To Ponder: Should Dumbasses Be Allowed to Own Dogs?

Driving to the grocery store today, I saw two puppies cross the road in front of me (speed limit: 50) and start romping in some tall grass. I pulled into a side road and, seeing me, the puppies dashed across the street--ignoring traffic--and started jumping up on me. 

There was a man at his house, fixing a tractor nearby. 

"Excuse me, sir?" I called. "Are these your dogs?"

"Ay-huh."

"Okay, I just saw them cross the road and wanted to make sure they weren't lost."

He chuckled. "Nope." He slapped his legs and the puppies went running to him.

When I got home from the store, these two friendly beasts trotted up to greet me and tried to nudge their way into the house. They were panting, so I gave them water and a little dog food I keep on hand for strays. I've tangled with that beige one before. I'm pretty sure the dogs belong to people nearby, maybe in the apartment complex behind us. But it galls me to no end to see dogs running up and down streets. Who knows who could grab them or what happens if a driver not paying attention comes along?

BTW, these two dogs are now conked out asleep in the shade of my front porch.

What's an animal lover to do? 

Voice Control = FAIL

Grabbed my iPhone this morning and decided I'd be cool and use the voice control option to call my best friend. 

"Call Trisha Emish," I instructed into the mic.

"Finding Genesis music," agreed the female voice. I Can't Dance started blaring out of my iPhone.

I tried again. "Call TRISHA," I said. 

"Shuffle Genesis," said the woman. I was treated to a version of There Must Be Some Misunderstanding.

"Trisha," I insisted. "CALL TRISHA."

"Shuffle," said she who will not be budged. 

I couldn't figure out how to turn off the music and just place the call myself. I finally put the phone into sleep mode and started over. 

 Either I need to work on my enunciation or my friends need to acquire easier names to recognize. 

More "I'm 40" Drama - The Poop Test

Well. I really don't know where to begin. I guess I should start with a warning. If you're reading this post over breakfast or during your lunch hour, you may want to return at a later time. That's because we're going to be talking about some stinky, unpleasant business.

I'll just put it out there: I have to take a poop test. Why? Because apparently that's what they make you do when you turn 40. 

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What My Phone Case Says About Me

There are too many options in life. No surprise there. I've written before about being stymied trying to buy a flat-iron and don't even get me started on how long it takes me to select a bottle of nail polish (deciding if I'm a "Carnation Pink," "Sunset Sky" or "Crimson Glow" is just beyond my decision-making capabilities). Now there's a new horror to add to the list: shopping for a shell for my iPhone

 

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