|Maggie, who loves you.|
So anyway, I tell her things because most of my hours are spent with corruptible, unimpressed children. And, as previously mentioned, she does not give a shit. I could reveal state secrets about nuclear wessels and she would simply blink and gaze at me with adoration. And now, I'm telling you because I might as well be writing these posts inside of a bunker 4 stories under the Russian tundra based on my Google Analytics reports lately. It's like a PostSecret confessional, but with even more anonymity, and less heartfelt earnesty.
1. I can't spell, or use, commas.
For someone who claims to be a writer, this is especially shameful. At this point, I can barely write with a pen on paper because I'm so dependent on my friend, Mr. Squiggly Line. As far as commas, go, I have given up. Maggie loves me anyway.
2. I still sing into my hairbrush.
You know, that thing pre-teens do (or did, in the 80s, according to every Molly Ringwald movie). I have a hard time passing by an unsuspecting hairbrush and not picking it up to channel my inner Debbie Gibson (who was the better singer but far less interesting than Tiffany). I sing into my hairbrush and make eye contact with myself in the mirror. Maggie pants appreciatively.
3. I hate coffee.
I feel like by age 37, I should be able to drink coffee without rendering it unrecognizable by adding copious amounts of white stuff to it, but no. I am embarrassed to drink coffee in front of people because I have to make the waitress bring more cream and sugar, and I won't order it at a drive-thru because I don't want to ask for "8 or 9 creams and several handfuls of sugar packets". Maggie stands by patiently while I ruin a perfectly good cup every morning.
4. I only make my children bathe if we are going somewhere.
I just don't see the point. We go somewhere frequently enough. Why waste all that clean? Like the dishes, they are just going to get dirty again. Better to cover up the dirty parts with clothes and forget about it. Maggie likes us better when we are 5, 6 days past clean.
5. I have an irrational fear of gas stations.
I'm relatively sure, as I stand around pumping just an incredibly ridiculous amount of gasoline into my van, that the whole place is seconds away from exploding. I stand perfectly still while peering suspiciously at everyone around me, keeping an eye out for lit cigarettes, bundles of dynamite, and suspicious heaps of fertilizer. I also nonchalantly ground myself for fear of death-by-static-electricity. Maggie understands, and fears for my safety, as well.
So, what do you tell your dog?