Tag Archives: Let Me Explain

How Moving and Cat Poop are Related

Posted on by
64

We officially no longer live in our house. But, it’s still our house, which means we still have a mortgage. While our renters wait for their house to sell, and while they decide if they want to buy our house, we don’t have an official home. We’re staying with my mom while we wait for everything to straighten itself out. My mom is generous to have us and while I don’t mind being home-home, you still don’t want to be in your mid-thirties and living with your mom even though it makes the most sense and reduces the amount of times we have to move our stuff. I just don’t want to hate my stuff more than I already do.

I think one of the reasons cats have such a holier-than-thou attitude is because they've seen the way dogs react to their poop.

What does this have to do with cat poop? When you have cats AND dogs, you have to spend a surprising amount of time trying to figure out how to “protect” cat poop. If you have cats and dogs, you also probably know the term for cat poop that is used to describe a dog’s maddening love of it – Tootsie Rolls.

Every time you move with your dogs and cats you have to re-figure out how to keep those precious tootsie rolls from constant threat. I think it’s one of life’s strangest predicaments. For us, the solution usually involves a closet and a baby gate.

When we move, I forget about this predicament because we did a really good job of solving the problem in our previous abode, like when people let their guards down during times of peace. Of course, it’s only a matter of time (that amount of time is easily measurable – it is the exact amount of time it takes for the cat to take his first shit in the new house) before I’m reminded that a fortress must be built around the Kingdom of Litter.

Our dog Ed is a turd connoisseur. I think he was feral at some point, which probably started his terrible hunger for poo, as it may have been his available meals. If Pizza Hut sold a Turd Lover’s Pizza, he’d eat it every day. His favorite soup would be turdle soup. He’d be disappointed by a pu pu platter. We don’t let him pick what he has for dinner, is what I’m saying.

He has the well-earned nickname “Turd Burglar.” He’ll burgle turds at every opportunity. Turds tremble in fear when they sense he is near. Seriously, the dude loves turds. That’s why, when Tom wanted to practice on his new photo editing program, he chose to create this:

You may be a world-class turd burglar, Ed, but this time the local tootsie rolls will only have folklore legends to pass down from generation to generation. “Hair as orange as John Boehner’s skin and a collar as green as grass, and he’d just as soon eat you as look at you.”

Rest easy, sweet turds, you’re safe for now. Turds in the backyard, I’m afraid you’re on your own.

—————————————————-
read to be read at yeahwrite.me
Adding this post to the Yeah Write weekly challenge. I had a lot of fun last week reading new blogs. You can lurk, hangout, or enter a post in the weekly challenge, then vote for your 5 favorites. Go check it out.

If anyone in this house snaps, it’s best if it’s me.

Posted on by
20

Online chat I just had with Tom, we were previously discussing him working from home (it helps if you know the plot of The Shining):

me:  I’m not right in the head and I haven’t had coworkers for a while

Tom:  I have been waiting for you to chase me and the dogs through the hedge maze. Swinging Elliott* at us.

me:  I don’t have the energy. I’m a boring insane person

Tom:  Ghosts constantly nagging you to kill us all. “Eh, maybe I’ll do it later.” There’s a post there somewhere.

me:  “You want them dead so bad, you do it.”

Tom:  On the other side, you wouldn’t survive if I flipped out, because you wouldn’t make the phone call to get Scatman Caruthers, and you wouldn’t want to run around outside.**

me:  That’s true. “Eh, I’d rather die than have to make a phone call.” That’s why telepathy is such a convenient power to have, you don’t have to pick up the phone. And, I would never make it back out of that maze.***

Tom:  Also true! So, the lesson is, you need to be the one to flip out, so we all survive.

me:  And what did I do when I flipped out last night?**** I went to bed early, then couldn’t get to sleep, and then we watched VEEP. Everybody lived.

*Elliott is our jerk of a cat.

**I’m allergic to outside and also have no tolerance for weather that isn’t between 55-74 degrees.

***I have no sense of direction.

****Moving causes several breakdowns on my part. We’re at the point where I’d like to just set fire to all of our belongings (but don’t because of the previously mentioned laziness). This is not a pleasant moving phase for anyone involved.

