As I'm writing this, my ears are poisoned with the voice of Oprah streaming from the next room as B has predictably fallen asleep on the couch, leaving the TV to it's own devices. We would never willfully watch Oprah and if I weren't so fudgin' lazy, I'd put myself and the TV out of misery. But it is cold and I am bundled up in bed (where I've been hiding since the brutal Bears defeat approximately 6 hours ago)... so suffer we must. I am struck, however, by her commercial
After much thought and hours of not-so-scientific research, I've come to the absolute conclusion that Oscar is, indeed, an extraterrestrial. His inability to cope with the stresses of life on earth, such as walking and breathing simultaneously, might have been the first clue. Other situations that send him into a spastic spiral of doodle meltdown mess range anywhere from sighting a fallen stick during a potty walk, an altercation with a rock or not being immediately acknowledged by myself or B. Without warning, any of these events may trigger an eruption of his bladder, resulting in a large puddle for which he shows no remorse or an inappropriate and poorly timed spurt of energy which leads him forcefully to the end of his leash, throwing him into a back-flip and me into a shriek of pain as my shoulder endures yet another near-dislocation experience.
Also, he's telepathic. He is able to pinpoint the exact nano-second my brain falls into REM sleep. Every time. This is evidenced by his uncanny coinciding of the potty-cry with the aforementioned sleep event... er, should I say, non-event?
The most compelling evidence, however, stems from the lightening-fast speed at which he laps the apartment, bouncing off of walls and hurdling furniture, leaving nary a picture hanging nor a chair upright and the toy basket always empty. Less than 1 second after completion of the lap of destruction he's laying peacefully on his side atop my plush pillowtop mattress, snoring and preparing to enjoy his own REM sleep. He's not even out of breath. There is nothing normal about that and, in fact, he's more like a gremlin where the list of things you should not feed him far exceeds the list of things you can, for fear he may turn into something (God forbid) worse! Easily, I'd put him up against a room of 30 toddlers who just consumed copious amounts of high fructose corn syrup in the form of pixie sticks and Skittles - you know, the stuff that sky-rockets the blood sugar levels really fast! Decidedly, a room full of sugar-high toddlers sounds like a vacation.
DISCLOSURE STATEMENT: My recent viewing of the movie, Megamind may have more to do with my conclusion than the confirmed results of any inane experiment which I
While I'm at it, I forgot to mention we've joined another fun Linky Party: