My Worst Nightmares Realized

So, I haven't been able to escape other parent fraternization this summer. I have done my best to keep it to an absolute minimum, but it can't be completely avoided. The children must frolic together, unkempt and unruly, free from the bonds of school and stricter schedules.
I hate it. The adult interaction part anyway. I'm stuck making small talk and feigning interest when I really don't give a crap and I'm thinking "Why can't we just cover the who, when, and where and leave it at that??!!" Crikey!
There's a little girl right down the road that the girls particularly like to play with. I certainly don't mind her either, she's easy to have around, and they all get along for the MOST part. But I dread having to talk to her mom, not because she's a horrible person or anything, but because she drags on the conversation, filling it with random information I could give two tits about.
"Yeah, I had to go to the store. I needed milk, bread, toothpaste, dish soap (the list goes on and on ). Then "And what else was it?" LONG pause. "Oh yeah, mayo...." Really??!! What kind was it?! Hellmann's you say?! We normally use Kraft, but if you prefer Hellmann's we'll be sure to try it next time!!
One time I was taking her little girl and another one from the neighborhood with us to the YMCA pool (yippee), and she told me that the other girl was "part mexican, ya know" and she had gone to the beach with her family this weekend and they "loaded her with sunblock" because they didn't want her to get "any darker than she was already was." Newsflash, sunblock doesn't keep you from tanning, just burning. Of course, I didn't say that, or ANYTHING for that matter (except "mmm" "mmmhmmm" "Oohhh" or "okay") because I didn't want to encourage her.
My favorite encounter with her was another time when I stopped at her house to pick up the girls to come to the pool with us. She was wearing this cottony, pink, sleeveless dress thing that LOOKED like something one would wear over her suit to go swimming somewhere, and I was thinking "Pleeeassee, don't tell me she decided to come with." She didn't, and as I got closer it was apparent she wasn't wearing anything UNDER it, at least not on the upper half of her body. I was already pretty nauseated from this obvious discovery, when she proceeded to tell me she had a Dr.'s appt to check out some "sores on her back" that she "can't get to heal." She ran through the list of ointments she'd tried and went on about how itchy and uncomfortable they were. "Mmmmm. ooohhh. Mmmhmmm." I said. I was thinking "Is she really giving me the low down on the festering boils oozing on her back?" Who TELLS people they don't know REALLY well things like that??!! The next time I check out somewhere, like Walmart or Kroger, I'm gonna be like "Yeah, next time I come in, I think I'm finally gonna have to break down and get some Monistat. I have this raging, burning itch down there that I just can't seem to get rid of! I've tried cold compresses and baby powder but it's still on fire! I can't even wear underwear! See?!"
THEN, my next door neighbor was talking to me across our yards (we had both followed kids out to the ice cream truck) about how she had quit smoking 17 weeks ago, and she used to run all the time back in the day, and she was trying to get started again, and when did I run? AAHHHHHH!!! Running is my me time, alright? I don't stop, and I have my Ipod full blast, so I'm not interested in taking frequent walk breaks involving chatting with someone I barely know. I told her reaallly early, like 5:30 a.m. So she asks when I walk our dogs, and I was like "Usually after 7 in the evening on the days that I take them." And she says "If I see you maybe I'll hitch a ride with ya." AAHHHHHH!! "Sounds great." I exclaim. So now I have to go a different way so my neighbor doesn't spot us out of her window on our way out, only on our way in. What??!! You know if I was like "Um, I really appreciate you thinking of me, but I prefer to be alone when I run and walk the dogs."she'd be like "Oh sure! I understand!" then stomp away mumbling "Stuck up bitch."
What I think is funny is that she saw me at a gas station one time and she was like "Hey! How are you?" And I was like "umm, fine. And you?..." She goes "I'm your neighbor. From next door." "Right! How's it going?" I have never actually talked to her up close before, just a few times across the yard, so I didn't recognize her. I don't know how the hell she knew who I was, truth be told.
This is random but there was a middle aged WT (white trash) lady at the pool last week, wearing one of those one piece suits with a built in skirt, and a pair of white sweat socks. In the pool. I noticed them when she was standing beside the pool after just having gotten out, with a big puddle surrounding each soggy foot. Cuurrazzie.
SO. My sister is shopping with my nephew (5) and my niece (3) by herself the other day. Unfortunately, it's Aunt Flo's time of the month to visit, and it's the day when she's a REAL bitch. So my sister had no choice but to take them into the stall with her while she took care of business. To appreciate this story, you have to know that my nephew stutters when he gets all worked up. He also gets increasingly louder while he does it. Also, as with most kids, he tends to exaggerate and be melodramatic. For example, if my sister decides he's had enough Super Mario (he gets to play everyday) and makes him take a break, he'll say "But I NEVER get to play Super Mario!"
So, with four little eyes fixed on her, she does what she went in there to do. "Eeeeewwww!" they begin immediately. "Shhhhhhh!" she tells them. "But mama! But Mama! But MAMA! BUT MAMA!" my nephew chants. "SSHHHH! Don't say anything!" my sister pleads. "BUT MAMA!" my nephew shouts. "WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS PULLING DISGUSTING THINGS OUT OF YOUR BUTT?!" Hahahaha!!! She said she was pretty sure there was no one else in there, which seems like a real shame. If I had been a stranger overhearing the exchange, I definitely would've still blogged it.
I've had several dreams in my day that center around the fact that I have to pee. I know this is because I do actually have to pee, but I'm asleep and unable to wake up for whatever reason, so my subconscious creates a frustrating world where I am desperately trying to find somewhere to take a leak but I never have any luck. If I ever in fact finally find a place, my plan to evacuate my aching bladder is always foiled, and I end up back on my relief mission.
Last week, I had a similar dream, only in this one I had to poop. I have never had a "need to poop" dream before, because I've never actually had to take a dump while I was sleeping. And this was no exception, I didn't wake up from it and have to go straight to the can to drop a load or anything. Anyway, after what seemed like hours of frantic searching, I was excited to finally find a porcelain throne. But just like my urination never comes to be, my plan to pinch one came to end when I discovered a HUGE turd already occupying the toilet. There was no way that sucker was flushing down, it was the size of a fireplace log. It also had Lucky Charm marshmallows embedded in it. Yellow stars, blue diamonds, purple horseshoes...interpretations welcome.

