Today I spent five minutes clicking the "Next Blog" button on the top of my blogspot toolbar. Over 75% of the blogs randomly selected were in Polish.
... Big Brother must be watching the Gal household plane ticket purchases, as my mom and aunt are traveling to Poland this week.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Breathe In, Breathe Out, Breathe Deeply
Sometimes I wish my breath could be capped
in an empty glass bottle,
tied with a pink ribbon,
and cast off into the ocean.
Bobbing on the crests, dipping under peaks.
Just floating.
Minding its own business until a fisherman
from Greenland scoops it into his net.
Then the bottle is his responsibility.
Carefully, his worn fingers pop off the cork,
rubbing the glass bottle with his elbow.
But it's too late.
He uncaps the breath tied with a pink ribbon,
sailing in salt for months.
Once the breath escapes it finds me.
Things have a way of getting back
to me.
I've been holding onto my own glass bottle,
blowing in tufts of breath
to tuck away for a time
when I can open it and understand what it all means.
What do they mean?
Greenland, tell me.
in an empty glass bottle,
tied with a pink ribbon,
and cast off into the ocean.
Bobbing on the crests, dipping under peaks.
Just floating.
Minding its own business until a fisherman
from Greenland scoops it into his net.
Then the bottle is his responsibility.
Carefully, his worn fingers pop off the cork,
rubbing the glass bottle with his elbow.
But it's too late.
He uncaps the breath tied with a pink ribbon,
sailing in salt for months.
Once the breath escapes it finds me.
Things have a way of getting back
to me.
I've been holding onto my own glass bottle,
blowing in tufts of breath
to tuck away for a time
when I can open it and understand what it all means.
What do they mean?
Greenland, tell me.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Skype Days
The following mini-conversations were reccorded by my potted plant.
Sitting on a ledge, obviously eyeing a plush stuffed Red Daisy I won at the fair, Mr. Player Plant pretended to be sleeping after being doused with the remnants of my Camomile Tea. However, that certainly was not the case, as fragments of my Skype conversations have somehow made it to the internet. For tutti. Everyone. Eat Pray Love. Just throwing in a shout-out for my homegirl Julia Roberts.
Recorded Conversations from Mr. Player Plant:
M: "Are you eating granola?"Me: "No I already did. It's like the highlight of my day."
P: [inserts icon of teddy bear]
Me: *Punches teddy bear
P: Poor teddy
D: You met me just because I'm asian. Not because I'm the sweetest person in the world!
Me: Hehe, yes.
Sitting on a ledge, obviously eyeing a plush stuffed Red Daisy I won at the fair, Mr. Player Plant pretended to be sleeping after being doused with the remnants of my Camomile Tea. However, that certainly was not the case, as fragments of my Skype conversations have somehow made it to the internet. For tutti. Everyone. Eat Pray Love. Just throwing in a shout-out for my homegirl Julia Roberts.
Recorded Conversations from Mr. Player Plant:
M: "Are you eating granola?"P: [inserts icon of teddy bear]
Me: *Punches teddy bear
P: Poor teddy
D: You met me just because I'm asian. Not because I'm the sweetest person in the world!
Me: Hehe, yes.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Dorothy Dolls
If one were to produce "Dorothy Dolls" I'm sure they would have the label "Made in China" tattooed on a pair of skinny blue jeans, slightly too short, mimicking reality (pants to leg ratio). The fine print would say "Do not mandhandle me." It is my catchphrase. 
But I am not a superhero, no way Jose. Just because an ancient plastic Roman Statue (Being International Dorothy Doll Barbie I named him Jose) comes free with me does not mean I am cheap, nor does it mean I'm trying to "reach out to my Greek friends across the ocean". We both know I have no friends so don't even joke. My publicist thought it would be good for my image. Not the no friends part, but the "reaching out to friends across the ocean". Tell anyone and I will stick a plastic pump in your eye.
The reason Jose comes free is because (whimpers) I get lonely in my box. Children run right past me in Toys-R-Us, straight for the Robert Pattinson dolls. I don't know about you, but who wants to buy a ManBarbie with retractable fangs who looks like he rolled in a tub of white-out? Anywho, the fact that Robbie gets sold out faster than burning hot JerseyShoreDolls does not frusterate me as much as this hairstlyle. I mean come on. Do I seriously look like this is real life? I think shaving the head and turning into BarbieBrittanysWackyShavedHeadFriend would be an improvement.
