Daisy's misfortune

This morning, as I was following my morning routine, I accidentally missed a step in the usual letting the dog out procedure.

The usual system consists of:

feed the dog

let the dog out

close the door

open the curtains

wait for the dog to complete her dogly duty

open the door

wipe the dog's paws

let dog slide on rug

blah blah

This morning, I somehow got the steps out of order and, unfortunately, there was a price to pay.

Daisy paid the piper.

That's right, I said:

She

paid

the

piper

TANGENT

Where the hell did that phrase come from? Anyone? Anyone? I think there should be a campaign to bring it back to daily speech. How cool would that be? You read it first here!

Yeah, whatever.

UNTANGENT

So I'm standing at the door. Futzing with the curtains, I believe, or some other random OCD task beckoning me at that moment, and Daisy made a run for the door. She was moving pretty quickly, I tried to open it in time but...

SPLAT

she ran into the closed glass door.

At first and, oh, PETA is going to get me now, I thought - I hope she didn't crack the door (isn't that terrible?) and then I laughed (even more terrible?) and then after 45 years, I opened the door and let my poor dazed and confused pooch inside. She was complete with cartoon thought bubble o #$^^#$. It was a thing.

After about 1 second, she was fine. Forgot all about it. Dogs are hilarious.

As I was telling the story to some colleagues today, every one of them was worried about the welfare of my pooch. No one laughed. My colleagues are all dear and caring people, so this was really no surprise, but I was also shocked at the disdain and almost fear I felt at their reaction to my laughter.

Um.

Apparently that wasn't a kind thing. It wasn't something that Teresa would do. Mother, or my friend who chucked the squirrel into my neighbor's yard. Um.

It makes me wonder, my fit of giggles at the certain pain of my dog, how I would be as a mother. Would I laugh my ass off when the kid took a tumble down the back stairs? Or slid on some grass? Or drank dishwashing soap and when he cried he blew bubbles (my brother did that, by the way)?

I wonder.

But only for a moment.

Daisy is fine. I am fine. It was a funny moment, and I'm sure if Daisy was a human she would have laughed at herself.

I would have.

Sending warm thoughts...

The Single Gal

So, I'm a control freak...

It's a good thing I have a big ass hedge so I can hide behind it.

Someone once told me you are harrassed more often living in a house than you are when you live in an apartment.

I believe the harrassment is different -- intentional harrassment v. unintentional...

In an apartment, you are harrassed by the jackasses who live above you and love to stomp around, or the morons next door who drink beer and sing lame pop songs until all hours of the morning OR by the couple who live underneath you who have sex loudly and often. Yeah, love that.

Most often, you don't get the random pop in.

But then you move into a house and people come over all the time. Random pop ins galore. These are people you have not invited. People selling things. Children wanting to climb your tree. Neighbors offering you power tools because your lawn looks like shit.

You know, that.

Often these random harrassments come at an inopportune time. And for me, any time is an inopportune time if I don't feel like talking to anyone. Which seems to be often these days -- I'm turning into the bitter spinster at the end of the block with an insane dog.

Ahhhhhhhh!

No.

I digress.

So I get the doorbell ring and there's a debate -- do I open the door? Run and hide in the shower?

Today I got a random doorbell ring. I ignored it. I have no idea who it was. And now I'm dying to know. I've speculated everything -- from the man of my dreams coming over with a boatload of flowers, to my neighbor wanting to give me another power tool, to another neighbor coming over with some fabulous meal, to some Jehovah's Witness trying to make me a better person.

Aye, there's the rub. I didn't open the door, so I will never know...

I am feeling mildly guilty about pretending I didn't hear the door -- it was like I lied. If I was a good Catholic, I would have opened it up and, provided that the person was not gay or had any other religious beliefs besides Christianity, invited them inside.

I am not a good Catholic.

I am not a Catholic.

I am not a

I am not

I am

This time, random doorbell ringer, the bell does not toll for thee.