Babysitting

This post is about two kinds of babysitting. The kind involving caring for another's children, and the kind I frequently do at work where the client is the infant in question. Reese's former caregiver would be saying right now- "Baby sitting?" Do I sit on babies?I don't think so, I'm a NANNY." She used to tell Reese this whenever she used that word. Give me a break.

My niece is watching our girls this summer, and things seem to be going pretty well. She's 17, and when I think about that, I think about how I was so completely done with babysitting by the time I was 17. I'm pretty sure I was about 13 when I decided that particular job wasn't for me. My sisters continued on throughout highschool, and even did some when they were on break from college- but not me. I can remember specifics about the children I watched and the parents that employed me, so I can tell you exactly why I gave up the art of NANNYing.

1) The Hippies- They were really nice actually, but they paid me two dollars an hour. They had two little girls (like 2 and 6 months at the time I think) that were very sweet. But they also had a 6 year old boy that was....not. I remember him screaming from the bathroom with all of his might one time- "WIPE ME!!! WIIIPPPPEEE MMEEEEE!!!"I was like "You are 6 years old, and I'm not wiping you! You can either wipe yourself or sit on the toilet all day!" He eventually gave up and came out, although I'm sure he probably didn't undoody his bootie. His mom probably encountered a crusty surprise later.

2) The DIRTY Hippies- They weren't mean or anything, but they were gross and so was their house. It was always in disarray and had a stale kind of old food/musty laundry smell. They had three kids, and only the littlest was halfway decent. The other two were from total hell. One time the oldest (a red-headed demon aged 8) chunked a metal yo-yo at my head, narrowly missing and putting a dent in the wall behind me. They did not discipline them or really deal with them at all. I actually remember the lady holding the youngest (nestled in her mom notch- she had one of those concave midsections with a jutting gut/hip area underneath) and telling her friend she wanted to have another one just so she wouldn't have to have her period anymore. Even at 12/13, I understood that this was a HORRIBLE idea, and remember thinking something along the lines of "Please God, no." Again- $2 an hour.