One day my prince will come, with his golden shiny locks, and then we will drive off into the sunset (aka flourescent light bulbs on Aisle 4). After basking in the glorious sunlight we shall eat a picnic of plastic grapes and styrofoam fizzy drink. Then, after a long afternoon of rollerblading on the checkout conveyor belt, PrinceBarbie and I will get married. (sighs) Such is the life of a Dorothy Doll.
Only four easy payment of $5.99!
But I am not a superhero, no way Jose. Just because an ancient plastic Roman Statue (Being International Dorothy Doll Barbie I named him Jose) comes free with me does not mean I am cheap, nor does it mean I'm trying to "reach out to my Greek friends across the ocean". We both know I have no friends so don't even joke. My publicist thought it would be good for my image. Not the no friends part, but the "reaching out to friends across the ocean". Tell anyone and I will stick a plastic pump in your eye.The reason Jose comes free is because (whimpers) I get lonely in my box. Children run right past me in Toys-R-Us, straight for the Robert Pattinson dolls. I don't know about you, but who wants to buy a ManBarbie with retractable fangs who looks like he rolled in a tub of white-out? Anywho, the fact that Robbie gets sold out faster than burning hot JerseyShoreDolls does not frusterate me as much as this hairstlyle. I mean come on. Do I seriously look like this is real life? I think shaving the head and turning into BarbieBrittanysWackyShavedHeadFriend would be an improvement.
One day my prince will come, with his golden shiny locks, and then we will drive off into the sunset (aka flourescent light bulbs on Aisle 4). After basking in the glorious sunlight we shall eat a picnic of plastic grapes and styrofoam fizzy drink. Then, after a long afternoon of rollerblading on the checkout conveyor belt, PrinceBarbie and I will get married. (sighs) Such is the life of a Dorothy Doll.
Only four easy payment of $5.99!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Don't Call My Name: Krakow, Krakow
Dearest traveling personal diary ...
which is not exactly private, but could be considered private until the dreaded "Publish Post" tab has been pressed by a Polish fingerprint. Yes, only a Polish fingerprint from a Polish girl can activate this button to submerge it's contents into the realms of cyberspace. Oh, and just to narrow the field, the Polish girl's name is Dorothy. Use your imagination (insert Spongebob infliciton here if desired. In Poland Spongebob is simply a figment of my imagination, for I haven't seen the soaked sponge in these three weeks. Insert infliction once again. However, dirtied sponges are frequently sighted.)
Ahem. Dearest Diary:
Leisurely walking on a side street which connects to the Krakow Market Square has a mind-numbing effect. Shops aligned each side of the paved street. Some vendors selling vinyl purses, others displaying Italian wedges, and elderly ladies dressed in Babushkas shaving smooth strands off blocks of ocipek (for all matters purposeful: pungent cheese) surrounded me on this midday stroll. This is home. Shopping and eating. All day. Utter perfection.
Suddenly I heard a pretty boy [Side note: He is named "pretty boy" due to his resemblance of European soccer stars] shouting "Krakow, Krakow" from the fifth floor of a nearby building. Despite the blinding sun, I looked up over my left shoulder and waved, with five long drawn-out thrusts of the arm. Of course, being polite, he waved back enthusiastically, probably satisfied his jublilant message reached at least one passerby. Such attention seekers these pretty European boys are. Tsk tsk. Always secretly vying for flashy red cards during World Cups.
I took six steps. Wait, what was that? I heard his chanting once again. Can you spell "Attention", or better yet, shout it? But then it struck me. He was shouting "Krete [wlosy], Krete!" which means "curly" in Polish. My mother and father's fit of laughter ascertained that I was in no need of a hearing aid, or subtitles, which in Poland does not exist, much like Spongebob of the Square Pants. Obviously being the only curly-haired person for miles, I was flabergasted. A Eurpoean pretty boy picked me out of the mass of tourists, and was cutely ringing his voice throughout the street to receive an inkling of attention from the wearer of two mops of curly pigtails.
Now all six hundred sets of Polish eyes were on the only blonde curly-haired girl in Krakow. Flattering? I suppose so. Creepy? A little. Life changing? Well, I ended up changing my hair style that day to avoid him recognizing me after departing from a shoe store which I clumsily entered. Don't call my name, or call me by my hair, Pretty European Boy.
