HOW I MET AMELIA POND AT A FOOTBALL GAME

 

IMG_9317It is a truth universally acknowledged that a farmer at a football game with a puppy in tow must be in want of a new owner for said puppy.

Eat your heart out, Jane Austen. (Clearly, the hiatus from writing has not been good for my creativity. My apologies.)

True story: at our son’s last football game of the season, I spotted a couple holding an adorable black and white puppy in their arms.

Now, here’s the thing. I don’t like dogs. I LOVE dogs. I love dogs like some people love babies. I turn into a squealing coochy-coochy-coo WHO’S A GOOD BOY? YOU’RE A GOOD BOY! mess of a human that immediately makes anybody within a ten-mile radius embarrassed to be near me.

MYNDI. LOVES. DOGS.

So basically what this couple was holding was a tiny, wet-nosed, floppy-eared tractor beam that pulled me in like a moth to the flame.

They see me coming a mile away and before the words, “Cute puppy!” are out of my mouth, Mr. Farmer says, “Would you like to hold her?”

I would like to say that I calmly walked to them and gently took the puppy from his arms, but the truth is I all but pole-vaulted over the fence and snatched the puppy away from him like Gollum finding the One Ring. We wants it, my preciousssssssssss…..

OH, MY GOD, SHE WAS SO SOFT. AND WARM. AND SWEET. AND FLUFFY. AND BASICALLY ALL THAT IS GOOD AND PERFECT IN THE WORLD.

“Would you like to take her home?” Mr. Farmer asks.

*cue the Hubster’s groan*

“Are you serious?” I ask, trying to be chill, but inwardly freaking the heck out.

IMG_9134“Yeah. Trying to find her a good home.”

I glance at the Hubster. I can tell by the expression on his face he’s already conceded defeat.

Me: “We’ll take her.” Whispers in her ear, “Come along, Pond.”

And that is the story of how Amelia Pond came home with us after our son’s last football game. It’s been five months since she became my shadow, and she is still just the perfect little gal.

Sorry, Doctor, this companion’s mine.

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TRUE STORY: Everybody Poops

So, last night I dreamed that I was going to meet Beyonce. The Beyonce. And I was super nervous because

(1) I’m always nervous when I meet new people

(2) It’s Beyonce

and (3) I don’t really know any of her songs and so what the flip was I going to talk to her about? Maybe how the conspiracy theorists had serious nerdgasms after her Super Bowl performance? Yeah, that’d make us fast and immediate friends, to be sure. *enter Illumanti symbol here*

Anyway, I was sitting in a limo trying to calm myself as I was waiting for my turn to walk out on the red carpet (of course there was red carpet, because BEYONCE), and I was repeating to myself,

“Beyonce poops, just like you. Beyonce poops, just like you. Beyonce poops, just like you.”

(Which IRL is actually my mantra when meeting new people, and now you officially know way too much about me.)

Someone opens the limo door and I step out and there she is in all her glory. I can’t remember what she was wearing but there were flashes of light everywhere and she was smiling and striking poses and I shuffled up to her and she was crazy gracious and knew my name and I said,

“You know, you and I have something in common.”

And she said, “Is that so?”

I nodded eagerly. “I pooped today, too!”

The conversation sort of died after that.

True Story: Everybody poops, but that fact isn’t a great lead in conversation.

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TRUE STORY: It Was Only a Dream

I spent forty-five minutes this morning tearing the house apart, looking for the new purse and lap-top bag I’d scored for a heckofa discount. They’re kind-of matchey-matchey which usually isn’t my style, but I loved them and bought them anyway.

And now I can’t find them anywhere.

They are both blue with a sort of distressed finish, and the purse slings perfectly onto my shoulder. The lap-top bag has just the right amount of little pockets for all my stuff – one for my phone, one for my glasses, another for my sunglasses, and one for my pens and gum. And both have the cutest fabric lining the interior – a floral pattern that was exactly like the cupcake wrappers I used for Alice’s birthday party.

Wait a minute. Exactly like the cupcake wrappers I used for Alice’s birthday party?

Exactly like them?

Awww, crap. Crapcrapcrapcrapcraponacracker. It was a dream. I dreamed them SO HARD that I actually thought they were real.

Now I haz the sadz. Must medicate with more coffee.

TRUE STORY: If it’s too good to be true, it probably was a dream.

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