There have been some changes at Casa del Rogue recently, the most significant being that Daughter Rogue has moved out and is sharing an apartment with a friend. This means that Mrs. R and I are now “Empty-Nesters-In-Training.”
DR’s move went relatively smooth, but it did involve lots of switching of vehicles to make things easier. There was the usual chaos and semi-panic of moving, throwing stuff into boxes, tossing clean and dirty clothes in laundry baskets, etc.
Most of the move occurred over a weekend, but the work week began before DR was completely moved in. She asked to borrow my truck, “Big Mo,” to finish up. Since my choices at that point were going to work or helping move a couch into a third floor apartment, I chose work and gladly let DR take the truck. She tricked some friends into helping her, and the couch was successfully moved with no injuries to humans or furniture or vehicles.
By Friday things had settled down, and we all had our original vehicles back. I went out that afternoon to run an errand. For some reason, I looked in the back seat of Big Mo. I saw something I had never seen before, at least not in any vehicle I ever owned…
Lying on the seat was what appeared to be an article of women’s underwear that begins with “t” and rhymes with “wrong.” “Hmmmm” I thought, “how in the hell did that get back there?”
Thinking it may have fallen out of a laundry basket during the move, I asked DR about it. She vehemently denied that it was hers. Something along the lines of “Daddy, I would never wear one of those things!”
Thinking it might belong to Mrs. R, (although being somewhat confused about how it might have gotten there) I asked her about it. She also vehemently denied it was hers. Something along the lines of “Not even in your dreams mister! It’s your truck, and you’re asking me how a pair of women’s underwear got in your truck? I think you owe me an explanation!”
The advantage to sleeping on the couch is that it's in the coolest room in the house...
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Monday, June 4, 2007
Science
I remember when I used to be nostalgic….That’s a great line; I wish I could remember where I first heard it...
This past week was mid-year performance review time at my office. I told my coworkers that my plan was to blame my less than stellar performance on biorhythms. This generated a great deal of discussion amongst the guys, mostly about how stupid my plan was, and whether or not there was anything to biorhythms.
Biorhythms, along with mood rings, John Denver, and earth shoes were among the more interesting things to come out of the 70’s.
The theory regarding biorhythms is that our lives are affected by some natural biological cycles; physical (23 days), emotional (28 days), and intellectual, (33 days). Proponents claim you can use biorhythms to predict when you may be at your peak physically, emotionally, and intellectually, and use that information to your benefit. Personally, I keep waiting for those peak physical and/or intellectual days. I’d like to think that at 49+, I would’ve had at least one of each…
Here’s a link to a biorhythm site:
Biorhythm Calculator
If you were born in the Mountain Time Zone, select -7 from the pull-down menu.
Also, try the Dalai Lama Personality Test from the blue “Rubbish” button. I took this personality test, but I failed…
Note to reader: Imagine a well-crafted transition paragraph here…
There’s an old saying about men with big feet… Since about the 8th grade, I have had large feet, size 12 to be more precise. Anyway, in my case the old saying is definitely true. Men with big feet also have really big….
Shoes….
I used to have a pair of size 12 earth shoes; they were the most comfortable pair of shoes I ever owned. They were big brown, ugly, nasty-lookin’ things and I loved ‘em. Mrs. R, however, did not, and was often made physically ill by the sight of me wearing my earth shoes. So for the sake of Mrs. R’s health, as well as the general betterment of things here at Casa del Rogue, I reluctantly parted with my earth shoes.
Does anybody need some John Denver albums?
I used to have a pair of size 12 earth shoes; they were the most comfortable pair of shoes I ever owned. They were big brown, ugly, nasty-lookin’ things and I loved ‘em. Mrs. R, however, did not, and was often made physically ill by the sight of me wearing my earth shoes. So for the sake of Mrs. R’s health, as well as the general betterment of things here at Casa del Rogue, I reluctantly parted with my earth shoes.
Does anybody need some John Denver albums?
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Huh?
Spanning the globe, bringing hard-hitting news directly to your screen. Here are the stories you could probably do without….
You might be a redneck if….
Man Cited for DWI at Drive Through
Who volunteered for this research?
Viagra May Help Travelers with Jet Lag
Now, I’m a sound sleeper, but this is pushing the envelope…
Man Sleeps through Gunshot Wound to the Head
To boldly go…
Beam Me Up, Scotty
You might be a redneck if….