[Interesting fact of the day: When visiting a new church for the first time in Poland, sitting in a pew on the side of the cathedral yields the entire congregation intently staring at you for the first 40 minutes].
[Advice of the day: stare back!]
which is not exactly private, but could be considered private until the dreaded "Publish Post" tab has been pressed by a Polish fingerprint. Yes, only a Polish fingerprint from a Polish girl can activate this button to submerge it's contents into the realms of cyberspace. Oh, and just to narrow the field, the Polish girl's name is Dorothy. Use your imagination (insert Spongebob infliciton here if desired. In Poland Spongebob is simply a figment of my imagination, for I haven't seen the soaked sponge in these three weeks. Insert infliction once again. However, dirtied sponges are frequently sighted.)
Ahem. Dearest Diary:
Leisurely walking on a side street which connects to the Krakow Market Square has a mind-numbing effect. Shops aligned each side of the paved street. Some vendors selling vinyl purses, others displaying Italian wedges, and elderly ladies dressed in Babushkas shaving smooth strands off blocks of ocipek (for all matters purposeful: pungent cheese) surrounded me on this midday stroll. This is home. Shopping and eating. All day. Utter perfection.
Suddenly I heard a pretty boy [Side note: He is named "pretty boy" due to his resemblance of European soccer stars] shouting "Krakow, Krakow" from the fifth floor of a nearby building. Despite the blinding sun, I looked up over my left shoulder and waved, with five long drawn-out thrusts of the arm. Of course, being polite, he waved back enthusiastically, probably satisfied his jublilant message reached at least one passerby. Such attention seekers these pretty European boys are. Tsk tsk. Always secretly vying for flashy red cards during World Cups.
I took six steps. Wait, what was that? I heard his chanting once again. Can you spell "Attention", or better yet, shout it? But then it struck me. He was shouting "Krete [wlosy], Krete!" which means "curly" in Polish. My mother and father's fit of laughter ascertained that I was in no need of a hearing aid, or subtitles, which in Poland does not exist, much like Spongebob of the Square Pants. Obviously being the only curly-haired person for miles, I was flabergasted. A Eurpoean pretty boy picked me out of the mass of tourists, and was cutely ringing his voice throughout the street to receive an inkling of attention from the wearer of two mops of curly pigtails.
Now all six hundred sets of Polish eyes were on the only blonde curly-haired girl in Krakow. Flattering? I suppose so. Creepy? A little. Life changing? Well, I ended up changing my hair style that day to avoid him recognizing me after departing from a shoe store which I clumsily entered. Don't call my name, or call me by my hair, Pretty European Boy.
[Interesting fact of the day: When visiting a new church for the first time in Poland, sitting in a pew on the side of the cathedral yields the entire congregation intently staring at you for the first 40 minutes].
[Advice of the day: stare back!]
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Psyched for Poland
In honor of my upcoming trip to Poland, here is a compiled list of actions which my ID swears "These are fabulous things for you to do, Dorothy." While flying amidst the fluffy white porous clouds, the following possible scenarios will be running through my mind at the pace of twenty steroid induced stallions rounding the corner gate. Things to do while in an airplane (did I mention this will be a 10-13 hour flight?):
1. Cry whenever a baby cries on the plane.
2. Disco dance in the aisle
3. Try to lead plane in song "Oh I wish I was an Oscar Myer Weiner"
4. Lead a bible study session in the back of the plane
5. Set up a stand selling my own diet soda cheaper than the airplane is selling it for.
6. Switch accents and see if anyone notices.
7. Organize my collection of bandaids.
8. Ride carry-on luggage down the aisle.
9. Stick a moustache to the bottom of my seat.
10. Look surprised when I find a moustache on the bottom of my seat twenty secconds later.
11. Carefully inspect the moustahce I find, sniffing it, writing down it's make and weight (thanks to my handy-dandy pocket scale) in my spiral notebook.
12. Put the newly-found moustache into the breast pocket of my sweater, with eyes darting every which way suspiciously.
13. Stroll up and down the aisles, asking if anyone wants to buy the rollex of moustaches.
14. Sell a moustache to a flight attendent. *
*Only do so if I can't determine whether the flight attendent is a male or female.
Oh, and my ID is also the "thing" which said "Stand up during the middle of a church sermon, expose your belly button to the freshly stale air, and climb onto the pew all while staring intently upon the priest, nodding every five secconds enthusiastically." My ID is out to publicly humiliate me. However, these requests are more reasonable. Ish. Reasonableish. Happy flying to all, and to all a goodnight!