3) The Professionals: Really probably the best of the bunch, during the short time period I was actually willing to subject myself to the torture, they were the ones I most willingly accepted work from. They paid FIVE dollars an hour. Woohoo! And their kids weren't too bad really, but sort of like little preppy, arrogant country clubbers in training. Tolerable for the most part though. Thinking back, they were very similar to Princes William and Harry.

Beyond that there was the occasional one-time deal. I remember babysitting for this lady once that lived in an apartment, she had one kid. She got really upset after she came home and discovered I had cleaned her out of Steakums. I remember thinking "Sheesh, it's not like it was the last package ever made lady. " Now when I look back, older and more thoughtful, she was probably a bit of a broke ass, and she was counting on the Steakums to be her lunch for the next couple days. She probably couldn't afford to buy any more until next pay day, because she had to give me her last few dollars to watch her kid, so she could have a rare night out to herself. I'm such an asshole. Steakums- what exactly are they anyway? One of the things I liked as a kid (like Spaghettio's or cotton candy), that I wouldn't touch with a 10 foot fork now. Do they even make them anymore? I'm checking next time I go to the grocery store. And if they do I'll read the label and let you know...

A couple of weeks ago at work, I was lucky enough to pick the room containing the craziest of the crazies. Just when you think you've already met as crazy as it gets...well, you know how it goes. She was late thirties, early 40s. Disheveled hair, droopy jowls, with a weeble wobble figure. She was wearing gray sweat shorts, and a gray disney themed t-shirt. She was completely flat from her neck to about where her belly button would be, then there was what what appeared to be a roll (aka her mams), followed by a wider roll. Her appearance didn't phase me or establish her as the craziest of the crazies, as far as that goes I've seen MUCH MUCH worse.

I could write a novel about what went on in the room, but in the interest of using my (and your) time wisely, I'll try to break it down. By the time I was finally able to lead her up front to pay out and haul ass in the other direction (about an HOUR and a HALF after her arrival), I had learned:

1) she had moved here a couple months ago from Arizona

2) her neighbors there had a bird that she liked more than they did, and it died

3) she gave her oldest son one of her dogs, and it got hit by a car and died

4) she is divorced, and all of her kids live with their dad in Arizona

4) she used to live in a trailer on his property, but she couldn't anymore because the water heater was broken

5) her son lied to her for a few months about the dog before finally telling her it died,she has not forgiven him for that, and this particular son for the most part will not speak to her and never visits.

6)she used to be a meth addict (which destroyed her teeth she tells me), and she threatens her current man with doing it again every day, just to make him mad.

7) her current man is an alcoholic, he sleeps on the couch, is horribly mean to her, and was waiting in the car because he didn't want to come in with her. She can't understand why he would sit in the hot car, instead of coming in to the air conditioning

8) she is on disability and social security, and when she gets her next check she will bring her other dog in for its rabies shot

9) she wishes they hadn't moved here, the only connections she has here are her psychiatrist, and now ME (when she said this I saw a restraining order and a possible name change in my future)

10) she's creative with words. she was telling us about this episode of an animal planet show she was watching where they found this dog with it's leg off and they didn't know what happened to it. "It was HORACIOUS!" she exclaimed.

In addition, she cried for about 3 seconds at a time, about 30 times during the course of her visit. She would be talking, seeming fine, then I guess the subject matter would become too upsetting for her, and her face would instantly crumple, her voice would tremble, one tear might escape, then it was instantly back to normal again. I warned the doc about this before she came back in with me, but I don't think it's something I could have prepared her for, she had to see it for herself.

You really had to be there to see and hear her to fully appreciate the extent of her looniness. I just feel fortunate that she hasn't called asking for me or shown up on my doorstep yet...

Last week, we had an elderly couple come in with their two little dogs. The man obviously suffered from dementia, which I feel really bad for both of them about. He kept wandering around the room, and the lady had to keep telling him to come sit down, or take his arm and direct him back to other side of the exam table. When I brought my boss back in to examine their dogs, the man stood at the end of the table, with my boss on one side, and me on the other restraining the dogs for their physical. At one point, the man lifted his hand in a reaching gesture, so that it was about neck height on me, and about 2 or 3 inches away from me. I don't think the lady saw it, she was sitting in one of the chairs behind me at an angle where I probably blocked her view of him. Even though I was FREAKING OUT on the inside I just stood there and continued on with what I was doing, and so did my boss although he kept casting furtive glances in his direction. Several moments later, he finally dropped his hand.