To the Person Who Left the Helpful Tip on a Napkin Under My Windshield Wiper

Posted on by
38

Dear Person Who Left the Helpful Tip on a Napkin Under My Windshield Wiper,

First, I am nothing if not fair and honest. I agree – I could have parked better. My parking job was not to my normal standards. My back wheel was on the line, maybe even a half an inch over. If I had known, I assure you, I would have backed up and tried again. I won’t write a public letter to you and not admit that your note wasn’t entirely unjustified. And, since you don’t know me and my nitpick-y parking jobs 99.9% of the time, I understand why you didn’t go for the more accurate “LEARN TO CHECK AND SEE IF YOU DID A GOOD PARKING JOB.” Regardless, I’m sure it made it slightly more difficult for you to back out of your space. So, on the point that I didn’t park perfectly, we are in agreement.

We are also in agreement about how delicious Chick-fil-A is. That was where the napkin on which you composed your corrective prose was written was from. I like to get the number 5 with a sweet tea. That’s two things we can agree on – Chik-fil-A is yummy and I could have parked better.


I see that on both sides, you struggled to make your pen work. I must admit, the thought of you, fuming, standing over my car, napkin on my hood, swirling your pen angrily, trying to get it to do your bidding, amuses me. I’m assuming you wouldn’t risk scratching your own car angrily swirling away at a flimsy napkin. Or, maybe you did it in your car, in the driver’s seat. Maybe you accidentally honked your own horn a little. That’s even better if that was the case.

I have a couple suggestions – if this was truly a call to action, you should have left the contact information to a local parking school (do those exist?). Or, maybe a nice drawing demonstrating the proper way to park, although I do understand that that was probably impossible considering your ink flow problems. “LEARN TO PARK” is a request, but if you really want to empower me to LEARN TO PARK, a little guidance would be appreciated. Luckily, I do know how to park, and this was just a fluke, so your helpful note could simply serve as a reminder to stay vigilant, or face the wrath of future napkin notes.

Finally, I’d like to make one more point. We were both parked in a hospital parking garage. I had just come back from a gastroenterologist appointment. So, unfortunately, if you were hoping that I would read your note and start crying from embarrassment and humiliation, dabbing my tears with the very napkin that held the stinging message, that did not happen. I already reached my daily limit in the embarrassment department at my appointment. But, that’s really not the point I’m trying to make.

The point I want to make is this: you left your note on the car of a healthy sarcastic blogger who parked bad because she was panicked because she was late (also something I rarely do), but it could have been different. You could have left your note on the car of someone who had just found out they had cancer. You could have left the note on the car of someone who rushed to the hospital because their loved one was in an accident. You could have left your note on the car of a couple who had just lost their baby from a miscarriage. You don’t know. And you know what? I don’t know, either. Maybe you were one of the three examples I just gave, and my parking job was the straw that broke the camel’s back. If that’s the case, I’m sorry.

However, I’d just like to say that I don’t leave notes like the one you did because of everything I mentioned in this letter. Do I drive past a double-parker and assume they are a jackass? Yes. And you know what? If they really are a jackass, they don’t give a shit about any notes pointing out their jackassery. And, if they’re not a jackass, they’re probably having a bad day. The chances that you would actually be enlightening someone who honestly doesn’t know they park bad and would be relieved to be told about it are probably less than the chances of winning the lottery.

All of that is to say: if you are the type to leave obnoxious notes for obnoxious parkers, just don’t do it at the hospital.

Sincerely,
Carrie

P.S. Just yesterday, I was lamenting my lack of blogging material, and Tom told me I needed to leave the house more. So I guess I also owe you a “thank you.” If we ever meet at a Chik-fil-A, waffle fries are on me.

My Bad Habit: Writing Posts to Further Avoid Having to Talk to My Neighbor

Posted on by
31

I have many, many bad habits. I pop all my zits (fuck you beauty magazines), I can’t have junk food in the house because I will inhale it in a day, I will stab your sentimentality with a broken bottle, etc. But the bad habit I’m currently suffering from is social avoidance. Which, admittedly, isn’t exactly a habit, it’s more of a neurosis, but I’m not splitting hairs, which is also a bad habit.


You see this? It’s a giant dead tree. It has a leprosy-like oozing wound towards the bottom. It looks like The Jolly Green Giant has been kicking it. All of its branches are on one side, because, and this is just a guess, when the tree was alive, it also was socially avoidant.

This big, dead, dented tree is leaning towards the electricity, internet, and cable-making lines. Every day (ok, twice a week), when I leave the house, I think, “I sure hope that tree doesn’t fall,” and then I think the same thing when I get home, twenty minutes later.

Since we’re trying to sell the house, we think it’s in our best interest to get rid of it (and, you know, because it will kill civilization when it falls), but the problem is, it’s right on the property line with our neighbors. We’re pretty sure it’s on their side of the property line because of a row of now-dead formerly fluffy ornamental plants, which we assume serve as a natural dividing line.

