RIPPED OUT WITH OUR BARE FREAKING HANDS.
Or a power drill and a crowbar.
Whatever.
Pics of all these changes will probably follow if I ever get my shit together enough to get batteries in my camera and stop writing about beef jerky. So probably not, actually.
Anyway, today is the day R moves all his junk from his much beloved shithole to the new house. And he's seriously sad about it.* It's sorta like having a shelter dog. You just took him away from the stench of urine and matted fur to this nice big backyard and all the chew toys he can he can handle, but you can tell he is still pining away a little bit for his shelter dog friends and the bitchy rescue ladies (who, as an aside, constantly treat people like us like Michael Vick just because we are not stay-at-home moms and ok maybe we didn't know that heartworm comes from mosquitoes, but now we do, we promise. Stop looking at me like you're going to call PETA, lady. I can take you. And your little dog too.). In R's scenario, just substitute "beer and overflowing ashtrays" for "urine and matted fur", "bowchickabowbow" for "chew toys", and "the pubs by his house and being able to watch all sorts of skanks from his porch" for the dog friends and rescue bitches. Luckily, much like a shelter dog, I think all it will take to get him over his displacement is a big meaty meal and lots of ear scratching. I'm on it.
*Also, it's his birthday, which he is not sad about because it means presents! and attention! and free dinner!, so if you know him, you might want to give him a shout out for the big 31.
1 comment:
Hah. R seems like my husband who appeared more than mildly upset when we pulled him out of his Bourbon Street lifestyle/living in a hotel for 6 months in downtown New Orleans and we finally got a "real apartment" (aka overpriced 1-bedroom that costs nearly as much as our new-construction mortgage in MS).
-ASG
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