Man Cited for DWI at Drive Through
Who volunteered for this research?
Viagra May Help Travelers with Jet Lag
Now, I’m a sound sleeper, but this is pushing the envelope…
Man Sleeps through Gunshot Wound to the Head
To boldly go…
Beam Me Up, Scotty
Friday, May 11, 2007
Spring Fever
Several recent, seemingly unrelated, events have led me to a troubling conclusion.
I celebrated my birthday earlier this month, and up until that time I hadn’t noticed any memory problems. It has been a different story since then.
The other day, while driving home form work, I noticed I was running low on gas. Well not me; no wait, I was low on gas, but so was my car. I did some quick math in my head, and figured out that my car had enough gas to get me home, and most of the way to work in the morning. There is a gas station a couple of miles from my office, and I planned to stop there on my way to work the next day.
The next morning, when I was about 7 miles from my suburban office building, and about 5 miles from the gas station, the low fuel warning light came on in my car. Based on some previous calculations (I think Mrs. R should receive some kind of special commendation for having lived with an engineer all these years) I had determined that my car has about 8 miles left before it runs out of fuel when the warning light comes on. Since it was only 5 miles to the gas station, I wasn’t worried.
I pulled into the gas station, stopped my car, got out, opened the gas cap, and reached for my wallet. Unfortunately for me, my wallet was sitting comfortably on the dresser at home….
From the gas station, it’s about 20 miles to my house, but only 2 miles to the office. I decided to head to my office. It was not a low stress trip; I got stopped at every freakin’ stoplight between the station and my office, burning precious fuel for 20 seconds without moving, 5 separate times.
I made it to the office and called Mrs. R, who rescued me by delivering my wallet about an hour later. When I finally filled up, I put 22.46 gallons of gas into my 22.5 gallon tank. Some people might consider that an efficient use of fuel. I am not one of those people…
One isolated occurrence of forgetfulness? No big deal, everybody has days like that.
Then…
A couple of days later while at work, I was making some notes on a drawing with a red pencil. Something distracted me, perhaps it was something shiny on my desk, and I set the pencil down.
Then the phone rang, I got a couple of e-mails, etc. and before I knew it, half an hour had passed. It was at this time that I realized that I needed my red pencil again. It was also at this time that I realized that I could not remember where I had put the pencil.
Now, it should have been no problem, since I had several more red pencils in my desk drawer. I could have easily grabbed one of them and gone about my business.
But no….
It was incredibly important to me to find that pencil, just to prove to myself that I wasn’t losing my mind. I looked everywhere for the damn thing. The pencil, not my mind...
Drawers, trash can, lunch bag, books, folders, neighbors’ desk, all to no avail. I never did find it. Probably in a hundred years or so, some archaeologist will be sifting through the detritus of my professional life and find a lone red pencil. Godspeed to him/her. I’m sure that if I looked for one-hundred years I would never find it, nor would I stop and get another pencil out of the drawer.
In my desire to find the pencil, I figured out that:
a. I had wasted 30 minutes of company time looking for a #@!#*&#@! pencil.
b. The memory deterioration curve becomes very steep in your late forties. (I’d draw a graph, but there’s already been way too much math in this story…)
I was feeling sorry for myself, bemoaning my lost youth, etc., when Mrs. R shared this story with me…
One of her students kept pestering her for help with an assignment, and Mrs. R kept telling the youngster that he needed to get his paper and bring it to her, so she could help him.
The student kept saying “But, but” and every time he spoke Mrs. R reminded him to get his paper. This went on for several minutes until Mrs. R’s classroom assistant calmly pointed out that Mrs. R was holding the youngsters’ paper in her hand…
Apparently spring fever is contagious…
I celebrated my birthday earlier this month, and up until that time I hadn’t noticed any memory problems. It has been a different story since then.
The other day, while driving home form work, I noticed I was running low on gas. Well not me; no wait, I was low on gas, but so was my car. I did some quick math in my head, and figured out that my car had enough gas to get me home, and most of the way to work in the morning. There is a gas station a couple of miles from my office, and I planned to stop there on my way to work the next day.
The next morning, when I was about 7 miles from my suburban office building, and about 5 miles from the gas station, the low fuel warning light came on in my car. Based on some previous calculations (I think Mrs. R should receive some kind of special commendation for having lived with an engineer all these years) I had determined that my car has about 8 miles left before it runs out of fuel when the warning light comes on. Since it was only 5 miles to the gas station, I wasn’t worried.
