Should Have Stayed in Bed

Have you ever gotten that feeling?  Right after you get up, there is a series of Really Stupid Stuff<tm> happening and you say to yourself that you really should turn around and get back into bed?

Yesterday was my turn.  It's a shame I never listen to myself.

It started, as most days do, with the noise from the blasted alarm clock.  If there is anything more hated than phone salesmen, it's alarm clocks.  In my normal morning haze, I observed the wife get up and head to the rest room.  Not completely awake, she didn't shut the bedroom door.

An open or semi-open bedroom door is way too much temptation for the dog.  Marshall was through the portal and down the steps before anyone knew.  After all, if there is an open door, it's the Doorway to Trouble.  I didn't watch it but I assume Marshall flew down the steps and ran at top speed to see if there was any cat food.  This is a safe assumption because cat food is Marshall's number one interest.  He checks in the morning, afternoon, evening and every time he comes in from outside.

My wife was justifiably concerned and signaled so by grunting, laying down and putting her eye cover on.

Finding no cat food (the cat was no doubt looking for it too - he behaves as if nobody ever feeds him), Marshall probably went for second place; the recycling bin, where empty cans of cat food are kept.  He stands up, steals a can, takes it to his spot, then licks it clean.  Sometimes we wonder why there are so many empty cat food cans all over the dining room, especially as we use a recycling bin, not the floor.  It doesn't even matter that we already cleaned the cans - he apparently has to give it the Special Spaniel Seal of Sanitation (SSSS).

I got dressed and let the little monster out into his yard.  When my wife does this, she looks at him sternly and tells him no barking.  She swears up and down that he understands and most of the time he does not bark when he goes out.  I see no such evidence.  When I let him out, he immediately runs around the side, sits at the gate and barks for the neighbor to feed him.  Yes, he trained his neighbor to bring him food on command.

The only problem with this arrangement is that the neighbor isn't always home.  So Marshall will contently sit by his fence and bark every thirty seconds or so.  I sometimes wonder whether he remembers he's supposed to go to the bathroom or not.  Needless to say, when I say no barking, it has no effect whatsoever.

Yesterday was no exception and for some reason, Marshall decided to make the barking constant.  I don't want to be the neighbor with the barky dog, so I had to run out to get him.  Deciding it was best to go with shoes, I sat down on the couch to put them on amidst the annoying bark/squeak of my little monster.

There are some sounds that are iconic.  A whoopee cushion is one.  A fart is another.  One of the most iconic comedy sounds is rrrrrrrrrrrripp.  As all of us know, this signifies, well, something ripping.

Judging by the sudden cold, that would have been the brand new hole in the rear portion of my jeans.

My spine shivered and my eyes rolled back in my head.  I thought that this would be a tremendous sitcom, especially if it weren't happening to me at that moment.  With the sizable hole near my buttocks, I went outside to fetch the barky people trainer.  It was a brave move - screw fashion (or modesty).

Yeah, I should have stayed in bed.

Having temporarily solved the barking issue, we all went back to the bedroom; Marshall for his morning nap and me for a less well-vented pair of jeans.  While the wife was ostensibly sleeping, I swore I heard giggling.


At work I discovered that my task overload had multiplied overnight.  Keeping a cool head about myself, I continued on with the work, when I got an email from my brother.  He wanted to know if I had heard.

Heard about what?

The lady who assaulted her baby.

No, but what about her?

She's Mom's neighbor.

Oh.  Mom knows people, doesn't she?

She was going to buy a baby present.  For that particular baby.

Oh (again).


Mom makes friends quickly.  Apparently her complex is the complex in which to live, if you like occasional drama.  She thinks it was the husband anyway.  I wonder if she interviewed the police or it was the other way around.

We were local celebrities.  Not Mom... our car.  When the news showed up, they panned by our car.  My wife was thrilled.  I was thrilled, too (that there weren't any deer involved with our car).


Back to work, I was busy doing Stuff for a legal case.  It's all hush hush, you know.

Never one to be silent, my phone blared for attention - it was the wife.  All of this baby assaulting had everyone in a spin.  This was not good.  Fortunately she slept it off.

Work Stuff refused to take even a minimal break.  The Stuff I was doing had an inadvertent effect on the network, causing no end of grief and minor calls for blood, which expanded to the entire department.  Nothing was actually wrong - it was just politics.

[Sigh]

I'm not a drinking man but I'm starting to wonder if I should look into it.


Probably should have stayed in bed this morning.  Let this be a lesson to you: listen to the voices - they may have a point.