After we exited the room, my boss said "What do you suppose he was grabbing for?!" I don't know, but if he poked my eye, slapped my face, or worse case scenario- tuned in Tokyo- I knew he wasn't aware of it, so I decided to ignore it and hope for only minor injury, or a weak and brief hooter honk.

SO we went to the beach yesterday (and we had a great time), and there were the usual old leathery beach bums with their metal detectors trying to strike it rich. One of them had a kind I'd never seen before, obviously very high tech- he could use in it the water. He had on cushiony head phones, and the detector was attached to both his arms, he looked like a geriatric, low budget Terminator. The thing I noticed most about him though, was his "shirt". Once a normal t-shirt, he had cut the sleeves and the bottom off. The only problem was, he cut off more like 3/4 rather than half, and the bottom of it was rolling up, so his shirt actually ended ABOVE his pointy old man nips. I'm just thankful he was waist deep in the ocean. If that's his idea of a shirt, I'd hate to see what his shorts looked like (or what might be dangling below them)...

Happy (Snail) Trails

So as I was running one morning last week, I leapt over something particularly vile. Actually, I missed stomping on it by like 2 inches. When I realized what I had almost squished down on, my knees turned to rubber (no pun intended), and I imagined myself spewing chunks all over the asphalt. It was only imagined because, well, let's face it, nothing makes me sick. I have a high tolerance and almost child like fascination for all things repulsive. But with the hopes that I might make a reader or two gag, maybe even make their eyes water a little, I took a photo of the offensive item to share (I'm thoughtful like that)-

And as you can plainly see by the knot in this blow bag, our perpetrator was also thoughtful. He made sure that the toxic goo from his amateur, awkward, and dissatisfying (for her anyway) bumping uglies experience didn't ooze it's way out to infect the pavement. If it had, I picture evil little dwarf like critters forming from the bubbling slime, making noises that sound something like "Grackackllplllgribbergrrr!!!". Actually, he probably just wanted to make sure his white trash producing sludge didn't spray back in his face when he sling-shotted it out of the window of his 4X4.

This is the first time I'd come across a used condom in my travels, and crazily enough, I ran by ANOTHER one heading (no pun intended) in the opposite direction later in the week. I couldn't find that one again when I went to snap a pic of it though. And as you can see, by its gray appearance, and...is that rust?....that the one above was there awhile before I got around to immortalizing it. I'm sure all of the mini-Cletuses encapsulated in it had gone to the giant sperm bank in the sky by then.

Hey, at least the oversexed little ingrates wore protection, am I right? I mean, it could've been worse...

Have I mentioned that we are going to relocate to a desolate area in the mountains when Tatum is 11, only accessible by helicopter?

Punked

In my line of work, encountering a less than friendly animal is not unusual. As a matter of fact, it's likely to be a daily occurrence. Such was the case last Friday, when I entered Rosie's room. It's funny that they called her that, because her disposition is exactly the opposite. The moment I walked in, she started barking at me menacingly, and lunging to the extent that her leash would allow in my direction. "Oh, I know, I know, you're not happy to be here." I say in my most understanding and pleasant voice. "I don't blame you." Yeah right. You little bastard.
Obviously, I don't have a picture of the actual Rosie, but I found one on the Internet that'll give everyone a really good idea of what she looked like. As a matter of fact, they could be twins...

So after obtaining a brief and barely audible history from the owners while Rosie yapped away, I was able to get her to leave the room with me after they handed me her leash. She was MUCH better in the back away from her enablers, she let me pick her up and restrain her while we got her temperature and the necessary samples. I recommended to the doc that she follow me back in for the exam and shots while I still had a good grip on Rabies, and she readily agreed. The physical went smoothly, until the doc tried to look in the ear pressed up against my arm- I had her in a pre-sleeper hold. At this point she started giving the doc the crazed evil eye, and she was snarling and showing her pearly whites. The doc determined from the healthy appearance of her ear flap, that the canal under it must be in perfect working order as well.

