This and That

1. How is it that I'm twenty-nine years old and still manage to get shampoo in my eye at least once a week?
2. Stefan is my favorite Jeopardy! contestant in eight years.  There's nothing like the Tournament of Champions to make me feel like a complete idiot.  (Except for, maybe, getting shampoo in my eye time and time again.) 
3. Went to the beach on Sunday.  Wore sunscreen.  Still managed to burn my ass.  Time to break out the satin pajama pants. (Landed a plane on the beach.  Oh, wait. That was someone else.)
4. Have been having intense hydrangea envy while taking Mitch for walks through the neighborhood.  Decided to take action by buying and planting my very own bushes.  I'm cautiously optimistic.  If this doesn't work, I'm getting a ski mask and skulking around the neighborhood at night cutting blooms.
5. I love thunderstorms.  So do my new hydrangeas.  Mitch, however. . .not so much.
6. Thirteen more days of school, but who's counting?  Me, that's who.
7. Went to Gap and bought two more cardigans.  That's five, for the high price of $15. 
8. Mitch, still the cutest and most snuggly dog on the planet.
9. AND. . .Lost.  What the hell?  Why did I just waste six years of my life?  To be fair, I didn't care all that much.  Once I found out what the numbers meant, I was good.  But it's probably good that I didn't care that much, because I might have been heartbroken.  Every time I think of the ending I want to vomit in my mouth and spit it at Kate.  Lame.

Mitch > Margaritas

A few days ago, Matt and I had endured a terrible day at work, and decided it would be fun to decompress in Mexico. And by Mexico I mean our favorite Mexican restaurant. We would have a couple of margaritas (they're two for one!), eat some chips, and get the anger and resentment out of our systems.

We decided to go home and change first. On our drive home, though, we saw a huge thunderstorm fast approaching. And we have a certain dog son, Mitchell Pancake, Mitchard Doggins (dog athiest enthusiast), who HATES thunderstorms.

So instead of heading off to Mexico, Matt and I comforted our son. The three of us retreated to the bed, our favorite place in the house. Mitch nestled between us, and we pet him and tried to make him forget about what was happening.

We held him and talked to him and tried to make him feel better. And we knew that our margarita plan was out of the question. Each time a huge crack of thunder would sound, Mitch would moan a pitiful dog moan. We'd then hold him tight and talk to him and pet him and scratch him and give him a bone.

We tried to make him feel better (and even entertained the idea that perhaps Mitchard Doggins was manipulating us into giving him so much attention). Eventually, he buried his little dog head and body under the comforter, and we all fell asleep. We didn't wake up until 9:00. (PS--Have I mentioned that I love my life?) No happy hour for Matt and Mandy.

I adore this dog, and so does Matt. And obviously, the well-being of the dog trumps our desire to drink cheap tequila (delicious, cheap tequila). I'm not angry at the dog for being upset and anxious, but I must admit that I was a little bitter about missing out on two for one margaritas in Mexico.

First the rash, then the opossum, then the almost black eye (to be explained later), and now missing happy hour?? Come on, dog. Still, though, I am obsessed. I can't stop talking about how cute you are or kissing your head or feeding you cheese. That's love.