Friends don't let friends look like idiots in booties

I am an awful person.

Downright nasty.

Srsly, be warned.  If you are my friend, I just might purposely put you in a situation that will cause you to be unsure, unsteady,  maybe even a little uncomfortable just so I can laugh at you.

Awful.

Maybe you've read how I find a great deal of enjoyment in watching dogs in shoes.

Maybe you've read how I've spent many a lunch break looking up YouTube videos of dogs in shoes and then snorting wildly at my desk.

this one is my fave.

So maybe it won't come as a shock to read that the first chance I got to put my own dear, sweet, trusting puppy in shoes I jumped at it and then sat back, with recording device activated, to enjoy the show.

That he didn't care last week when I put Corey's t-shirt on him and screeched, "the baby's wearing pajamas!!" wasn't an indication to me that I might not get the reaction I desired, so I proceeded to strap on four canvas booties I had previously purchased for Oliver (who summarily stripped them off when it was his turn without even a single awkward prance for his mother's sake. The nerve.)

It was probably what my sister calls Christian Karma that Arnie didn't do anything.

I mean, he had a moment of, "here we go again...." and danced around the kitchen for a few seconds, but it was more from a lack of traction than ohmigawshthesethingsareeatingmyfeet!!  After a few uneasy steps he trotted all around my mom's kitchen, sniffing out the person who was shoving treats at him as I had him pinned to the ground to strap on the booties.

Not the wild, flailing dance I was hoping for.

Serves me right for trying to use my own puppy's uncertainty for my enjoyment.

I gave him treats.  Then I took off the booties.

...and that's when my mom strapped them to her Basset Hound, Maggie.

(insert evil laugh here)

:)

*******

No dogs were hurt in the making of this post, they were only a little confused and maybe a tad embarrassed.

A note to my hair stylist

Confession: I hate what you did//will do//have ever done to my hair.

But in all honesty, you never even had a chance.

I will be the first to admit I am your worst customer.  I come in to your salon with my frizzed-out, combination hair that hasn't been touched by a professional in at least nine months and expect you to work wonders God alone could fix, and unless I walk out of your place looking like Jennifer Aniston with a "do" that only takes me 20 minutes to style in the morning using absolutely no product, I am not going to be happy with what you've done.

My apologies.

It's not you.  It's me.

 No, really.  I'm what you'd call unrealistic.

My expectations are wildly unreasonable when it comes to certain things.  Like hair.   How much I can really eat at a dinner buffet.  And Will Ferrell movies.

To name just a few.

Within a few days I'll get used to your interpretation of "layers and a trim."  I might even love it.  But that doesn't change the initial look of disappointment on my face I can't seem to mask no matter how hard I try to smile and say "don't worry, my allergies make me sob like this."

Again, so, so sorry.

I'll try to make up for it in my tip.   Even though, um, I still don't know how much you tip your hair-doer despite having access to the internet even right now where I can look up tipping etiquette for every imaginable situation.

But you could say this is just what you have to get used to being a professional and all.

I'm a professional felt ball maker and you don't see me gettin' all bend out of shape when people walk into my booth at a craft fair and laugh at all the "cute little pom-poms!!" or say loud enough for every possible customer to hear that "those things must be SO itchy ohmigawsh."

No.

You're right, I do get bent.  And whiney.

I'll try harder, future hair stylist.