Friday, May 7, 2010

Give me an inch, and I'll take...the Plop O'Doom

I've been thinking, and you know that always leads to trouble.

This morning I was walking around Lake Waban. Well, not all the way around, because partway, I heard what sounded like a shot, so I performed a perfect Plop O'Doom and pointed northward. Mom, of course, wanted to head south, along the lake and drink in the view.

Once my alarm was assuaged, I decided it would be far better to gallop over the boardwalk, fling myself over the bridge, and drink the water.

Guess who won?

My thinking is, rather than actually wait for someone to give the inch, just take the mile. After all, what would I be waiting for? I know I'm going to win anyway, so why not take what's rightfully mine?

Mom has been threatening to call Cesar Millan. I say, bring him on. He will never have met as stubborn a dog. Or as wily. Here's my plan. Cesar comes. I put on my recalcitrant show, then make him think that he's master of me. He feels good, I suffer, but only briefly. What's a bit of tarnished pride?

Then, Cesar the Great leaves, and I go back to my true, obdurate, stubborn, smart, and very handsome, self. No measurement needed.

Speaking of inches, even though Dr. S tried really hard to come up with a medical reason for why I continue to put on some poundage, it turns out I am perfectly well. The result of the weigh-in? Let's, let's not.