Feelin' groovy

I'm happy to report that my turkey was not a disaster, and the first Thanksgiving at my new house was fantastic, fun, and filled with conversation, friendship, and joy.

Loved it.

I'm completely exhausted today. I ventured out mid-afternoon to take my dog to an off-leash park and then tried to rally to spend some more time with friends this evening who had come up from Oregon.

Didn't work out so well.

We're having breakfast together tomorrow morning. I find that to be a rightful compromise.

I'm impressed with myself that I said I needed to relax instead of pulling my usual bullshit martyr crap and heading downtown, trudging through the evening, and being tired and pissed. It's not fun that way.

I will most likely go to bed by 7. I'm not even joking. This whole Thanksgiving meal and prep really wore me out! Absolutely worth it, though. Wouldn't take it back for anything. Hard to replicate days like that.

Truly.

Even my friend the giraffe wants more of Deb's glazed sweet potatoes....

Happy Thanksgiving!

My home is sporting a new chimney cap. This pleases me. My house looks, just for a second, like an exotic homestead in the UK.

Just for a second,

and then you remember that you are definitely in the US

there is a mobile home park down the street.

I live on those sides of the tracks.

I'm hosting Thanksgiving at my home tomorrow. I love having people over, so I'm looking forward to the gathering. A few friends are coming up from Oregon, and we'll be joined by some folks who live in Seattle. Good times.

I'm a bit nervous about preparing the turkey. As most of my friends know, I shouldn't really be let loose in the kitchen. Things happen. Fires happen.

A few years ago, when I was living in a studio apartment near Seattle Center, I became obsessed with popcorn making. The chap I was dating? at the time and I had popcorn-offs. I was convinced my way of preparing popcorn was superior to his -- we got a little competitive (and I wonder why I'm single?).

http://www.davidschwartz.com/photos/

One evening, when he was doing something somewhere else, I decided to work on my popcorn preparation techniques -- I was determined to win the popcorn-off -- so I began to make some popcorn with olive oil.

The oil was heating up, and I stepped into the living room, busying myself doing something mindless in a place other than the kitchen. I smelled smoke, but thought -- the oil is heating up, I can wait another minute. When I finally moved to the other side of the apartment (did I mention it was about 450 square feet?), huge billows of smoke were pouring out of the pot.

I ran to it.

I took off the lid.

A fireball nearly engulfed my head. Good thing, due to my slick maneuvers, I was uninjured.

As I stood there, counting my blessings, the flames kept pouring out of the pot.

I finally realized I should take the pot off the heat.

I walk around, with flaming pot in hand, trying to decide what to do. Throw it out the window? Douse it with water.

Sweet.

Bad call.

The fire becomes bigger. At this point, my apartment is filled with smoke, I'm coughing like crazy. But for some reason
I
cannot
put
the
flaming
pot
down

After another lap or two of walking around the apartment with the fire in hand, I finally figure out that I should put the lid back on the pan.

It works. Fire extinguished.

So, you see, making a turkey may not be the best idea ever... I wonder what sort of turkey disaster will ensue? Dropping it on the floor? Daisy eating it? Deciding to defrost it in the toilet? (ok, that's gross).

Regardless of what happens, at least my friends are forgiving and are bringing enough food to compensate for whatever fiasco is the result of my "cooking."

Stay tuned...

Have a happy thanksgiving! Best wishes to you and your family!

This Single Gal

The kindness? of strangers

If you didn't see my last pathetic I want to throw myself on the logs in my fireplace dirge, my furnace died this evening. I was cold. I was grumpy. I had intended to have a productive evening of creating the greatest novel known to human kind, but my fingers got numb.

I waited for nearly 3 hours, and then Beacon Plumbing and Heating came to the rescue!

They came. They saw. They conquered.

AND

They didn't charge me a service call fee.

AND

They fixed my furnace

AND

They looked at/quasi fixed my horrible water pressure in the kitchen sink. For free.