When we had finished, I transplanted her from the table to the floor without a problem, then turned towards the counter. "Do you want a treat for being such a good girl?" Puh-lease.

And that's when it happened. A symphony of growls and snarls erupted, and I felt the sensation of something grabbing at my left calf. I jumped 3 feet, my heart exploded in my chest, I turned back toward the room, wide eyed and ready to face my enemy- Rosie's owner. He thought it would be funny to act like he was his rotten ass little dog trying to take a chunk out of my leg. I was so freaked out I almost peed my pants, and the doc was almost peeing her pants from laughing so hard. I laughed too- AFTER I realized there was no actual threat. "I'll have to tell my husband about this." I informed the amateur, geriatric comedian. "He'll think it's hilarious. He does crap like that all that time." And he does. He's never actually gotten ME with the vicious dog trick though, considering I know neither of the two dogs in the house with me would ever chew on my body parts. He does get kids with the scar on his lip though. "See that? A dog bit me there. Feel it." Finger extends forward, Aaron roars, kid screams and poops his/her pants.

He has gotten me with other pranks though. Like the time he hid in the dog's kennel then reached out and grabbed my leg when I walked by. And the most horrifying joke of all. Here's how it went- He got home before me, and parked around the corner, so I would be unaware of his presence. Then he got into the tub and laid down, knowing the first thing I'd do after a long day of taking animal schrapnel is take a shower. I opened the curtain, completely nude, to find a burly, unkempt man literally filling the tub. I emitted a blood curdling scream, and I'm sure Aaron enjoyed the show as I'm quite sure anything that could jiggle or quake was doing just that. Then he had the audacity to complain later about how long it took me to have the shit scared out of me. "I thought you were never going to get in. It took you forever!"

So Sumo Girl, as I said, I too have a turtle story. I was driving the girls home from the Y through one of the neighborhoods, when I saw a little turtle trekking determinedly across the road. A couple of cars went around, but there were more coming, and some backing out of their driveways, and I knew if I left him to make his EXTREMELY slow way across the asphalt, he was going to bite it. Accidentally, if not on purpose (you know how despicable some people are). So I stopped the van and picked him up. He never shied into his shell, he kept stretching his neck and paddling away. Now what? I looked around, and there was really no place to put him. It was the suburbs-little yards, few trees, houses only a few feet apart. He must've either gotten away from someone, or someone "set him free" to be obliterated. Lucky for me, I work with someone who is obsessed with this particular reptile. She has several turtles, she also has turtle jewelry, stickers of turtles on her truck, a turtle tattoo on the back of her neck- you get the idea . So anyways, she agrees to give Turtie (or should I say "Turdie"?) a new home, so I hop into the van to head her way, steering with one hand and gripping his shell with the other. An almost obnoxiously social reptile, his little legs are still flailing everywhere, and he is stretching his neck out as absolutely far as he can. And he's tipping his head back and touching the top of his shell with it. "Calm down Turdie!" And that's when the turdies fall out. Onto my leg. Then they roll onto the seat. Then he starts dribbling pee out all over me. "Aaaahhhhh!! Stop it! Disgusting! Why are you doing this to me! I'm trying to help you!" The girls are hysterically laughing at this point, and I'm thinking "salmonellasalmonellasalmonella" and "I should've left you to be cracked like a walnut." He whizzed the ENTIRE way. I even held him out of the window at one point to try save my thie from his acid rain, but it just made him pee more, and it started misting everywhere. UGH. Apparently he's settled well into his new home, and continues to be an active little fella. Cootie.

I was tucking Reese into bed the other night, when Tatum walks in and informs me that she wants a broken arm so she can wear a cast. "No you don't Tatum, it hurts really bad." "Yes I do!" Then she goes on to complain about how her head still hurts from when she hit it on the counter earlier. "You see!" I say. "You cried for like 15 minutes when that happened! If you broke your arm you'd cry for like 2 or 3 days!" She would too. She's one of those kids that will have a breakdown from the slightest injury. She'll open her mouth really wide, and her face will contort with anguish, then these horrible, tortured sounds will emerge. She has a splinter, but you'd think she severed a limb. "I want you to break my arm for me!" "No way! Get a white towel, wrap it around your arm, duct tape it, and have people sign it." "Fine, I'll do it myself!" So she picks up this old, real, but non working wooden/metal gun that they play with (an Aaron contribution of course), and starts lightly tapping her forearm with it. "Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow." Then she starts giggling, I start laughing, and her quest for broken bones has ended.

