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Chihuahua in my pants

Friday night.  Bedtime.  Rissa wriggles spasmodically under her blankets. “I’ve got something in my pants!” Sigh.  “What do you have in your pants?” “A sliver or something!” “A sliver?  How can you have a sliver?” “I don’t know, maybe from the dance studio.” Stalling.  She is stalling the bedtime process. “Just ignore it.” “Ignore it?!?…

And good morning to you…

Ggggggggggrowl…  grumble… grumble… grumble…  “Stupid yoga pants!  Stupid bra! My boobs don’t belong in a bra yet!”  grumble… grumble… grumble… Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.  “Stupid stairs.” Trip. Slip.  “Stupid cat toy!” grumble… grumble… grumble… “Stupid morning.” “Still sleepy, huh?”  Rissa comes over, enveloping me in a purple terry cloth hug. grumble… grumble… grumble…  “Not awake yet…”…

I’ve been HIT!!!

BANG!  Even on this windy, windy November’s day, the sound ricocheted off buildings. “What the hell was that?” David asked. I looked around wildly.  “I don’t know, I don’t know!”  My shoulder ached a bit. “Are you okay?  Were you hit?”  David  gave me the once over, checking for blood. “I think maybe…  I don’t…