1. Cry whenever a baby cries on the plane.
2. Disco dance in the aisle
3. Try to lead plane in song "Oh I wish I was an Oscar Myer Weiner"
4. Lead a bible study session in the back of the plane
5. Set up a stand selling my own diet soda cheaper than the airplane is selling it for.
6. Switch accents and see if anyone notices.
7. Organize my collection of bandaids.
8. Ride carry-on luggage down the aisle.
9. Stick a moustache to the bottom of my seat.
10. Look surprised when I find a moustache on the bottom of my seat twenty secconds later.
11. Carefully inspect the moustahce I find, sniffing it, writing down it's make and weight (thanks to my handy-dandy pocket scale) in my spiral notebook.
12. Put the newly-found moustache into the breast pocket of my sweater, with eyes darting every which way suspiciously.
13. Stroll up and down the aisles, asking if anyone wants to buy the rollex of moustaches.
14. Sell a moustache to a flight attendent. *
*Only do so if I can't determine whether the flight attendent is a male or female.
Oh, and my ID is also the "thing" which said "Stand up during the middle of a church sermon, expose your belly button to the freshly stale air, and climb onto the pew all while staring intently upon the priest, nodding every five secconds enthusiastically." My ID is out to publicly humiliate me. However, these requests are more reasonable. Ish. Reasonableish. Happy flying to all, and to all a goodnight!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Balls of Pearls
Monday mornings are mad rush days
Gym craze arouses Tuesday and Thursdays
Wednesdays you look like the camel’s hump
And by Friday you play “I cannot come in, for there’s a lump”.
Your precious neck
Always occurring a lump
Well what if one day
I squeezed that plump
Plump robust beating neck
A string of rocks
Seated intricately on my spine
After the mad dash of lipstick
Of curlers, of damp towels dripping wine
You lift mine tail to be seated upon a pale
Pale white-woman plump robust beating neck
Neighboring Mr. Law of the Ockets
Overtop the arterial vein
Clenched his clasp ever so tightly
“‘Twas an error” he snorted
Until Wednesday chortled “She looks like the camel’s rump”
Perhaps one day I shall grow balls of pearls
And choke that plump
Plump pale white-woman robust beating neck
Of the upper class working slut.
Gym craze arouses Tuesday and Thursdays
Wednesdays you look like the camel’s hump
And by Friday you play “I cannot come in, for there’s a lump”.
Your precious neck
Always occurring a lump
Well what if one day
I squeezed that plump
Plump robust beating neck
A string of rocks
Seated intricately on my spine
After the mad dash of lipstick
Of curlers, of damp towels dripping wine
You lift mine tail to be seated upon a pale
Pale white-woman plump robust beating neck
Neighboring Mr. Law of the Ockets
Overtop the arterial vein
Clenched his clasp ever so tightly
“‘Twas an error” he snorted
Until Wednesday chortled “She looks like the camel’s rump”
Perhaps one day I shall grow balls of pearls
And choke that plump
Plump pale white-woman robust beating neck
Of the upper class working slut.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Honoring Family Feud-ers
"Quick, name something that can blind you."
"Umm, the sun."
"Already got that one."
"Sunscreen. Laser. Are you playing Family Feud again?"
"Name something a person may leave behind in their seat area after exiting a plane."
"A small child."
"No, hurry Dorothy."
"Read me the question again"
"Eh: Name something a person may leave behind in their seat area after exiting a plane."
"I love ponies"
"Come on! Only five secconds left."
"A small child"
"Gah! Time ran out. And I was going to say carry-on lugage"
Many of you reading this actually came upon my blog through facebook.
And in honor of you all who either play "Family Feud" or have fallen prey to the enticing chain of notifications you refresh your computer in thirty-nine seccond intervals to check, various facebook fanatic facts (using alliteration and I'm not yet even technically enrolled in AP Literature 'till the fall. Pat on the back? No? Nudge of the shoulder? No? Breathe in my direction? ... ) shall be sprinkled in the nooks and crannies of this losely written post. Well, nobody likes a tight sweater, especially when your sister's godmother thinks you still have the seven-year-old body from last time you visited . . . nine years ago. At least she took into account I was a plump youngster. Where am I going with this? Ah yes, nowhere. Moving on to more important things before I get wrapped up in Chinese-made products (wrapped up. sweater. I made a funny). Facebook facts attack:
If Facebook were a country, it would be the fifth-largest country in the world, after China, India, the U.S., and Indonesia.
