Columnist Topher Payne and reality tv star Sarah Palin share a lesson on 'training'
I’ve been thinking a lot about Sarah Palin lately. It’s kind of impossible not to think of her, what with the new book coming out, and her reality show where we learn that life in the Palin family is like a never-ending stay at Outward Bound.
Plus, she can be found every other week on “Dancing With the Stars,” beaming with pride, blissfully unaware that the dancing chest-of-drawers in “Beauty and the Beast” had more personality and elegance than Bristol Palin has ever displayed.
In Sarah’s eyes, a Palin can presumably do no wrong. Bristol is a fabulous dancer, and if the liberal media claims otherwise, it’s part of a conspiracy against those nice outdoorsy Palins. The funny thing about that is, in her new book she criticizes talentless “American Idol” contestants, saying, “No one they have encountered in their lives — from parents to teachers to their president — wanted them to feel bad by hearing the truth.”
Our interactions with the real-life crazy person next door reached Situation Critical this week. Anita’s screams over our fence grew from the usual “Stop putting listening devices under my house,” to the new “Stop sneaking into my house and disabling my security system.”
While I could appreciate the impressive set of spy skills Anita is fully convinced we possess, she capped off the new list of offenses with death threats. I called my husband at work.
“So, Crazy Pants just threatened to murder us. And Daisy. She said she’s gonna kill Daisy.”
“Oh, Jesus. What did you say?”
“I was pretty composed until she said she’s gonna kill the dog. Then I lost my cool a little.”
“Call the police, Topher.”
“Come home. You do it.”
“No,” said Preppy. “We need to let them handle this. Hang up and call 911 right now.”
My husband and I are not keeping complimentary schedules lately. We still see each other every day; unfortunately one of us is always sleeping when it happens. Our most consistent interaction is by phone, or checking each other’s status updates on Facebook. We’re actually having a long-distance relationship while living in the same house. Promises have been made that things will improve very soon, but looking at the upcoming calendar, I’m not entirely certain that’s true.
Because Preppy gets up at five, he’s asleep before I return home from the theater. So I take the dog out of her crate and hang out on the back porch, catching up on emails and YouTube. I’ve viewed the trailer for “Burlesque” at least 20 times. First off, I’m pretty sure it’s a remake of “Showgirls,” which is very exciting.
It’s a rare night off, and I’m having some quality time with my husband and my dog. The three of us are all engaged in our favorite modes of relaxation — Daisy’s monitoring squirrel activity, Preppy’s playing Angry Birds, I’m finding out if Lindsay Lohan ran over any baby carriages today. The calm is broken by Preppy jumping up from the table, bellowing.
“Daisy! Leave it! Damn it, Topher, she’s got my shoe!”
“Well, you shouldn’t have taken it off.”
“Whose side are you on here?”
I have a talent for taking very small projects which could be completed in 20 minutes, and through careful evaluation, finding a way for them to consume the better part of a week. My husband would tell you I do this intentionally, in a clever plan to force him to unload the dishwasher himself, because me doing it will somehow lead to the kitchen being repainted.
I prefer to think of myself as very thorough. I enjoy projects, in much the same way that people with OCD enjoy hand-washing.