I pulled into the gas station, stopped my car, got out, opened the gas cap, and reached for my wallet. Unfortunately for me, my wallet was sitting comfortably on the dresser at home….
From the gas station, it’s about 20 miles to my house, but only 2 miles to the office. I decided to head to my office. It was not a low stress trip; I got stopped at every freakin’ stoplight between the station and my office, burning precious fuel for 20 seconds without moving, 5 separate times.
I made it to the office and called Mrs. R, who rescued me by delivering my wallet about an hour later. When I finally filled up, I put 22.46 gallons of gas into my 22.5 gallon tank. Some people might consider that an efficient use of fuel. I am not one of those people…
One isolated occurrence of forgetfulness? No big deal, everybody has days like that.
Then…
A couple of days later while at work, I was making some notes on a drawing with a red pencil. Something distracted me, perhaps it was something shiny on my desk, and I set the pencil down.
Then the phone rang, I got a couple of e-mails, etc. and before I knew it, half an hour had passed. It was at this time that I realized that I needed my red pencil again. It was also at this time that I realized that I could not remember where I had put the pencil.
Now, it should have been no problem, since I had several more red pencils in my desk drawer. I could have easily grabbed one of them and gone about my business.
But no….
It was incredibly important to me to find that pencil, just to prove to myself that I wasn’t losing my mind. I looked everywhere for the damn thing. The pencil, not my mind...
Drawers, trash can, lunch bag, books, folders, neighbors’ desk, all to no avail. I never did find it. Probably in a hundred years or so, some archaeologist will be sifting through the detritus of my professional life and find a lone red pencil. Godspeed to him/her. I’m sure that if I looked for one-hundred years I would never find it, nor would I stop and get another pencil out of the drawer.
In my desire to find the pencil, I figured out that:
a. I had wasted 30 minutes of company time looking for a #@!#*&#@! pencil.
b. The memory deterioration curve becomes very steep in your late forties. (I’d draw a graph, but there’s already been way too much math in this story…)
I was feeling sorry for myself, bemoaning my lost youth, etc., when Mrs. R shared this story with me…
One of her students kept pestering her for help with an assignment, and Mrs. R kept telling the youngster that he needed to get his paper and bring it to her, so she could help him.
The student kept saying “But, but” and every time he spoke Mrs. R reminded him to get his paper. This went on for several minutes until Mrs. R’s classroom assistant calmly pointed out that Mrs. R was holding the youngsters’ paper in her hand…
Apparently spring fever is contagious…
Sunday, May 6, 2007
What Hath Orville Wrought?
This really happened…
A couple of weeks ago, shortly after lunch one blustery afternoon, the fire alarms sounded in my suburban office building, and we had to evacuate to the parking lot. The fire department came, and at that point we decided that it was something more serious than our annual fire drill.
After about 30 minutes, we were allowed to return to our desks.
As it turns out, someone left a bag of popcorn in the microwave a little too long. The popcorn was burned and the smoke triggered the alarms. I can only imagine the jokes at our expense around the dinner table at the firehouse later that evening.
Anyway, the next day an all employees memo was e-mailed to us. The management of our building has “banned the potentially life-threatening practice of popping popcorn in microwaves.”
I know popcorn isn’t the healthiest snack, but life threatening? Sheesh…
I wonder what’s next. I have both an electric pencil sharpener and an electric eraser at my desk. I guess if you’re not careful, you could put somebody’s eye out with either one of those things…
I also have a pair of scissors, but have never felt compelled to run with them in my hand.
We also have automatic flush valves on the urinals in all of the men’s rooms. I shudder to think at what might happen if one of those bad-boys malfunctions. Perhaps we should ban…?
After about 30 minutes, we were allowed to return to our desks.
As it turns out, someone left a bag of popcorn in the microwave a little too long. The popcorn was burned and the smoke triggered the alarms. I can only imagine the jokes at our expense around the dinner table at the firehouse later that evening.
Anyway, the next day an all employees memo was e-mailed to us. The management of our building has “banned the potentially life-threatening practice of popping popcorn in microwaves.”
I know popcorn isn’t the healthiest snack, but life threatening? Sheesh…
I wonder what’s next. I have both an electric pencil sharpener and an electric eraser at my desk. I guess if you’re not careful, you could put somebody’s eye out with either one of those things…
I also have a pair of scissors, but have never felt compelled to run with them in my hand.