Yeah, I know. I was shocked. Beacon has a reputation of fucking drowning their customers in debt (ha ha -- get it -- drowning, plumbing, water, blah blah)

But they didn't screw me. I'm mildly shocked. My week / month / year / life hasn't been the easiest. But they gave me a break.

What the...?

In addition to feeling confident that the chap did a good job, I didn't get screwed over -- I actually ENJOYED talking to the technician. The furnace slash plumbing dude was an absolute riot. We laughed hysterically for the entire time he was here.

(Don't get all excited -- he's married, has a couple of children, no interest there -- and... scene)

BUT, I do think he thought I was cute. That was why I got all the free shit.

Which, okay, I am totally okay with. Yeah, yeah, all you feminists go ahead and get pissed / riled up / appalled -- I'm sorry, this chap thinking I'm cute worked to my advantage. I got shit for free. I got my furnace fixed. And I feel better about the world.

Is that horrible?

I guess I don't really care if someone thinks it is. I don't think it's horrible. I don't think I compromised myself. I suppose that's the thing that's important here. Right?

Right?

Right?

WWGS? (what would Gloria (STeinem) say? Or Elizabeth Cady Staton? Or...?

Some ethical things to think about... even the Single Gal has dilemmas...

I think I may have had too much talk about furnace induction systems.

It's now nice and warm in here. Thank you very much.

Hope you are all well in this pre-Thanksgiving joy.

This Single Gal

Furnace fiasco part two

My furnace is busted.

It's cold in here.

I'm not happy.

At least I can build a fire.

This has been a sucky mcsuckers week.

Sigh.

A minefield, I tell you, a freakin' minefield...

This morning my delightful colleague, Bob, came over to my house to take a look at my fireplace. He poked, he prodded, he taught me stuff about furnaces, gas crap, other stuff I can't remember, and soot.

He has deemed the fireplace to be in working order.

I am very excited. I light the first fire this evening, fire extinguisher in hand.

Of course, I didn't have the correct fireplace props, so I went to Home Depot to buy such things. I swept, I shoveled, I de-sooted. I am psyched. I will burn tonight, baby. Burn tonight!

While I was waiting for Bob to arrive, I got the brilliant idea that today was the day to rake my leaves. Afterall, it is fall, and I'm struggling to change my reputation from a lawn slacker to the shining neighbor that I aspire to be. That, with award winning perennials, six cats, and fear in small children.

Oh yeah.

So I'm raking. I'm bagging, I'm scooping. My dear friend Teresa hooked me up with leaf bags when she was here housesitting a few weeks ago, so that gave me a good start. I was seriously kicking ass. Several bags filled. Raking like a maniac. I got the groove on.

Daisy was with me in the front yard. She watched the raking intently, surprisingly leaving the rake to do its job without attacking it like she does the vacuum, and then decided to comment on my work by taking a crap. On top of a pile of leaves.

As I tried to shoo her away from such depravity, she freaked out and left a trail of dog shit across the leaves, my gardening gloves, the front porch, and NEARLY into my house. I screamed in horror watching her trail of shit, while, of course, I WATCHED and did nothing.

So, I cleaned it up, like a dutiful pet owner. Grossed out, tired, irritated, and mildly amused.

The front was finished, so I headed into the backyard.

By that time, I was running low on leaf bags, I remembered that my shoulder and back are FUCKED and I shouldn't be doing any of these things to begin with, and that Daisy's shitfest in the front yard was only a bit of foreshadowing for my adventure in the back. Which, as you might have guessed, is a minefield. Of. Dog. Crap.

I start raking. I poke parcels of crap, I slip on other piles, I nearly took out my eye with a flying piece of crap I encountered during a raking frenzy. It was ugly. I survived, though. With only half of the yard done.

I think this is a life theme -- half done.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow... will I wake up with... PTRD? Arm injured, general leaf frenzy? The symptoms are coming on fast...

Fireplaces

When I bought my first house in Michigan, I wished it had a fireplace. Them cold Michigan nights would have been um less cold with a freakin' fee-ray blazing in my living room. Never mind that my friend Paul nearly killed me by smoking me out with his fireplace (the ding dong forgot to open the flue). I really wanted a fireplace.

