Sunday Confessional

I owe my dog, Wyatt, a public apology. The other night, when I was accusing him of political volleying at 1:45 in the morning, he was actually looking out for me. While someone was taking a baseball bat to the mailboxes in our neighborhood -- including ours (though just barely, as you can see in the photo), he and the neighbor dog were trying to tell the vandal to, "stay the who-who away from my house buddy, cause I'll lick the pores off your face." And he would too. He'd lick those pores, clean off. Unless the vandal happened to bring a miniature poodle with him... or was wearing a funny hat... or roller skates. All these things really work Wyatt into a lather. Anyway, I'm sorry Wyatt.

I should probably apologize to my Mother as well. No card. No dinner or present or box of chocolates. No visit. Just a phone call, in the parking lot of Sam's. See, I'm simply proving my theory, that children aren't all they're cracked up to be. Seriously sorry, Mom. (And in no way, am I insinuating that you are a hippo. Really. I just think they're cute.)

And while I'm on a roll... I might as well apologize to my husband too. He's embarrassed by the snippets of emails that I posted on Saturday. When he's writing these emails, he's under a bit of pressure... one computer for 30 residents...which usually makes for quite a bit of toe-tapping going on behind him. And apparently this pressure makes it impossible to use spell check. That's a joke, by the way. Seriously, I understand. And I'm sorry. (If you were wondering, this is my sincere "I'm sorry" face. I'm lookin' a little rough around the edges... eyebrows all askew, hair on frizz patrol... What can I say? Been a long day of confessin' sins and savin' souls.)