Monday, July 23, 2012

Dogs are people, too.

This is my dog. I'll call her Spazz-brain.

This is my other dog. I'll call him Wha...?

Spazz-brain is actually pretty smart. Hence the "brain" part. But she's also a crazy little piece of shit who likes to root around in the trash can for pieces of paper towel to chew on. WHILE YOU WATCH. Hence, Spazz.

Wha...? is just about the sweetest, kindest, snuggliest little (big) doofus in the world. Spazz-brain is definitely the brains in this relationship. Wha...? can't even figure out how to sit. The most basic of dog obedience concepts and he just doesn't get it. But he makes up for it by being sweet.
Except when he shits on my floor.

See, dogs don't come with warning labels. Dogs don't come with a manual (and even if you adopted your dog and they gave you a book - well, you still have to READ IT, asshole). People don't tell you that when you bring a dog home, you have to do more than just feed it and leave it outside.
I'm a dog person. I get them. I've studied wolf behavior, I've taken puppy and adult dog obedience classes (with a dog. By myself would be weird.). And hell, I even showed one of my dogs in obedience trials through 4H. But even with all that, my dogs still shit on my floor. WTF?

Okay, so it doesn't happen OFTEN, but if we're not on high alert for any little "fruhf" or "rowow" then Wha...? leaves us a present that only an 80-lb dog can gift you. And it's usually on the floor that I just scrubbed, vacuumed and steam-cleaned (from the last time the damn dog decided it was Christmas.)

Anyway, the point is, dogs will shit on your floor. And they'll chew your shit up. And they'll scratch up your hardwoods and yellow your grass and sneak out the front door, leaving you to go on an hour-long chase while they glance back and fucking SMILE at you because, HAHA, you're the idiot who's chasing me!

People don't get this when they get a dog, which is why many dogs end up in shelters.

But that's ok. Because then people like me can adopt your little piece of shit and bring him home to become our own little piece of shit.

And when they look up at you with those adoring eyes and a tiny little slurp on your nose, you realize - they're so worth it.

Yay! Blogger worky!

Problems seem to be fixed. Onward!

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Urgh. Blogger mobile no worky.

I have to apologize for the formatting errors in my previous two posts. Blogger mobile is being a bitch and won't let me do anything from my phone, which is my only computer right now since DH went out of town and took our laptop. I'll fix it when I have non-mobile access. As it is, I'm having to type this on another app and then copy/paste to Blogger. Sad face.


I used to live on a cul-de-sac wherein the houses were small, on 1/3-acre lots, and far enough apart that you couldn't really hear when the neighbors' kids got an F on their report card or came home drunk. Now we live in one of those "master-planned communities," which is shorthand for, "How many houses can we fit into a square foot of space without it looking like these are apartment buildings?"

As such, we can now hear everything. Behind us and two houses down, the dad is never happy with his kid (or maybe the kid really is just a little shit, I don't know). Across the street, the little girl likes to call her mom a bitch (I can't help but giggle - I kind of agree with her). And two doors down, they have sex every Thursday night around 11p.m. See, when I'm up reading my book or my blogs late on a schoolnight, I tend to leave my windows open. I like the cool breeze, and I prefer the cold in general (I live in the Northwest for a reason, and it ain't the Space Needle). But every Thursday around 11p.m., I hear: squeak-eak-squeak-eak-squeak-eak, squeak-eak, squeak-eak, squeak...eak, squeak...eak...squeeeeak...squick. We all know what that sound is, and we all know that no one is running on the treadmill at 11 at night or Windexing windows or polishing tires or whatever the hell people do that makes squeaking noises. Bitches be fuckin'.

 Now, far be it from me to judge. DH and I have certainly done our share of open-windowed squeaking. This post is simply commentary on the different TYPES of squeaking that occurs outside of your own relationship. There's camping-squeaking. This is the kind where you hear, amongst the crickets, nightbirds, and silence of the great outdoors: "Oh yeah...oh yeah...uh...uh...YES!" And you have to resist the overwhelming urge to applaud.

There's neighbor-squeaking: Wherein you don't actually hear anything, but happen to notice your neighbor's naked ass smushed up against their window when you happen to look out yours.

There's car-squeaking: when the car next to yours in the back of the Costco parking lot is suspiciously devoid of people in the front seat but is rhythmically rocking back and forth anyway.

There's airplane-bathroom squeaking: when you don't really hear anything (damn planes are LOUD) but two people manage to squeeze themselves out of the bathroom.

I know there are more, I just haven't had the pleasure (ahem) of experiencing them. Now if you'll excuse me, DH and I have some squeaking to do. (With the DOG toys, you sick bastards. Playing fetch. What the hell did you think I meant?)

Friday, July 13, 2012

You don't HAVE to do it my way. But my way is better.

I don't get why DH ("Damn, he's not Hawkeye" [the Avenger(played by Jeremy Renner...mmm...)] always gets himself in a tizzy when I suggest that he do something a different way. It's not like I'm telling him he's doing it wrong (he is, but I'm not TELLING him that, right?). And it isn't like there aren't a million ways to do things. But things get done better when you do it my way. 

Case in point: loading the dishwasher. Do you HAVE to scrub all the crap off your dishes before you load them? Not at all, especially if you have one of those fancy new-fangled pieces of shit that cost an arm and beat the shit out of your dishes (or the hell do I know what goes on in there?). BUT (yes, I like caps lock. FOR EMPHASIS. Get it?) I soak the dishes, I scrub the crap off, sometimes I even break a freaking nail or get one of those under-the-nail cuts (motherFUCKER, those hurt) from picking dried-on crap off of plates. (Oh, don't look at me like that. Like you've never left dishes in the sink. And if you never have, you're welcome to bring your sanctimonious ass over to my house and do my dishes. Whore.) And loading the dishwasher is a game of Tetris that I ROCK.

Anyway, when I do the dishes, they come out clean. DH, on the other hand, picks them up out of the sink, places them wherever in the dishwasher, and if they don't fit, screw 'em. And because we don't have one of those new-fangled pieces of shit, they come out with caked-on bullshit. Then I end up sticking them BACK in the dishwasher after DS ("Damn, he'll be lucky to Survive till he's 14") empties it. Usually right when company is over and I need every plate in the cabinet. Yeah, we use the heat setting, the dishes are supposed to be sterilized, blah, blah, does anyone actually want to eat off of a plate that has gunk on it? Even sterilized gunk? Nope. My way is better.

Second point. DD ("Darling Drama queen") is a drama queen. Despite being very no-nonsense, "that's bullshit, knock it off" parents, DD likes to burst into tears at the slightest provocation. Or at least whine like a four year old (which she is, so as much as I would like to, I can't fault her for it). Brushing her hair is an exercise in whining. When I do it, I gather the hair at the back of her neck, and while holding the ponytail, brush it from bottom to top. She still gives the occasional "ow" but for the most part, she deals. DH? Well, she usually ends up running away. After grabbing the brush away from him. I'm surprised she doesn't smack him with it. See? My way = better. It's not like I'm perfect. Just better at some things. And come on, it's not like I tell DH that he's programming that weird-looking line of gobbledygook wrong. I don't know shit about computers. But he likes to tell me I'm mean because I'm strict with the kids at school. Trust me. My way is better.