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Who wants Stormy?

Issue Date: Friday, Sept. 08, 2006

In lieu of a coherent entry or even something that resembles higher brain function I give thee… A photo essay titled, “I am a small, furry badger.”

Here we have one of the very first pictures we have of Galen. He was born on May 19th of this year so the “breeder” probably gave him to us WAY to early. And. We didn’t do the math. This one was taken on 7/5/06… he was approximately 6 weeks and 2 days, a mere baby.

In this picture he is a furry little bundle of love and fluffy, shedding fur. But he loved to snuggle and sort of hummed when he was chewing on your finger or a toy.

This next picture is of our little boy at eleven weeks. Notice please that he is still very lovable looking but that Mister is firmly holding Galen away from his face… so Galen would not chew it off.

Did I mention that Mister picked out the name Galen because it means “Calm”? Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!! Oh, me… that is some funny shit right there.

The next two pictures are of Galen this past Monday. He is sixteen weeks today. My, how time has slowed to a debilitating crawl… er. I mean … my, how time has flown. Merely a few scant weeks have followed us bringing the baby home… when it really seems like a lifetime.

But look at this face.

The chewing. And the destruction of the carpet and the gnawing of the baseboards. Lord. It is enough to make me lose my mind.

Did I mention that one evening after a bout of peeing on his bedding because we “moved Galen’s cheese” Mister said, “Where is the ROI?” “The ROI? On a fucking DOG?! Seriously?” “Yes, seriously.” “Well, at least now we know that we couldn’t EVER handle a baby.”

But did I also mention… Look. At. This. Face.???

Good Lord. The cuteness. It is killing me. But, you should see my cuticles. And? How Max loves him.

Also, I am cheating.

Yes, I freely admit it.

I am cheating on Elvira.

Here’s is how the affair started. My director goes on trips with her girlfriends to New York and they buy fake purses in Chinatown like it is their job. Power shoppers. And she asked me if I would like her to bring back anything for me. A Prada? No, thank you. A Coach? Hmmm…

And since I have been lusting after only two other purses my whole adult life (the brown horse bit Gucci hobo and the signature patchwork tote from Coach – from last season) I asked her if she would keep an eye out for any passable replicas. She asked me my limit and since I am a cheap ass I told her, $50.00. I figured that I would rather just save up anything more than that and buy the real thing when I could.

Or spend that money on massages. Good ones.

Otherwise, Elvira is in great condition… especially after I have been carrying her every freaking day for the past two years. Well, it will be two years on the 26th of this month. That is her birthday.

Shut up.

So my director comes back to town and she was so freaking happy… giddy almost… about the purses she bought. She pulled the one she got me from its little sleeping bag (dust bag… whatever) and I almost recoiled in terror.

It cost her $50.00 and she was so happy ya’ll. It about broke my poor little miserly heart that she was so happy and proud of herself… and also that I was about to fork over half a c-note for this ugly thing.

But I did it. And then ate crow when I took it home.

My boss walked by my desk the next day and said, “So… are you going to name that one?” And when he said “that” he pointed at the fake purse like he was accusing her of stealing or wearing a padded bra. I shrugged and asked him what he suggested since she was a filthy fakey whore of a purse. “What are some good stripper names?” I asked him. “Well, she does look sort of bipolar with all of those different patches of fake Coach material glued all over her. How about… Stormy.”

And Stormy she became.

The next week my boss and I were in San Antonio working and we had a few hours one evening so he, another power shopper, said, “Let’s go to Dillard’s’ to see if they have those shoes I wanted.” I, being ever agreeable, said, “Ok.” And off we went.

We walked into the store and he stopped at this display and said, “You really should get this purse. And get rid of that other one.” He held up a beautiful brown purse with a great shape. When he said “other one” he wrinkled his nose to show his immense distaste for the counterfeit that Stormy is. I looked at the brown one… and then for some reason, I sniffed her. Then I put her on my shoulder to see how she felt there.

Stormy feels like I am carrying an underarm goiter. Very unwieldy and uncomfortable. The brown purse felt like nothing. She fit perfectly and hung like I would imagine a set of testicles would. (Not really sure why I just likened the brown purse to testicles… but go with it… and let’s move on.)

I said, “I’ll just carry her around to see how it goes while we’re looking for your shoes.”

My boss gave me a knowing “Pfffft.” and we headed off to look at stuff for him.

Of course I got her.

She is wonderful and I have been complimented on her by so many different people. Just yesterday she was complimented by two dental hygienists and a pizza boy. No shit.

So ya’ll. I offer you a picture of Chelsea. Isn’t she pretty?

Who wants Stormy?


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

The Graphic Below Courtesy of Papernapkin.

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