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Tropical Depression: up in my grill, dog.
A friend of a friend who is living in Sri Lanka sent an update on his life in the democratic socialist republic.
(they have real names, of course)
One last thing, again about driving. And I don't like
to tell stories about my kid because it is never as
interesting to anybody else and I just don't need to
be taking a mondo hit off the hubris pipe. That being
said, we are out driving and this little puppy (S___
sometimes says, "Corn is little puppy." Adorable, no?)
outta nowhere jumps in front of the van and we hit it.
I get out and I tell K____, "Don't let S____ come
out until I come back. I don't want ghosts crowding
the young child's fragile eggshell mind." I get out
there and it is worse than I imagined. I looked at it
and it is all lodged up in the grate and it is spot
welded to that thing. I am just taking a breath and
figuring out how I am going to explain it to S____
when she comes running out. She sees it and I don't
want to make her panic, so I just watch what she does.
She looks at the front of the van and then at me, then
the front of the van and then me.
She takes a step closer and I am just about to say
something and she says,
"Why ya gotta get all up in my grill, dog?"
