Mom Is All Tied Up Now

Mom would gladly be writing a very witty post to put on her blog today, but she is unable at this moment.

What?

That muffled noise you hear in the background? No, I don't think it sounds at all human.

Must be the television or something...

Anyway, I have taken over for Mom today. Frankly, it's a good thing because she was starting to get a little obsessed with the DMV. They really can't have a vendetta after her, as she is rather likable, at least when I need something warm near me.

You see, Mom was getting ready to pull up to the computer and write another blah post, when I decided that her lap was in imminent danger and that I needed to protect it from sliding up under the desk. There are several things under the desk that could have caused quite a problem:

1. Dust Bunnies - Can't be trusted. They are shape shifters, you see. I spy them and am certain that they are about to leave some bunny pellets - for which I'll get blamed. By the time that I get close to them, poof, they are gone and all that is left is a small tuft of fluff. Be on the lookout as they are often seen under the coffee table, too.

2. Trash Can - This is often the source of smells and sounds that drive one to the edge of insanity. I am not tall enough to actually see what is in the trashcan. Once I am safely in, I mean, once I am protecting Mom's lap, I can peer down into the abyss and see what threats await.

3. Shoes - Mom never has shoes on inside of the house. Her shoes are always under the table. That is due to the sneaky nature of her shoes. They don't call them "sneakers" for nothing! They have been places, I tell you! Evil places with weird smells. Sometimes I move the shoes around trying to identify where they have been partying, kind of an interrogation of sorts. In retaliation they jump out from hiding and trip somebody. You should hear the complaints about "shoes being left where somebody's gonna trip." Yeah, I know about you shoes...

Now that you are aware of the dangers to my Mom, you certainly can understand why I needed to prevent her from getting any closer to the computer. Here I am, in full alert mode, defcon-4, finger on the red button of doom:

It is tough to tell from the picture, but my pulse is racing as I fight off all of the evils in the room. You really didn't want to read more from Mom, did you?

She will be back soon and I'm sure that she'll have a tale or two to tell. Who can blame me for just wanting to protect her? After all, do I look like the guilty type?