Yesterday I took a picture of my dog on my phone. Then for no reason at all, I began fiddling around with the filters. Then something amazing happened. As I happened upon a particular filter, I realized this was my dog’s album cover. This would be her album, if it came out in 1991 and was filled with lite-R&B/soft-rock pop songs.
I’ve spent a lot of time since then trying to think of what the album would be named. I keep going back to “Forever Your Girl,” but Paula Abdul already came out with that. And my dog is no Paula-Abdul-coat-tail-rider. Oh well. I’ll keep thinking on it.
Next I happened upon this shirt in my internet travels:
Five bucks, people. Free shipping. The Children’s Place, yo.
Holy shit, I had to have it. For my kid.
Then I restrained myself. Because impulse-buying guinea pig shirts seems like a bad road to start down. First off, our kid is growing at a freakish mutant rate. He only wears everything a handful of times before he looks like a sausage in it. Plus we just got two bags of hand-me-downs. Plus I’m still a little burnt over the last time I splurged on a bomb-diggity Air Jordan sweatsuit that the kid wore twice. Twice. And he didn’t exactly fit in it the second time.
Yes, I used the word “bomb diggity.”
So later I mentioned the guinea pig face shirt to the wife. I expected her to tsk tsk me about wasting money, but instead she was like, “get it.” She said it with such firmness that it was somewhat alarming. GET IT. We disagree on many things, but apparently guinea pig face shirts for our son is not one of them.
I’ve been daydreaming about summer something fierce. So have you. It’s been perpetually four degrees forever. We didn’t make it to the beach last summer because pregnancy. I’ve already got a condo booked for an eight day beach vacation this summer. It will be our first “family vacation,” and we’re even taking the dog.
The other day the wife says, “the dog told me when we go to the beach, she wants to get a hot dog.”
The wife’s been daydreaming, too.
That’s what daydreams are. Thinking about buying a hot dog at the beach for the dog. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Where?” I ask.
“I don’t know. She wants to check out what’s available.”
Now I’ve spent the last few days running over the mental layouts and maps in my head of the beach, trying to locate a dog-friendly hot dog stand, where we can all sit at an outside picnic table, eating fries and ice cream and a hot dog. Daydreaming.
Another thing I’ve been daydreaming about is a place called King Kone. I have a BOGO coupon for a waffle cone. In some ways, I am planning my entire vacation around that waffle cone.
I will be taking a picture with that gorilla. Oh yes. I can only pray he’ll still be wearing the Santa Claus suit come July. He probably won’t, and I’ll only be a little bit heartbroken.
My coupon advertises that King Kone is the home of the infamous Gorilla Shake, but the storefront is clearly playing up the Gorilla Split. So which is it? Are they known for the shake or the split or what? People, put it down on your calendars. I’ll be solving this mystery July 2015. When I know, you’ll know. I won’t let you down.
This is life. Life with a baby has been this. Everything — even the mundane takes on this level of novelty and excitement. Everything is new. Everything is neat. Everything is loved, except for pureed peas. Suddenly everything before was just quantifiable. Everything now is un-quantifiable. Oceans, skies, outer space, worlds and worlds and worlds. Love, love. Stoned bliss. Idyllic, ideal.