Yesterday I told you what I thought was a perfectly scintillating story about the heat and my lawn edger and the dog and my father's pot pie in 1974 and Twilight, and then I was the victim, the VICTIM, of criticism from a commenter.
Faithful Reader and super, super, extra-annoying commenter Cosmo's Dad left a comment, a super, super, extra-annoying comment, asking me why I didn't take PICTURES of my lawn edger, and of the heat, and of my perspiration, and of the extension cords, and of my father and his pot pie back in 1974, and of the author of Twilight, and of someone actually transitioning into a werewolf from a person.
Faithful Reader and super extra-annoying Cosmo's Dad said he was under-stimulated by my post because he didn't have anything to look at yesterday. Do you know what I would like to stimulate Cosmo's Dad with? How about my fist?
Wait. That came out wrong.
Anyway, COSMO'S DAD, I am SORRY that I was out LIVING MY LIFE on Sunday and not DOCUMENTING IT for your edifiCATION.
So I had planned to tell ANOTHER story about SOMETHING ELSE that happened to me on Sunday. Well, really, it happened more to Tallulah, but now that Cosmo's Dad is going to be all under-stimulated, I felt self-conscious about having no photographs from my story. So you know what I did? I took reenactment shots. Just for annoying Cosmo's Dad.
That's what I did.
It is 11 o'clock at night on Monday, and I have set this to post on Tuesday morning, and I have been wandering around my house like a banshee, reenacting the stupid tale of Tallulah's brush with geese from Sunday. It was going to be a simple tale, and now it has become a whole thing.
Okay. So on Sunday, I said to Marvin:
(there's Marvin. Are you stimulated yet, Cosmo's Dad?) "Let's take Tallulah to the Bog Gardens!"
Here's me. Okay, look. It's 11 p.m. How hagged out do YOU look by 11 p.m.? You should have checked in with me at, like, 7:00. I was still relatively cute. And I know that Bonnie Raitt called and wants her white streak back. WE WERE BROKE, remember? I had to wait for this one check to come in. I have a hair appointment on Wednesday. Cinco de Mayo. It looks like I have de mayo in my hair.
I have, however, no excuse for the smudgy eye makeup. Am I entering an Alice Cooper lookalike contest later? Because no one told me.
Anyway, Marvin Gardens said yes to the Bog Gardens, and we got Lu's leash and took her to the park.
How mean am I that I just reenacted the getting-of-the-leash part? See what you did, Cosmo's Dad? She is totally down for a walk, even though she has never gone for a walk at 11 p.m. in her life. She is now out there trying to walk herself.
I have to say this is my favorite picture of Tallulah, ever. It is redunkulous.
So we all get in the car and Marvin immediately heads the wrong way. I mean, the Bog Gardens are not far from our house, at all. It is kind of a straight shot, if you want to know the truth and/or stalk us.
But my grandmother, the one I am becoming, used to nag my grandfather endlessly when they were in the car. As soon as they got in, she would grab the dashboard with all her might, and press her espadrilled foot to the floor, like she was pressing her own brake.
And I drove with my grandfather 750 times. He was a fine driver, not remotely scary. But the whole time she'd be gasping and "CHUCK!"ing and I swore I would never do that. So when Marvin went completely the wrong way, I said nothing.
So we got a nice tour of Greensboro, and after a 40-minute drive, we finally pulled into the park that is six minutes from our house.
Well. Do you know what didn't occur to me?
It is baby season. It is baby duck season, and it is baby goose season.
I had not one thing in my house that was duck or goose related. Or even duck, duck, goose-related. Finally I found these swans that, coincidentally, belonged to the grabbing-the-dashboard grandmother. Just pretend they're ducks and geese. In a bog garden and not a china cabinet.
Aren't you glad I took pictures of my Sunday walk with Tallulah? COSMO'S DAD?
I also took the swans out of the china cabinet, and I like how Winston is pointing them out for us.
Anyway. I am obsessed with baby geese. And also baby ducks. I mean, I guess that comes as no surprise. If you have read this ludicrous blog for awhile, you already know this fact, because there were baby geese at my old workplace, and my obsession for the baby geese was probably part of why they had such incredible respect for me; hence the part where I am working there today.
Naturally when we saw said babies I had to stop and obsess over them, as I do, forgetting in fact that WE HAD THE DOG. THE RIDICULOUS, HUNTY, BEAGLE-MIX DOG. Who has never met a baby goose before, it turns out.
If I think I am obsessed? I had yet to meet the so-needing-meds-for-her-obsession-Tallulah.
And you know what? Tallulah is not cool. She in no way can act like she does not care. If she were a person, she would be a used-car saleswoman. "What do I have to do to get you into my mouth TODAY!?"
Oh, she was obnoxious, with the tugging and the wagging and the whining and the wanting to go over there closer and the not being at all subtle about it. She would never be the type of person wearing a beret and writing poetry in a coffee shop. I'm telling you.
So, the thing is, you find a baby goose? Not far from it is a mom goose. And guess who is bitchy?
Oh, there is nothing scarier than a mom goose. Could they have blanker eyeballs, those adult geese? When do they go from being the cutest, pookiest things to the blankest, most soulless-eyed beings, ever?
When that goose saw Talu all up in her baby's business? Here is what she did.
Yes, the mom goose showed her bra strap.
And do you know what Tallulah did?
She sat right down. That thing hissed at her and she was all, "Yes, ma'am. I sorry." People around us saw it all and laughed. You have never seen someone humbled so fast.
I am thinking I should just dress up like a big goose when we go on our walks, and when she acts up, I can just hiss. Because that was the best she ever acted, was when that thing showed her the business end of its hiss.
Gooses are scary. I have to respect them.
I hope this entire post receives the Cosmo's Dad Seal of Stimulation. (You know I love you more than my luggage, Cosmo's Dad.)