Justin Bieber and Toe Cleavage

Q. How do we know that the suit against Justin Bieber for assault will never go to court?

A. Because no one will admit that Justin Bieber beat them up.

----------------------------------

Toe Cleavage?


Glad you asked, Billy.  Tell me, do you like gladiator movies?

My twenty-something niece told my forty-something wife about toe cleavage.  My wife told me.  It was immediately obvious to me what it was; in fact, I remember seeing a picture of some famous female on a runway and thinking to myself why couldn't she afford proper sized shoes - her toes barely fit in them.

Apparently this is an acknowledged issue in these wild days of 2012, when either the Big One is going to come get us or nothing too far out of the ordinary will happen in late December.  I predict gas gouging and a smaller holiday because no one can afford Stuff anymore.  And that our new president will be more of the same.

--------------------------------

So apparently face-eating is caused by bath salts.  Or something.
No, really.  The police found some guy eating another guy's face and he growled at them.  He was found to be under the influence of bath salts.

OMG - my wife bathes in that stuff all the time!

--------------------------------

Speaking of face-eating, my ultra nice wife kept offering me the evening off.  It might just be her kindness responding to my morose attitude toward mowing the lawn.  She told me to sit and relax.  I told her I had to mow the lawn.  She said that the lawn could wait a day.  I said it was going be the lawn because the two things I dread most in life are the dentist and the lawn and I went to the dentist yesterday.

I decided not to waste too many words on yesterday's visit to my genuinely caring dentist, Dr. Mengele.  In truth, I don't feel much pain from either the good doctor or mowing the lawn, yet I'm terrified of visiting the doctor.   It was never this way until recently and I have no idea why.  Never mind that my one and a half hour slot had me seated for over two hours.  Perhaps I can describe my terror better this way: while seated, I do not look into the deep blue eyes of the dental technician nor do I even think of looking down her shirt.  Yes, I'm that scared.  I even forget the view I got following her down the hall to the damage dental suite.

Since I merely loathe mowing the lawn, it was off to locate the mower.  In theory, the mower is in the same place I left it, so it shouldn't be too difficult to locate.  In practice, however, all sorts of things could have happened, up to and including full dematerialization and rematerialization in a different dimension altogether.   I think this might have something to do with string theory but in truth, the only string theory that matters is will the string that starts the mower be intact when I pull it two or ten times to start the infernal beast.

Most likely the mower is just hidden under the new growth of grass.  The grass grows really quickly here in Pennsylvania, largely due to the rainy season.  Our rainy season runs from about March 13 to about February 29.  April showers bring May showers and it rains most of June.

Sometimes we worry that the dog won't be able to find his way back to the door because the grass is already taller than he is and I mowed two weeks ago.  I tried to cover all the unnecessary grass with concrete but discovered that, due to drainage, this is not legal.

So the bugger started on about the eighth try and off I trudged to do my husbandly duty.   One of the obstacles to mowing is plants.  Unfortunately the definition of plants differs wildly from my wife to me.  I tend to largely mow over most anything that's vaguely green, much to the consternation of my wife.

The other obstacle would be the still dormant planting material; the very material that put the Crazy Lady next door over the edge and forced her to call the county on us.  I figured that after I was finished, there would be enough grass clippings laying about to potentially put the Crazy Lady further over the edge.  Can you imagine the call to the county?

Mrs. Crazy Lady:  Hello, I want to complain.
Poor County Employee:  How are you, Mrs. Crazy  Lady?
Mrs. Crazy Lady:  Oh, terrible.  My horrible, slovenly neighbors have done it again.
Poor County Employee:  What is it this time - someone throw a candy wrapper on their lawn?  More than one bag of trash in their can?  Color of their house not up to spec?
Mrs. Crazy Lady:  Remember the planting materials?
Poor County Employee:   How could I ever forget, Mrs. Crazy Lady?
Mrs. Crazy Lady:  They mowed their lawn and didn't sweep it up.
Poor County Employee:   We'll send a SWAT team immediately.  Now go take your  meds.

My wife keeps telling me we have to be nice to her.  I keep asking why.  She keeps telling me because she's old and our neighbor.  I keep telling her that good neighbors don't call the county on their neighbors.  She shook her head and let on that Mrs. Crazy Lady's hip had given out and that she was in a lot of pain.

Ok, I had to admit I felt a little bad for her.  Here she is, 347 years old (quite young for her species), and she was in serious pain.  My wife says this is when neighbors lend a hand.  I had no choice but to agree and offered her a helping hand - a push whenever she's at the top of a set of stairs.

That's not wrong, is it?