Voices

I have grown up with a liberal coating of animal hair covering my life. At the present moment, my family is the proud owner of half a dozen rescued dogs with a matching accompaniment of rescued cats. And they all have voices.
It's not like we hear voices inside our heads and are then compelled to drench ourselves in chicken blood and sprint around the mall. It's more like an ongoing improv class. Each animal has its own personality: Leroy talks like Mr. T and is obsessed with the time he fell in the pool, Cashew is a redneck country boy and calls everyone "Maryann," and Taffy is obsessed with gourmet muffins and has a terrible pottymouth. 

My favorite dog is, of course, my Min Min. Her full name is Minerva Elizabeth, and she is the most beautiful dog in the history of the world. Unfortunately, she is also the proud owner of a single-digit IQ. Min Min was found in Mississippi with a crushed hip, severe anemia, and lacerated eyeball; she was inches from euthanasia when she was saved by the Alabama Pug Rescue and came to live with me at Auburn University. We've been together since 2006, and Min Min has insulted me every day since. She has a British accent in the style of Stewie from "Family Guy" and a rapier wit. She's absolutely hilarious and I often find myself laughing hysterically at something she says to me. For example:

ME:  Min Min, come back inside!
MIN MIN:  Well, I would stay out longer, but you're so fat that your gravity is pulling me back in the house.

My husband worries about me when he's in another room and hears Min Min and I having a conversation that ends in gales of laughter. And yet, he can't help but join in. The crazy is catching. He even came up with our cats' voices. Caractacus talks like a 1940-era gangster, and Wilhelmina talks like a four-pack-a-day smoker, calls everyone "Cutie," and loves fish sticks and beef jerky. Andy came up with her voice one day when he walked into a room to find her sitting like this:

What other voice could she possibly have?

Even the baby talks to the dogs and cats. He makes us stand nearby and do their voices while he tells them about his day and asks them questions. Poor child never had a chance.

Anyway, just wanted to share our deep dark family secret with everyone and reassure our neighbors that, in spite of what you think you hear, there are not a dozen different people living in our house. It's just us, and our multiple personalities. Nothing to see here!

Thrifty Regifting

So Mom decided to buy some new underwear, but she didn't want to buy the "expensive" kind that are loose on a shelf and that you can, with proper precautions, try on at the store. Instead, she got the Hanes 6-pack from Wal-Mart. She tried on one pair when she got home and apparently they did not meet with her expectations; she and Dad met Andy and me in the church parking lot last night and she shoved this opened package of underwear into my hands:

 I was looking at them, trying to figure out if she was intentionally insulting me, while she explained. "I don't like these boy shorts underwear. You see if you like them. I'm wearing the bright yellow pair and they're not comfortable." She must have seen the look of disbelief on my face, because she snapped, "They are PERFECTLY GOOD. I just don't like the way they fit. And don't you DARE throw them away. If you don't like them, give them back to me. I paid good money for them." I was still just staring forlornly at the ripped-open package when she added the clincher. "If you really like them I'll wash this yellow pair and give them to you!"

I shouldn't have been surprised. Once, she found a hair clip in a parking lot. In a PARKING LOT. She ran it through the dishwasher and gave it to me. I am not joking. I am also not joking about the fact that she still has it, because it's "perfectly good."

To summarize: I love my mother and she is a wonderful person. If she gives you a present that does not have a tag on it, wash it before use.