We also have automatic flush valves on the urinals in all of the men’s rooms. I shudder to think at what might happen if one of those bad-boys malfunctions. Perhaps we should ban…?
Well, never mind…
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Hacienda
Mrs. R and I had lunch recently. Well, we have lunch every day, but on this particular day we had lunch together.
We went to a Mexican restaurant along the main drag near where we live. It’s a typical suburban main drag; within about two miles you can find a mall, several national chain stores and restaurants, a couple of car dealerships, and 57 Starbucks.
We went to a place called Hacienda Colorado. It is locally owned and the food, influenced by northern New Mexico, is delicious. You should give it a try sometime.
Hacienda Colorado
If you go, be prepared for some unusual things. All of the servers (black-shirts) and managers (yellow- shirts) wear headsets with microphones, apparently to facilitate quick responses to all of their customers needs.
We arrived at about 12:15p and were promptly seated by a headset wearing hostess. Another person walked by our table, let’s call him Server A, and said he would be “taking care of us.” He turned the ticket over on our table. This is apparently code to tell the other servers that “this table is covered, stay the hell away.”
Server A went out to the patio to help some other diners and Server B immediately approached our table, brought some chips and salsa, turned the ticket over and took our drink orders. I was feeling particularly roguish, so I ordered a diet soda. Mrs. R ordered an iced tea.
Now, since the beginning of recorded history, at least in these parts, iced tea is served with a slice of lemon. Mrs. R’s tea was brought to the table, sans lemon, just as server A passed our table in bewilderment. Not at the missing lemon, but because someone had swiped his table.
During our entire time at the Hacienda, there were two managers that continually circled the dining room, giving instructions via their headsets. The Alpha manager circled in a clockwise fashion, while the #2 circled in a counter-clockwise direction. About every 3 minutes we were asked by one of the yellow-shirts if everything was OK. Not wanting to be impolite, we always stopped eating to respond to their question, always answering in the affirmative. It took us an hour and forty-seven minutes to get through lunch…
Anyway, back to the lemon. Mrs. R flagged down Server B (Mrs. R had to use a flag because the customers don’t get headsets) and requested a lemon slice for her tea. Server B promptly brought a couple of lemon slices in a small bowl and explained that they don’t put them in iced tea anymore because “some people don’t like them, and something happened in Florida.” After much discussion, Mrs. R and I determined that most lemon groves are in California, they had some rough weather, and the price of some citrus fruits had risen. We finally decided that the lack of lemons was a cost savings move by the restaurant to minimize the use of these highly valuable fruits.
A person we’ll call Server C brought our food to the table and we began to eat. The food was delicious. During the course of our lunch we had a good view of the patio an observed a handsome, 20-something young man having lunch with four very attractive 20-something young ladies. These gals were all wearing high heels, tight pants and tight clingy shirts (or so I’m told….). None of them seemed to be attached to the young man, and they all appeared to be vying for his attention. It was good entertainment, and there wasn’t even a cover charge...
I thought maybe it was an episode of The Bachelor and these gals were the four finalists. Mrs. R said she thought the guy probably had two things that I didn’t: money and an alternative lifestyle…
Anyway, about halfway through lunch I was in need of a soda refill. Heck I was goin’ for two, it was Saturday and Mrs. R was the designated driver…
Neither Server A nor Server B was anywhere to be found, but fortunately the Alpha yellow-shirt walked by our table at just the right time, and spoke into his microphone. Suddenly Server B appeared and offered to refill my drink. I don’t know where the hell she came from. She must’ve rappelled down from the ceiling, sort of like those SWAT guys do.
Server B refilled my drink and left. Server A then appeared and said (and this is an exact quote) “Are we tastin’ okay?”
Not wanting to be impolite, and also not wanting to provide an incorrect answer, I leaned over and bit Mrs. R on the shoulder, in attempt to provide a factual basis for my response to his question. Mrs. R cried out and slapped me (rightfully so I might add) and in the process spilled the remaining, high value lemon slices on the floor.
Suddenly there were six, black-shirt clad people with mops and rags and vacuums rappelling from the ceiling. One of them dove headfirst toward the table, trying in vain to save the lemon slices before they hit the floor. The others quickly cleaned up the area. A priest appeared and gave last rights to the unfortunate lemon slices.
