Fighting a Pit Bull

Mrs. Wigglebottom and I are having a enormous fight. I am losing. I want to lay on the couch under my half-finished afghan and sleep while Detroit loses to Cincinnati.

She wants to lay on the couch under my half-finished afghan and sleep while Detroit loses to Cincinnati.

I don’t know why we can’t reach a compromise, since it seems we have similar plans, but every time I get up to go to the bathroom or throw some more dishes into the dishwasher, she’s sprawling all over the couch like it barely has room for her, let alone her and me.

And if I throw her onto the floor, she’s all like “I have to poop, right now. Take me out so I can poop.” which I do, because I’m a good dog owner, but really she just wants to sniff around the side yard and see if anyone else has been there recently.

I’m about to stuff a bone full of peanut butter and dog treats, just to lure her off the couch.

It’s not fair, but I’m exhausted and I need the couch.

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The Return of the Man from GM

So, I didn’t just spend all my time on the phone yesterday with the Man from GM rubbing it in his face that his company is going to ruin his life and didn’t he want to hear some Tom Petty before he discovered he’d never be able to retire?

No, we were also talking about New Year’s, which he is now threatening to come down for.

Many of you may recall how it goes when the Man from GM visits. Everything is fine for a while* and then he feels like my “slutty” friends ought to have sex with him, if only he finds the right “secret” place to put his hand or foot. Almost always, this involves him putting his hand on their feet or his foot on their asses.

Then, when they decline to have sex with him, because–I suspect–they don’t know him, he has no flirting skills, and he doesn’t even seem to have a general sense of what body parts go where, he gets all bitter and angry and mean.

Then I get pissed off and by the time he’s going back to the airport I’m not even speaking to him and he’s sitting on the plane stewing and then he’s calling me the second the plane lands in Detroit to continue to fight about all the ways he’s better than all my friends.

The last time he was here, I swore I was never going to let him come back, because he was such a fucktard and it ended up costing me a lot of money** and self-respect. And, as you may recall, I was still so pissed at him months later that I rescinded his invitation to my cousin’s wedding***.

But now, in typical Man from GM fashion, we’re supposed to pretend like we’ve worked that shit all out and not what actually happened, which is, as pissed as I am, I’m amazed and amused by his ability to just insist on the rightness of his own understanding of the world–if women don’t want to sleep with him, it’s their problem, not his. If his friends are frequently pissed at him, he just has moody friends–and so have just gotten over it.

I guess we’ll see if he actually comes. And, if he actually comes, we can all take bets on who kills whom first.

*And in all fairness to him, over the course of our friendship, a “while” has increased from 3.5 seconds to approximately 18 hours.
**Because, did I mention? Cheap-ass motherfucker.
***So, in an indirect way, he’s responsible for my mom running around warning everyone that I was gay.