A few weeks ago, we were all out celebrating the end of summer vacation, presumably doing something fun. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what the fun thing was that we were doing. All I remember is that at the end of a long day of having fun, the car keys went missing. (Why is it that it’s always easier to remember the one bad thing that happens rather than an entire day of good things?) All of us were hot and sweaty and fraying at the edges, and now, here we were stranded in the middle of a parking garage, searching desperately for the car keys. I rifled through my purse for the third or fourth time while The Husband stood behind me asking questions beginning with phrases like: “Did you leave it in the….?” or “How about checking your…?” which was driving me crazy because I’d looked in all of the places he’d suggested about a million times. In the meantime, the kids, exhausted and feeling our frustration, were beginning to unravel. “Are we going to be stuck here all day?” J whined. Since The Husband and I were kind of wondering the same thing ourselves, we found it prudent not to answer. Instead I stuck my head further inside my purse while The Husband searched his pockets but pulled out nothing but an old Altoid and some lint which he investigated with vigor. But our evasive tactics backfired and caused J to draw his own conclusion, and he stated flatly and with resolute conviction, “We are going to be stuck here. Forever.” T, who had been falling asleep standing up, suddenly perked up. “Huh? We’re stuck here forever? But I’m exhausted! How’m I gonna sleep?” he panicked. “No! Noooo!” his plaintive wail echoed off the walls of the parking garage. Then, in a very grave and somber voice, he suddenly announced: “This would be a good time to say a bad word.” All of us stopped what we were doing and turned our heads to look at T, not just a little curious, and braced ourselves for the next words that would come from his, thus far, pure and unadulterated lips. T drew a deep breath. “GUTS!” he shouted, stomping his foot. I let loose the breath I had been subconsciously holding, relieved that he hadn’t repeated anything he may have overheard from yours truly. The Husband chuckled but kept it together. J looked disappointed. We all allowed T a moment of silence to show him that we understood his vexation. In a minute, T lapsed back into his sleep-standing position against the car, and The Husband started up again, “How about in your pockets? Did you check your pockets?” I huffed and shot him a look that said “Duh.” Of course I checked my pockets. I patted my front pockets again just to satisfy him. Nothing. Just as I knew there would be. For the heck of it, I patted my back pockets too, which I reserve solely for “decoration” and never for transporting lumpy objects that would not be flattering to my already imperfect backside. And there they were. And had been this entire time. Oh... Guts.
Sam Le Roy is J’s dog. He is not a real dog. The Husband says we can’t have a real dog or anything else that poops. We have a cat and The Husband is on cat-poop detail because after the kids were born, I thought it was only fair that he had to clean someone else’s poop too. J asked for a dog and his request was duly rejected even after he promised to clean up any dog poop (yeah right). So J sort of kidnapped Sam Le Roy. Sam Le Roy actually belonged to my sister, Deeva, and his name was not really Sam Le Roy. I think it was Harold, after the semi-professional basketball player she was dating at the time who, by the way, gave her Sam Le Roy (then Harold) as a gift. That is why he wears a basketball jersey and sneakers, and if you squeeze his right paw he says “Woof Woof! (pant pant pant pant) Woof Woof!” and if you squeeze his left paw he says in a very deep voice: “Why you just sittin’ there lookin’ at me? Pet me. Squeeze me. Love me. Do somethin’ Girl!” So, one afternoon, t...
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