I walked into my parents' house one afternoon earlier this week and was greeted by Wolfgang, my parents' dog, wearing a wee red apron with a gingerbread man on it. Stranger things have happened in this house, I suppose. My mother is the same woman who surprised us one Christmas several years ago with framed photos of our old Sheltie, Bogie, wearing a pleather biker outfit (or dominatrix, depending on how you want to look at it) complete with teeny tiny chains and a hat. But, I still ventured to ask: Why in HELL is the dog wearing an apron?
My mom, standing in the kitchen with Remi skittering around and babbling at her feet, was wearing a larger version of the dog's fashion statement.
"Remi wouldn't wear her apron, so we put it on the dog," she said.
Yes, that makes perfect sense.
Apparently the plan was to have a little grandmother/granddaughter baking bonding time to prepare for the upcoming annual Holidays with the Hastings anatomically correct cookie decorating party this weekend, but somebody wasn't cooperating.
We hung out and had some lunch while Wolfie begged, tail wagging, making the little red apron swish back and forth. Not only did he not mind the torture by apron, he seemed to like it, practically prancing through the house saying, "Look at me, I'm so pretty!"
This pissed Remi right off since it was clear that the dog might be getting more attention than her and that was total bullshit. She marched up to Wolfie demanding that he take off HER apron RIGHT NOW. We diffused the situation by distracting both the dog and the kid with singing tacky Christmas.
Now, Wolfie is an extremely rare Australian Corg-a-Doo, a.k.a. the biggest super mutt to end all super mutts. My parents recently had a DNA test done just for fun and were disappointed by the results: Inconclusive. Wolfie is so far mutted out that specific breeds cannot even be detected in his DNA. My dad, the veterinarian and Wolfie's best friend prefers the term, hybrid vigor. His legs are about 2 inches long, attached to a furry black Corgi looking body with a sorta kinda Australian Shepard looking head. Funny looking, yes, but just funny looking enough to be adorable and, to top it off, he fits right in with our family because he's completely neurotic.
They adopted him while living in Reno and quickly learned that he couldn't be outside when the sprinklers came on because he would attack the sprinkler heads, biting the spray ferociously then puking up all the water he swallowed.
A black ceramic cat was perched on the railing of their deck right by the steps leading to the yard and, almost daily, Wolfie would go outside, launch his short chunk body off the deck steps and attempt to rip the ceramic cat's head off.
It was not uncommon to see him racing around the backyard with a plastic flower pot over his head or for him to go ape shit every time he would hear my parents using the plunger on the toilet.
He's perfectly sweet until you bust out the unknown, so it's not surprising that he has an unexplained vendetta against the giant stuffed reindeer that sings "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" while rocking in a tiny rocking chair in my parents' living room. We turned it on and Wolfie stood on his hind legs barking, trying to bite it and knock it off the table.
This sort of behavior is apparently quite disturbing to an almost 2-year-old, so while Mom, Dad and I laughed because it's ALWAYS FUNNY, Remi protested, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" while on the brink of tears..."Wolfgang, get away!" she whined while trying unsuccessfully to push him away from the reindeer. This in turn made us laugh even harder and by the time the reindeer had finished his delightful song, tears were streaming down our faces.
Later I discovered the aprons also had regular sized and mini sized red oven mitts to go along with them. You would have thought the tiny one was covered in Anthrax because as I approached Remi to try to get her to put it on her little hand she screamed, "NOOOOOOOOOO! DON'T LIKE!"
Well, since she didn't want to wear it, I put it on the dog...THEN she demanded I take it off of him and put it on her. Go figure.
Tacky Christmas with the help of Andy has also brought a smile and a laugh to my frozen and disgruntled face the past couple of mornings. While I feel I should be buried in my nice, warm, awesome bed at 7 a.m., work and Andy feel I should be outside in the freezing cold practically sleep walking while a bastard terrier rips my arm out of the socket repeatedly. The last two mornings we've approached one of my neighbor's patios which is decorated with lights and a life size, plastic light up Santa, because, you know, giant, faded, glowy Santas waving to the parking lot are the epitome of Christmas classy along with those huge blow up snow globes. Andy immediately bristles up and starts barking at the Santa. Even after he went up and got a closer look, he still thinks it's real. It's sort of like that time he went insane over a trash bag stuck in a tree each time we walked past it for several days, except holiday style. In fact, I can't wait to go home and see if he'll do it again tonight.
Lacey was shocked and appalled to hear that I don't plan on shoving a Christmas tree into my tiny ass apartment. I might put a gimpy little Charlie Brown Christmas looking wreath on my door, but it has to be real and homemade and kind of ghetto looking or else I won't like it. First of all, I'm too busy getting drunk at bars to be at my apartment enjoying the festiveness and second of all, why do I need to decorate when Christmas has already exploded all around me anyway?