We were escorted to the door by two guys named Vinny and Guido, assessed $28 for lunch, $123 for two lemon slices, and asked never to return, at least until the price of citrus fruit drops…
We went to a Mexican restaurant along the main drag near where we live. It’s a typical suburban main drag; within about two miles you can find a mall, several national chain stores and restaurants, a couple of car dealerships, and 57 Starbucks.
We went to a place called Hacienda Colorado. It is locally owned and the food, influenced by northern New Mexico, is delicious. You should give it a try sometime.
Hacienda Colorado
If you go, be prepared for some unusual things. All of the servers (black-shirts) and managers (yellow- shirts) wear headsets with microphones, apparently to facilitate quick responses to all of their customers needs.
We arrived at about 12:15p and were promptly seated by a headset wearing hostess. Another person walked by our table, let’s call him Server A, and said he would be “taking care of us.” He turned the ticket over on our table. This is apparently code to tell the other servers that “this table is covered, stay the hell away.”
Server A went out to the patio to help some other diners and Server B immediately approached our table, brought some chips and salsa, turned the ticket over and took our drink orders. I was feeling particularly roguish, so I ordered a diet soda. Mrs. R ordered an iced tea.
Now, since the beginning of recorded history, at least in these parts, iced tea is served with a slice of lemon. Mrs. R’s tea was brought to the table, sans lemon, just as server A passed our table in bewilderment. Not at the missing lemon, but because someone had swiped his table.
During our entire time at the Hacienda, there were two managers that continually circled the dining room, giving instructions via their headsets. The Alpha manager circled in a clockwise fashion, while the #2 circled in a counter-clockwise direction. About every 3 minutes we were asked by one of the yellow-shirts if everything was OK. Not wanting to be impolite, we always stopped eating to respond to their question, always answering in the affirmative. It took us an hour and forty-seven minutes to get through lunch…
Anyway, back to the lemon. Mrs. R flagged down Server B (Mrs. R had to use a flag because the customers don’t get headsets) and requested a lemon slice for her tea. Server B promptly brought a couple of lemon slices in a small bowl and explained that they don’t put them in iced tea anymore because “some people don’t like them, and something happened in Florida.” After much discussion, Mrs. R and I determined that most lemon groves are in California, they had some rough weather, and the price of some citrus fruits had risen. We finally decided that the lack of lemons was a cost savings move by the restaurant to minimize the use of these highly valuable fruits.
A person we’ll call Server C brought our food to the table and we began to eat. The food was delicious. During the course of our lunch we had a good view of the patio an observed a handsome, 20-something young man having lunch with four very attractive 20-something young ladies. These gals were all wearing high heels, tight pants and tight clingy shirts (or so I’m told….). None of them seemed to be attached to the young man, and they all appeared to be vying for his attention. It was good entertainment, and there wasn’t even a cover charge...
I thought maybe it was an episode of The Bachelor and these gals were the four finalists. Mrs. R said she thought the guy probably had two things that I didn’t: money and an alternative lifestyle…
Anyway, about halfway through lunch I was in need of a soda refill. Heck I was goin’ for two, it was Saturday and Mrs. R was the designated driver…
Neither Server A nor Server B was anywhere to be found, but fortunately the Alpha yellow-shirt walked by our table at just the right time, and spoke into his microphone. Suddenly Server B appeared and offered to refill my drink. I don’t know where the hell she came from. She must’ve rappelled down from the ceiling, sort of like those SWAT guys do.
Server B refilled my drink and left. Server A then appeared and said (and this is an exact quote) “Are we tastin’ okay?”
Not wanting to be impolite, and also not wanting to provide an incorrect answer, I leaned over and bit Mrs. R on the shoulder, in attempt to provide a factual basis for my response to his question. Mrs. R cried out and slapped me (rightfully so I might add) and in the process spilled the remaining, high value lemon slices on the floor.
Suddenly there were six, black-shirt clad people with mops and rags and vacuums rappelling from the ceiling. One of them dove headfirst toward the table, trying in vain to save the lemon slices before they hit the floor. The others quickly cleaned up the area. A priest appeared and gave last rights to the unfortunate lemon slices.
We were escorted to the door by two guys named Vinny and Guido, assessed $28 for lunch, $123 for two lemon slices, and asked never to return, at least until the price of citrus fruit drops…
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Spring
I’m in excellent shape for a guy who drives a desk for a living – that is if you consider round a shape…
Like a lot of people (well, maybe not a lot of people, I’m just saying that to make myself feel better), I put on a few pounds over the winter. It might’ve had something to do with being ass-deep in snow for two months. Actually that sounds more like an excuse than a reason.
