Ohhh Yeah, Baby

Really?

I'll say this for you. You've got chutzpah.  Either that or you're incredibly clueless and should have your breeding rights curtailed immediately.

All I wanted to do was take the dogs out for a few minutes and let them take care of business, then hurry home and eat something. See, I've been working a lot lately and reaching the point of exhaustion, so I let myself sleep in a little.  I got up so late, I didn't have time for a real meal before my tap class. Then I shuffle ball changed, flapped and time stepped my little heart out for a couple of hours. And now I'm sweaty and starving. But, when the dogs gotta go, they gotta go, so here I am.

I don't even know why I'm explaining myself. There is no possible way for you to hear me.

Because there you are, sitting in your stupid tricked-out SUV, blasting something that out here sounds like the bombing of Sarajevo. And my dogs are so freaked out by your seismic booms that their little anuses have clenched up. You know what that means? As soon as we get home and they feel safe again, they will unleash their malodorous gems all over my carpet.

I have no problem giving you the stinkeye. Only, every time I look at you, you hit me with what you clearly consider your most irresistible sexy face.

Yeah.

Rest assured, the only thing you arouse in me is my fight or flight response. And maybe the need to lie down, because your assault on my eardrums has given rise to a budding migraine.

Thanks a lot, dumbass.

I'm Vewy Fwightened

 

 

Friday is landscaping day in my condo complex. It takes the guys pretty much all day to accomplish the task, because there is a lot of ground to cover. First, they ride around on their mowers, then they trim the edges and finally, they clean up the clumps of cut grass that end up on the walkways. The place looks like freaking Shangri-La. They do a fabulous job.

During our poop-and-pee extravaganza this morning, we came across a section of walkway that had a higher than usual concentration of grass clumps on it. I felt a tugging at the end of Dolce's leash and turned to see if she was doing anything I would need to clean up. Nope, she was simply rooted in place.

Now, the thing you have to know about Dolce is that I have yet to plumb the full depths of her neuroses. Seriously, this dog is weird. 

She actually belongs to my niece and was named after the design team of Dolce and Gabbana. Dolce came into our lives right around the time my niece discovered fashion, Paris Hilton and The Simple Life. She was certain, right from the start, that the dog simply must be called Dolce.  No other name would do. I know. My entire family is somewhat touched in the head. What can I say? We're a small and nutty, yet lovable, bunch. Kind of like Grape-Nuts. I guess. Hell, we're all we've got. What do you want me to do?

Anyway, it turned out that my sister (niece's mom) had taken on more dogs than she could handle, and Dolce had to go.  I agreed to be her foster mommy until my niece was old enough to be able to take her back. This means that for the last three years, I've had to manufacture a weak giggle every time someone said to me, "Oh, your dog's name is Dolce? What's the other one called, Gabbana? Hahahaha." Oh my, you are clever! And so very original!

And now, back to our program.

So, I pulled gently on Dolce's leash to let her know it was time to move on. She responded by sitting down. "Come on, baby. Let's go." She put her paw on the leash. She was clearly trying to tell me something. I did a quick mental inventory. No abandoned mine shafts in the neighborhood.  Pretty sure no bombs planted nearby. What could it be?

I finally made the connection. She was afraid of the grass on the walkway. I tried reasoning with her.

"Dolce, it's just grass. You walk on it every day. You pee on it. You even do that thing where you try to cover your pee by scraping your back legs on the grass."

She either didn't understand what I was saying, or was unconvinced by my argument.

I tried the take-charge approach.

"Come on, let's go." I turned and walked purposefully. The leash strained and Dolce remained where she was. I looked back at her. She gave me one of these:

By this time, Miles was losing his patience. He put the full force of his 8 pound body into pulling us along. Something had to be done.

Since I didn't have a coat I could gallantly lay on the ground before her, I took the only other option available to me. I carried Dolce. For the entire remainder of our "walk".

Dolce : 1
Mustard : Total Dumbass

Sometimes You Just Have to Stop and Smell the Ragweed

A series of Unfortunate Events (UEs).

UE #1: This morning I take the dogs out for their morning poop-and-pee-extravaganza, and upon returning home, I discover that I have locked the door and left the keys on the other side.