The logical thing to do is walk 200 feet or so, knock on their door, and ask them about it. The neighbor husband works from home, so it shouldn’t be hard to catch him – I’m home all day, too.

I’ve spoken to these neighbors probably 4 times. The first time was when I met them. The other times involved the fact that they let their dog out in their unfenced front yard and forget about him. I don’t like this about them – we live on a very, very small cul-de-sac, right near a busy road. Their previous dog was hit by a car. They haven’t pieced together the problem yet. So, not only do I have my general social anxiety and avoidance to contend with, I also have crazy thoughts like, “I don’t want to go over there when the dog’s not out because he’ll let the dog out when I come to the door and then the dog will get hit by a car and I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

I’ve actually come to the conclusion a few times that I’ll just pay to have this huge tree removed to avoid having to have a 2 minute conversation with my neighbor. But, then I realize that’s crazy, and then I reset the feedback loop.

And so there sits the tree – a giant, dead monolith commemorating my inability to initiate a conversation.

I’m not even going to get into my next bad habit, which will ride the coattails of the current one. Once it’s settled, if I have to deal with the tree, that will involve a phone call, and then we’re talking another month or so of avoidance.
————————————————————————————————————————–

This post was written in response to Studio30 Plus’ writing prompt, “Bad Habits.“

Dog Rescue: A Cast of Five

Posted on by
22

After six and a half years in dog rescue, which I have minimal-to-no involvement in at the moment, I thought I’d compile the cast of characters who often occupy a rescue organization. I’m sure you’ll find many of the same types in your workplaces, as most are volunteers and earn money elsewhere. While well-intentioned, if the structure of the organization isn’t very well maintained or established, which is often the case in rescue, all of these types end up being a pain in someone’s ass at some point. If you sprinkle a little mental instability over them, and combine it with a lack of structure, you get the following cartoon-y archetypes:

The Lap
The Lap is there to cuddle dogs. She wants to sit with a dog, cuddle and pet it, and call it a day. She’s not concerned with much of anything else. Often clueless. You may find yourself approaching The Lap and muttering things like, “Could you please move your chair? You’re sitting directly in front of the donation jar.”

When asked to do something, like maybe clean up some pee, or get up and do anything else, The Lap will  start up with herky jerky movements, leash of dog in hand, not sure of how to stand since there’s a dog in her lap, as if she’s never done anything but sit there up to this point in her life. She usually figures it out after a few minutes.

 The Pat on the Back Addict
The Pat on the Back Addict doesn’t like to do anything without effusive praise afterwards. Will often passive aggressively fish for praise. Example, will post on a message board: “Did someone get the five dollar bill I put in the donation jar this Saturday? It was green, had Abraham Lincoln on it, and my name written across it in permanent marker. Please let me know if you saw it and if it’s been deposited. Maybe we can use it to buy some more dog treats since the ones that I previously bought seem to have disappeared.” Does usually wear pants, though.

The Basket Case
The Basket Case is highly volatile and takes everything personally. If a foster home, will say things like, “But Peanut can’t go to a home without a DVR, he gets so nervous during commercials, I think something bad happened to him in his last home when a Swiffer commercial was on.” Then, will turn around and say, “Why did that lady who looks like me and has good manners get turned down for a dog? Our standards must be way too strict if we didn’t let her have one.” When explanations are made, will fly into rage, call people terrible names, storm out of rooms, then become upset that no one takes her seriously.

The Big Idea
The Big Idea comes up with elaborate, grand schemes that are often not thought through and don’t really work in a small organization filled with burned-out people. “I think we should bedazzle the names of every dog on their collars! It will be a good identifier, and will spruce things up and encourage adoptions!” When someone (usually the Wet Blanket) points out that we don’t have any money in the budget for bedazzling supplies, often responds with, “You hate the dogs!” If given permission to do Big Idea as long as she figures out how to do it herself and gets her own help, project often fizzles, and The Big Idea will express surprise about how long bedazzling takes.

The Burned-Out Wet Blanket
The Burned-Out Wet Blanket is hated by all other types. She’s generally a downer. She does a lot of work, and so therefore has a low tolerance for people who don’t do much work or new ideas that will cause more work. Often heard saying things like, “And exactly who is going to do xyz?” Her chit chat with other people consists of correcting something they’re doing wrong, often in passing (literally), which makes it even more bitchy to those being corrected. Saying things like “I don’t think I can do this much longer” is taken by others as a threat, for some reason. She’s really a nice person, or used to be, before her workload enveloped her like a dark beast. Ok, fine, yes, I was the Wet Blanket type.