My take: If you arrange the first letter of each country's name, the only word I can come up with is Ficus. For some reason I am thinking that is a type of tree.
Syria, China, Vietnam, and Iran have banned Facebook.
My take: Then why are all four languages available in the options portion of the Account Settings? And pirate. Oh wait. This just in. The country of Pirate just banned Facebook.
Facebook’s fastest growing segment in the United States is women 55 years and older.
My take: At least facebook sends you virtual gifts ladies.
In the words spoken by a true Family Feuder: Let's be friends and end this post already (scroll up and observe the picture once more if you don't understand).
Sayonara !
Did you know Sayonara is a Japanese word?
Care to know how to say it in Pirate?
So would I.
"Umm, the sun."
"Already got that one."
"Sunscreen. Laser. Are you playing Family Feud again?"
"Name something a person may leave behind in their seat area after exiting a plane."
"A small child."
"No, hurry Dorothy."
"Read me the question again"
"Eh: Name something a person may leave behind in their seat area after exiting a plane."
"I love ponies"
"Come on! Only five secconds left."
"A small child"
"Gah! Time ran out. And I was going to say carry-on lugage"
Many of you reading this actually came upon my blog through facebook.
And in honor of you all who either play "Family Feud" or have fallen prey to the enticing chain of notifications you refresh your computer in thirty-nine seccond intervals to check, various facebook fanatic facts (using alliteration and I'm not yet even technically enrolled in AP Literature 'till the fall. Pat on the back? No? Nudge of the shoulder? No? Breathe in my direction? ... ) shall be sprinkled in the nooks and crannies of this losely written post. Well, nobody likes a tight sweater, especially when your sister's godmother thinks you still have the seven-year-old body from last time you visited . . . nine years ago. At least she took into account I was a plump youngster. Where am I going with this? Ah yes, nowhere. Moving on to more important things before I get wrapped up in Chinese-made products (wrapped up. sweater. I made a funny). Facebook facts attack:
If Facebook were a country, it would be the fifth-largest country in the world, after China, India, the U.S., and Indonesia.
My take: If you arrange the first letter of each country's name, the only word I can come up with is Ficus. For some reason I am thinking that is a type of tree.
Syria, China, Vietnam, and Iran have banned Facebook.
My take: Then why are all four languages available in the options portion of the Account Settings? And pirate. Oh wait. This just in. The country of Pirate just banned Facebook.
Facebook’s fastest growing segment in the United States is women 55 years and older.
My take: At least facebook sends you virtual gifts ladies.
In the words spoken by a true Family Feuder: Let's be friends and end this post already (scroll up and observe the picture once more if you don't understand).
Sayonara !
Did you know Sayonara is a Japanese word?
Care to know how to say it in Pirate?
So would I.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Dieting Disaters
Dorothy: "My self control will beat you, galactic coma-inducing rich and moist triple chocolate chunk cookie."
Cookie: "Prepare to never face defeat."
Dorothy: "Aw, cookie, don't get down on yourself."
Cookie: "I feel so unloved. Please nibble my chocolately chunks."
Dorothy: "From the bottom of my heart I am sincerely sorry to make you feel worthless. Here, I shall nibble on your warm center." *Scarfs down all but three crumbs
Cookie (crumbs): "Thanks buddy"
Dorothy: "By the way cookie, what did you mean by 'prepare to never face defeat'?"
Cookie (crumbs): "You should prepare to never see your feet again. Muhuhahah. Fatty."
Dorothy: "No! I trusted you, deliciously moist friend. How could you ever betray me like this?"
Cookie (crumbs): "That's the way the cookie crumbles, sugar."
Needless to say, dieting has never been in the cards for me. Whether it be the depressed look of a lonely unloved triple chocolate chunk cookie oozing on the rack, or the sweet sorrowful scent of frosted pink cupcakes in a bake sale, their pathetic cries for love leave me helpless like a mosquito dancing in the mouth of a venus fly trap. Despite forceful reminders from the deep cavernous matter of mind that swinsuit season is rapidly approaching, one innocent nibble and I'm surely a goner.
In desperation to trim down my waist, I posed as a "surveyor" and asked around town for various methods which yield healthful results. Here is an interesting method I cataloged in the filing cabinet within my mind that I recently began implementing. And guess what? It works.