UE #2: My landlord has the spare. His mom died a couple of days ago, and I feel like a jerk calling him about my petty issue of the day.

UE #3: Momentarily contemplate breaking my door in, then decide instead to call my friend (apparently I have my priorities straight and remember to take my phone with me everywhere). She is also the friend of my landlord. I ask her if she can go pick up the key from him and bring it to me. She is wonderful, so even though she has just gotten out of the shower and has somewhere she needs to be, she agrees to help me out. (side note: I have the BEST friends in the entire world.)

UE #4. Did I mention that I am possibly the least attractive I have ever looked, having just rolled out of bed, piled my hair up in an unbecoming bun, stuck a pair of sunglasses on my unwashed face, and hoped against hope, not having brushed my teeth,  I wouldn't come within 20 feet of another human being? Before you judge, remember how hard it is to get the smell of dog pee out of carpet. I had to get those suckers out before they got any bright ideas about watering my floor. Also, I have a noticeable rash on my face from something stupid I did a few days ago.

UE #5. Five minutes later, I get a call back from my friend. "Bad news," she says.  "They're at the funeral now, and the reception is immediately following. We can't get the key to you until this afternoon." It is now 10:20 am.

UE #6. I search for a local locksmith on my phone, and call the number on the first listing. A man answers, in a tone you would use to address someone who just mugged your frail, aging mother.
"Yeah, hello!"

Me in my little girl voice, "Is this the locksmith?"

Still yelling, "Yeah, yeah. What?"

Now contemplating hanging up, but desperation drives me forward. "I locked myself out of my home and need help getting back in." I close with a weak giggle. I'm not amused, just nervous.

"What city do you live in?"

I tell him, hoping that since the number I called looks local, he'll be nearby and I won't have to wait long.

"I can get there in 30, 45 minutes."

In an ever diminishing and squeaky voice, "Aren't you local?"

"Yeah, I'm local! But I have other things to do, I can't just zoom over there the second you call me!"

I am now wondering about the wisdom of inviting this rage-bomb to break into my home. By some miracle, we come to a meeting of the minds, and he agrees to hurry things up.

UE #7. True to his word, 20 minutes later, he pulls into my parking lot, and I wonder if he is going to murder me in retaliation for taking him away from whatever he was doing before I called. But, he actually apologizes. "Sorry I was so short with you. You're not the only one having a bad day." My dogs, of course, want to devour him.  We make it to my front door.  He takes one look, dramatically rolls his head from side to side and says "Shit! Did you recently have your locks changed?"

"Yes." What could possibly be wrong with that?

"That's what I was afraid of. This is a pick-proof lock. I can't get in here. And not only that, but these locks are notorious for malfunctioning. In the past 6 months, I've gone to 6 or 7 homes where people's keys just stopped working."

At this point I am having visions of hiring a demolition team. I have no words. I stare at him like a donkey. Somehow this does the trick and he takes pity on me.

"OK, hold on. There might be a way. Lemme make a phone call." He shouts into the phone for a few minutes, then, "Yeah, I was right. It's impossible to pick this lock."

I am weighing the possibility of moving and just buying a whole new set of stuff.

"There is one thing I can do, though."

I don't even ask him what it is. Instead I say, "Yes, do it!"

Not two minutes later, we are standing in my living room, and I am the proud owner of a broken doorknob. Instantly forgetting my humble state, I  ask him if he can make the doorknob look less ghetto. And he does it!

We are now best friends.

UE #8: I think we make plans to get a pedicure together. Or get our hair done. I'm not sure. He talks so fast, and I really have to pee, so I just smile and nod yes to everything he says. Ten minutes and $75 later, he leaves.  I close the door behind him, and turn around to answer my phone.

It's my landlord. He can bring the key and let me in.

Things That Make You Go WTH?

I take my dogs out for a walk and it takes 20 minutes of hardcore searching, followed by 37 revolutions around a 3 inch radius of grassy patch for them to find just the right spot on which to "do their business". But, on my carpet, they can drop it in 10 seconds flat, no turning required.

Why.