caught out barking at passersby. Scared me to death.
A couple of trips later, Alan was along for the dog park fun. He decided to pick Marti up as we walked by so that her jingling collar wouldn't attract his attention. He picked her up, but Grouch must have a keen sense of smell. Alan was holding her, but Grouch started barking anyway. At the ground. Where Marti should be, but not where she was. We realized that The Grouchiest Dog Ever is actually The Blindest Dog Ever, and now we feel bad that he was our nemesis for so long. It makes me want to take him under my wing and take him to the dog park with us, but then, the next time I walk by and he's flashing his fangs at me--or what he thinks is an evil monster out to get him--I kinda change my mind.
Here he is in all of his blind ferocious glory.**
The picture is a little blurry, but you get the idea. It's kind of hard to take a quality picture when your picture-taking hand is shaking in fear and your pug is dragging you the other direction while trying to attack The Blindest Dog Ever.
*I've always just assumed it was a "he," although I just realized I don't actually know. We're not that good of friends, you see.
**The fuzziness of the picture makes him look sweeter and more cuddly than he really is. He's really mean looking.
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