There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Yeah, I'll poke yer haunches.

One's 100th entry should be a lot better than this is going to be. I haven't even written it yet, but I know that "scintillating" and "must read" won't be associated with it. I just have a feeling...

So tonight is the big Xmas party, an event which I know should be avoided, but I don't have much of an excuse to stay home. My six free drink tickets will not be honored in my kitchen, so if I want some free booze and some hot buffet (I predict gray food), I will be here . I will be there for as long as it takes for my drink vouchers to be depleted.

Luckily I won't be driving so as to avoid my Annual Car Accident.

My First Annual Car Accident occurred a couple of days before Christmas three years ago when I was taking care of Cookie's dogs -- she and Handsome Husband (then Handsome Boyfriend) were off somewhere glamourous (Oklahoma). I had just fed the dogs, played with them, looked through her underwear drawer, tried on her clothes, eaten all of the chocolate I could find, tried some of the stuff in the medicine cabinet, and locked up the house. I carefully backed out of the driveway, seeing that there was a car approaching from a block and a half away, but also seeing that there was a stop sign between us, giving me ample time to do a Y-turn and get out of there. Just as I was straightening the car out -- crunchTHWACKgrind. The ass in the approaching car had sped up when he saw me backing out, tried to pass me on the right, jumped up on the curb, cut in front of me too sharply, and whacked into my right front quarter panel. The person who exited the other car was about 14 years old and late for some sports thing. After I asked him what the fuck he was thinking, we exchanged insurance information, he apologized profusely, admitted he was at fault, then I called the insurance rapists after I got home. (I didn't call the police because I didn't have a cell phone then.) Blah blah blah phone calls repair bills blah blah. Letter from the insurance company saying they'd decided that the accident was MY fault. That he'd driven into me from the wrong side of the road due to something I'd done. Many, many, many more phone calls in which I expressed my complete bewilderment and disgust.

Once year hence: Totally different situation. Similar outcome. Christmas party at my boss's house. Ambushed by an argument with my ex-husband and his nagging harridan wife preceding the party. No Greg at party as our relationship was not public knowledge (like the Lambada -- it was forbidden). I had, like, waaay too much to drink and was a little bit (ahem) excitable when I left. I was heading for Greg's when several things occurred simultaneously: I tried to find my cell phone under the car seat while I was driving, a bag of cheese started to slide off the passenger seat and I had to save it because it's cheese, for god's sake, and I drove into a garden wall that was in one of those island median things. Bam! Bricks everywhere. Panic! Drive away! Get to Greg's house, sort of stagger and burst in and yell "I hit a wall!"

We went down to look at the damage, then took the car to the car wash, where I realized that no amount of scrubbing was going to remove the permanent imprint of bricks on my bumper. (Not to mention the crumple in the hood, the rakish angle of the license plate, etc.)

Meanwhile, others had left the party and had to drive over the pile of bricks I'd left behind.

It was messy at work for a while. That's all I'll say for now. The next day I did call the security post at the hoity toity gated neighborhood in which my boss lives and confess to them that I had indeed driven into the wall. Likewise, I confessed to my boss. They all pretty much just laughed at me, along with many, many other people.

Like the second Annual Car Accident, the third was also my fault. Day after Thanksgiving this time, although Thanksgiving did come late that year. Nothing really spectacular or drunk this time. A guy stopped when I didn't expect him to and I drove into his rear end. His Canyonero was unscathed, but smoke was coming from under my hood. Feh. I'm a little hesitant about going to pick up the monkey next weekend, for obvious reasons.

So the Greggers and I will be heading off to Dublin over the holidays. Now I know why -- I just found this on a site about Dublin:

Like a Disneyland for beer lovers, the Guinness Storehouse is an all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza combining sophisticated exhibits with more than a pintful of marketing hype. The best part of the Storehouse tour is the rooftop Gravity Bar, where you can kick back with a pint of the black stuff.

Need I say that Greg IS a beer lover and I expect I'll find him staggering about looking for the Little Mermaid or Pocahantas or some other semi-pornographic Disney character?

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