And now I have one.

And I want to use it.

My colleague offered to come over and check the fireplace to make sure nothing explodes if I light something in there. I'm concerned because the fireplace had a gas starter at one time which, in my mind = potential explosion. When I bought the house, the inspector said it was disabled. I should believe him, but I don't trust the inspector. HE failed to tell me my house was infested with rats.

Um

Strike fucking one.

My colleague is busy as hell. He can't seem to get out here to help me. I'm impatient (fucking sue me), and I really want a fire. Whine whine whine.

I'm really tempted to test fate and to light a fire and see what happens. I think this is a fabulous idea because:

1. I'm curious as hell.
2. I love me some roasted marshmellows.
3. My house is cold as fuck.
4. It would make me a better artist. Fireplace = inspiration, right? I realize this is a pathetic excuse, but I'm dying here. Can you tell I haven't worked on my latest play for um like a year and my novel for um like even more years and my um everything else for um all else time?
5. It's a romantical thing, right? The fire? Would it attract romance? Why not MAKE A FIRE AND SEE?
6. Jiffy Pop
7. Stockings hung by the chimney with care (even though I'm a potential buddhist). Does that mean I get chocolate? Fuck the candy canes. I hate candy canes.
8. And shit like that

I'm taking a poll. Fire it up or wait? What do you think?

I have insurance, right?

I'm going to hell, part 94

I went to Iowa last weekend.
Blah blah this and that and corn and pigs and...

scene.

While I was away, my dear pal Teresa stayed at my house and took care of my roommate.

She brought her roommate, a golden retriever named Willow along with her. Teresa also brought all kinds of other things -- ice cream for dogs, dog snacks, a shit shovel, bags for leaves, work gloves, her laundry. Most of which (aside from the laundry) she donated to the Single Gal is pathetic and needs to take better care of her house / dog / self fund. So generous.

In addition to the booty, Teresa started raking my leaves (I know -- don't you want her to housesit for you?) AND -- get THIS -- AND clipped Daisy's nails.

A freakin' miracle. Usually it takes 4 people to pin her down. A freakin' miracle.

Teresa is a miracle worker.

She's named after a saint, don't you know. (Is that right, Teresa?)

She did all of this generous giving despite her most likely grueling days at work... Never mind that she is a social worker. Never mind that she spends her days working with people who are sick, families that are dealing with people who are sick, watching medical procedures, dealing with insane co-workers and unions...

Teresa can still work her magic and clip my dog's toenails.

Teresa rocks.

Clearly.

After I got back from my trip, Teresa called to confess about an incident at my house while I was away.

Here goes.

Imagine, if you will, two lovely yet incredibly rambunctious dogs running around my backyard. During the frenzy, Willow, Teresa's dog, catches a squirrel.

Now, I'm familiar with squirrel killing. Daisy has caught a squirrel. It was in Michigan. It was 2006. I had pneumonia. I saw the carcass between my bouts of coughing laying in the middle of the back yard. She ate the squirrel's eyes. Although I was repulsed, had the plague, and thought I was going to die, I knew I had to remove the squirrel. Pronto. So, I lumbered outside. I wore three scarves, oven mitts which I quasi duct-taped to my coat to prevent rabies, you know, boots, a coat, sunglasses, all things anti-squirrel, and traipsed outside. I shoveled the squirrel into a cardboard box, sealed it, put it in the garbage.

Wrong approach? Probably. What the hell are you supposed to do with a dead squirrel? Knowing what an amazingly kind person Teresa is, what would Teresa do?

As she started telling me the story she laughed. She was hesitant. She thought about several ways to break the news. And she...

let 'er rip

what did Teresa do with the dead squirrel?

She threw it in the neighbor's yard.

Yep.

Dead squirrel.
Neighbor's yard.

That's what Teresa would do.

And what I do with that information?
Nothing.

That's what the Single Gal would do.