Anyway, I had my bicycle tuned up a couple of weeks ago and have been riding it some. I even put a speedometer/odometer thingy on it. I’m not really sure why, I guess I want to see how fast I’m not going. I’m also getting very good at riding with a 50-lb. oxygen tank strapped to my back. I don’t go very fast, (except down hills) but I never run out of breath…
Another critter at Casa Del Rogue that is in need of some exercise is our 85 lb. Golden Retriever, Marci. She is a rambunctious, joyful creature that has stolen my heart (please don’t tell Mrs. R).
Marci has an arsenal of toys in the backyard, and that’s where we often go to play. She likes to play fetch with her yellow football, and tug-of-war with this green rope and tire contraption.
She also has another toy that consists of an 18-inch long piece of rope with knots at each end. Between the knots is a piece of hard red rubber, about 4-inches long. This piece of rubber has some groves in it and can slide along the rope, between the knots.
Marci will fetch this toy and pick it up in her mouth, usually at one end of the rope. As she comes trotting back to me she will begin to shake her head, causing the rubber piece to slide to the other end of the rope. We’re not really sure why she does this; it may be an instinct from when Goldens’ were used as hunting dogs.
Anyway, as she gets more excited, the shaking gets faster, and the piece of rubber will smack against the ground, or her shoulder, or both. It’s quite remarkable to watch, but you don’t want to stand too close for fear of being clobbered.
We have been teaching Marci to drop things she has in her mouth by using the command “drop it!” It works about 50 percent of the time…
The other night, after I came from work, Marci and I were out in the backyard playing. She fetched her red rubber toy and came running back, excitedly shaking her head. The rubber end was flying about.
I commanded her to “drop it!”
In all of the excitement, Marci must’ve heard “drop him” because with one shake of her head, the rubber end came around and caught me, well, in that place that makes grown men cry.
I fell to the ground in the fetal position, clutching my “nether region.”
Marci came over to investigate, licked me on the ear, and went about her business.
I came inside, iced down the injured area, and spoke as a soprano for a couple of hours…
Like a lot of people (well, maybe not a lot of people, I’m just saying that to make myself feel better), I put on a few pounds over the winter. It might’ve had something to do with being ass-deep in snow for two months. Actually that sounds more like an excuse than a reason.
Anyway, I had my bicycle tuned up a couple of weeks ago and have been riding it some. I even put a speedometer/odometer thingy on it. I’m not really sure why, I guess I want to see how fast I’m not going. I’m also getting very good at riding with a 50-lb. oxygen tank strapped to my back. I don’t go very fast, (except down hills) but I never run out of breath…
Another critter at Casa Del Rogue that is in need of some exercise is our 85 lb. Golden Retriever, Marci. She is a rambunctious, joyful creature that has stolen my heart (please don’t tell Mrs. R).
Marci has an arsenal of toys in the backyard, and that’s where we often go to play. She likes to play fetch with her yellow football, and tug-of-war with this green rope and tire contraption.
She also has another toy that consists of an 18-inch long piece of rope with knots at each end. Between the knots is a piece of hard red rubber, about 4-inches long. This piece of rubber has some groves in it and can slide along the rope, between the knots.
Marci will fetch this toy and pick it up in her mouth, usually at one end of the rope. As she comes trotting back to me she will begin to shake her head, causing the rubber piece to slide to the other end of the rope. We’re not really sure why she does this; it may be an instinct from when Goldens’ were used as hunting dogs.
Anyway, as she gets more excited, the shaking gets faster, and the piece of rubber will smack against the ground, or her shoulder, or both. It’s quite remarkable to watch, but you don’t want to stand too close for fear of being clobbered.
We have been teaching Marci to drop things she has in her mouth by using the command “drop it!” It works about 50 percent of the time…
The other night, after I came from work, Marci and I were out in the backyard playing. She fetched her red rubber toy and came running back, excitedly shaking her head. The rubber end was flying about.
I commanded her to “drop it!”
In all of the excitement, Marci must’ve heard “drop him” because with one shake of her head, the rubber end came around and caught me, well, in that place that makes grown men cry.
I fell to the ground in the fetal position, clutching my “nether region.”
Marci came over to investigate, licked me on the ear, and went about her business.
I came inside, iced down the injured area, and spoke as a soprano for a couple of hours…
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