Musings from a servantless, stay-at-home, cooking-obsessed mom
Methinks the answer is a resounding YES! Please observe the following videos.
1) Benedict is a genius at impersonation:
2) Benedict makes mispronouncing 'penguin' sexy and charming as all get-out:
You're in love now, right? DUH!
I'd beat those chasers down, y'all!
Yesterday's white shroud of a sky opened last night like a sail ripped down the middle, and the deluge of freezing water gushing through hasn't stopped since. It is just a cold, wet mess of a day out there. As such, before Percy and I trundled off for our walk, I bundled us both up as best I could.
Have you ever seen a more pitiful-looking pug? He hates this coat with every fiber of his being and lets me know by gazing mournfully at me and refusing to walk more than a foot or two without sitting dramatically like this.
I have to wonder why the coat also seems to prompt him to drag his butt a few inches after sitting. And yes, all you readers who are like surrogate parents to my pets, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Em, that dog might have pin worms or some other anal condition."
Let me tell you, he does not. Percy is the picture of health. I swear to you I think this dog will never expire. Ever.
Ultimately he won as I simply could not take the snail-pace of our walk. As soon as I removed his coat, he stopped butt-dragging by the way.
On our way home, a bottle of Drakkar Noir walked past. How one human can wear that much cologne without suffocating is beyond me. The point, however, is that I was whisked back in time to high school and my first serious boyfriend, a wonderful guy who also loved Drakkar Noir.
At that time, Drakkar was the scent. If you were a guy, you needed to be wearing it, and if you were a girl who liked guys, you definitely wanted your man to be clouded in a spritz of the Noir. I know I did.
David was the best first boyfriend any girl could ever want. He was kind and handsome and chivalrous and fun. He wrote me notes and folded them into little triangle-shaped packets that he'd slip into my hand between classes. They made me sizzle with anticipation, and giant shoebox of them is probably still under my bed at my parents' house. He took me to the Olive Garden in Beaumont, TX (a 45-minute drive from our Louisiana hometown) for special occasions. He gave me my first jewelry. He had a great family. He was my first love. And did he love Drakkar Noir. Whoa, Nelly!
I thought of David today as Percy and I exhaled D.Noir and meandered back home. I like memories like these, prompted by something so seemingly inconsequential as a stranger's smell. All those years ago came back to me in a wave, much like the rain as it first rolled in last night.
First, how precious is my little nephew? I will meet him in less than two weeks, and though getting out of town for my longest-ever trip away from the boys feels both Herculean and vaguely unsettling, this nugget is waiting for me on the other side.
Yesterday, I was at school picking the boys up when I saw a friend, P. Each time we run into each other, I leave feeling like I wish I knew her better. She is funny and sweet, but the five children we have between us never cross paths due to different grades, activities and the like. Last year, Oliver became fixated on P's youngest son's winter hat because it had a pull-cord which moved the top. Or something like that. I was hopeful the hat-covet would facilitate coffee or a playdate, and it nearly did. But then... winter. And eleven snow days or some such nonsense.
Anyway, yesterday we ended up having another hilarious conversation -the kind after which you think, "Just how did we get there?"- about online shopping for fashionable things, and I admitted that perusing Gilt after a glass of wine was a dangerous vice of mine and thank god for returns.
P replied, "Oh, when I broke my leg last year, I shopped while on Vicodin. A few days into things, a pair of thigh-high, brown velour stockings arrived at my house."
"What on earth would you do with those?" I inquired.
"I don't know, but what really bothered me was that I'd not bought them in black."
I snorted. Fair enough.
We parted ways, laughing and probably newly jazzed about all that awaited us out there on the interwebs, and I felt grateful for carpool because we do see each other there.
I finally got dressed earlier this evening, because I'd been in exercise clothes all day, needed to take J somewhere and really wanted to experience real clothes on this fine Wednesday. You can tell that fall is hanging on by a thread. Winter is a'comin' and I wanted to take advantage of a coatless afternoon. When we returned home, I hurried upstairs to change (because really, once home, if you don't change out of nice clothes, all you're really doing is taking bets with whether you'll go to the dry cleaner tomorrow or the next day), slipped one silver flat off, returned it to its spot, slipped the other one off and wondered, "Hmm, why is that slimy?"
People, dog poo is why. Dog poo. I feel that moms should be exempt from stepping in dog poo and then putting their hand directly in it.
Speaking of moms and exemptions, this. Yesterday, I had a babysitter for a couple hours so went out to AROMO to get some work done. It had not been the easiest of afternoons so I went out there with hot tea, glee and my computer. I deserve this space. I deserve for it to be quiet. I do deserve solitude at times. And what happened within the hour? One of my sons came outside, stood behind AROMO and repeatedly elbowed the very wall at which I sat. I demanded to know just what he was doing, and he replied, "I want to be by myself."
Puh-lease. If being alone is what he wanted, try his room or at least the other side of the yard.
Not twenty minutes later, number 2 is outside, rustling around AROMO and then I hear a familiar sounding whizz. Yes, he is peeing behind or against MY WALL. For a very long time might I add.
"What are you doing?"
"This is one of our pee spots, Mom."
WTF?!
musings from a stay-at-home, cooking-obsessed mom
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