You know, normally I wouldn’t want to be called a dog. It was the preferred term for my fellow classmates to call me between the grades of 3 and 7. It sucked. But when Shea wrote at Big Blogger All-Star!, “Being mean to you is like kicking a puppy, because you have that insipid sweet in you that can be used in cake mixes. Youíre the preppy cheerleader-prom queen grown up. Why arenít you miserable like all the good geek moms said you would be? Ugh. If you actually posted regularly, I would have to install barf bags on the back of my office chair.” (I wasn’t posting regularly there at the time because of the great bug that has been holding me hostage this week.) Ciscley, the ultimate Blog Game Fan, posted the perfect response. Every time I see that picture I start cracking up. Thank you again, Ciscley. I love it. For once, I don’t mind being a dog.
For the record, I was NEVER a cheerleader, prom queen or anything else like that. Not that I didn’t want to be at one time or another. My cheerleader tryouts were sad. Very, very sad. And in a class of 593 students, the fight for prom queen was a hard one. I wasn’t even in the running. It’s ok though, I mean … you still love me, right?