The Palm Diet
On this diet, you can eat anything you want...
... so long as it isn't bigger than the size of your palm.
Want to eat a palm full of blueberries?
Go ahead.
Feel the urge to scoop up some ice cream?
Use your hand!
Of course, results may vary (this is a cushion, if you will, just in case someone gains forty pounds through this method. I am now not liable to sue) if most of your palm servings consist of fruits and vegetables,
however, this method allows the most sweetest tooth to be hushed.
Cookie: "Prepare to never face defeat."
Dorothy: "Aw, cookie, don't get down on yourself."
Cookie: "I feel so unloved. Please nibble my chocolately chunks."
Dorothy: "From the bottom of my heart I am sincerely sorry to make you feel worthless. Here, I shall nibble on your warm center." *Scarfs down all but three crumbs
Cookie (crumbs): "Thanks buddy"
Dorothy: "By the way cookie, what did you mean by 'prepare to never face defeat'?"
Cookie (crumbs): "You should prepare to never see your feet again. Muhuhahah. Fatty."
Dorothy: "No! I trusted you, deliciously moist friend. How could you ever betray me like this?"
Cookie (crumbs): "That's the way the cookie crumbles, sugar."
Needless to say, dieting has never been in the cards for me. Whether it be the depressed look of a lonely unloved triple chocolate chunk cookie oozing on the rack, or the sweet sorrowful scent of frosted pink cupcakes in a bake sale, their pathetic cries for love leave me helpless like a mosquito dancing in the mouth of a venus fly trap. Despite forceful reminders from the deep cavernous matter of mind that swinsuit season is rapidly approaching, one innocent nibble and I'm surely a goner.
In desperation to trim down my waist, I posed as a "surveyor" and asked around town for various methods which yield healthful results. Here is an interesting method I cataloged in the filing cabinet within my mind that I recently began implementing. And guess what? It works.
The Palm Diet
On this diet, you can eat anything you want...
... so long as it isn't bigger than the size of your palm.
Want to eat a palm full of blueberries?
Go ahead.
Feel the urge to scoop up some ice cream?
Use your hand!
Of course, results may vary (this is a cushion, if you will, just in case someone gains forty pounds through this method. I am now not liable to sue) if most of your palm servings consist of fruits and vegetables,
however, this method allows the most sweetest tooth to be hushed.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Dorothy's Advice Corner
Today marks the beginning of a new segment
on Piece of Personality Pie: Dorothy's Advice Corner
Feel free to leave a comment with a burning question
which I will quickly (at the pace of a mutilated turtle)
respond to. Who knows... your question just may
end up on Dorothy's Advice Corner
Advice of the Day
- When walking in a dog park, watch where you step.
How I came up with this advice: A certain Asian friend who goes by the alias "Dorothing" was pondering, moping around, trying to scrounge up a line of advice to include in her own blog. Well, I was feeling guilty about ignoring my blog for about two weeks due to "various instances when I was experiencing an overwhelming lack of inspiration overload" (try saying that five times fast). I compared my blog to a malnourished, under-entertained, floppy eared puppy whose name is Fido (Fido is a ficticious name created ficticiously for a ficticious dog). Thus, the only natural thought progression was to give advice relating to canines. And what better advice is there than: watch where you step?
Seccond Advice of the Day
-When stumped, you can always google search "pictures of ugly dogs" for inspiration.
on Piece of Personality Pie: Dorothy's Advice Corner
Feel free to leave a comment with a burning question
which I will quickly (at the pace of a mutilated turtle)
respond to. Who knows... your question just may
end up on Dorothy's Advice Corner
- When walking in a dog park, watch where you step.
How I came up with this advice: A certain Asian friend who goes by the alias "Dorothing" was pondering, moping around, trying to scrounge up a line of advice to include in her own blog. Well, I was feeling guilty about ignoring my blog for about two weeks due to "various instances when I was experiencing an overwhelming lack of inspiration overload" (try saying that five times fast). I compared my blog to a malnourished, under-entertained, floppy eared puppy whose name is Fido (Fido is a ficticious name created ficticiously for a ficticious dog). Thus, the only natural thought progression was to give advice relating to canines. And what better advice is there than: watch where you step?
Seccond Advice of the Day
-When stumped, you can always google search "pictures of ugly dogs" for inspiration.
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