I wish I could fault her for thinking being battered would be cool, but I remember thinking the same way. Nothing TOO serious of course- I wouldn't want to burn my ear off or have my eye poked out- but stitches, bruises, abrasions- can make you feel tough and will often earn the admiration of your peers.

Her request actually made me remember something I used to do in grade school. I think this is actually the first time EVER I'm sharing this information, if only because it's been totally forgotten for YEARS. I'd go into the bathroom, get out my mom's makeup, and use her various shades of eyeshadow- blues, browns, yellows- to construct myself a black eye. I did a pretty awesome and realistic job too, if I do say so myself. Of course, I always washed it off before I left the bathroom. At first, they would've gotten upset because they'd think someone had punched me in the eye. THEN, when they found out I had used mom's Clinique to make it LOOK like I had a black eye, they still would have been deeply concerned, but for entirely different reasons...

Fruit Snack

I decided that's what Aaron's nipples look like, so I started calling him that. It's his new nickname. They have that semi-see-through, chewy appearance, and would likely be strawberry or watermelon flavored. It annoys him that I have come to this conclusion, so I refer to him as "Fruit Snack" whenever I remember to. "They do not look like fruit snacks!" he says. "They're too small!" If that's the best defense he can come up with, he's basically admitting I'm right. "You're one to talk!" he exclaims. "Yours look like ---- ----- ----!" I'm leaving it blank out of respect for my parents, and the fact that they probably don't want to know what kind of finger food their daughter's nipples may or may not look like.
Today, Indy picked up a jack russell by it's scruff and flung it in the air like a rag doll. I've been waiting for this to happen, I knew it would. I don't think Aaron really believed that she's a total rabid giraffe on her leash until today (he was actually the one walking her). I felt kinda bad, but hey, if your dog won't listen to you when it's out front with you, then it shouldn't be out there without a leash. Anyway, it's fine, and the guy wasn't upset or anything- he knows it's his and his stupid little dog's fault. I mean how mentally incompetent do you have to be to challenge a creature 10 times your size? Little Dog Syndrome. If he were a person, he'd probably drive a big truck with giant wheels that he needs a ladder to get into, and a booster seat to see out of the front windshield.

Lady And The Trampled

When I'm running, I often encounter roaming hounds. Why? Because people are irresponsible losers. The majority of them like to sprint after me yapping, and for the most part I really don't mind this. There's a difference between a friendly, fun game of chase, and pursuit with the intent of removing a chunk of my achilles tendon. There's a horrid mop with fangs on my route that falls into the latter category. He would soooo sink his teeth in if I would slow down just a smidge....
I pushed him with my foot the other day. It made him roll a few times, and he had to struggle to right himself before he could come charging after me again. I said PUSH, not KICK, there is a difference, okay? Besides, he deserved it, and it made me happy.
This morning was no different. I go running towards his house, on the OTHER side of the street I might add, and the hairball from hell comes barrelling out of his yard at me. Today I decided to stomp towards him yelling and barking. He would dart back for a few yards, then come at me again. After a few rounds, I was satisfied with the amount of aggravation and terror I had caused him, and continued on my way. Of course, he hauled butt after me, then who should emerge from the lawn hollering after him- his owner!! Imagine that one! She probably saw me harassing him- at least I hope she did. I couldn't hear her, my Ipod was blasting too loud, but he wasn't freaking listening. Being the super nice gal I am, I ran back towards him, so that he would head in her direction. The last I saw of them, she was trying to catch him and he was ducking out of her reach. Serves her right! I should've just kept going. It pisses me off so bad! I'm sure everyone that goes by there- running, walking, riding a bike, whatever- gets the same treatment. If she doesn't have a fenced yard she needs to leash walk his evil ass out to the bathroom.
I'm considering walking my dogs by there one day. I never have BECAUSE of that rotten little beast. I, the law abiding, better pet owner, adjust MY route to allow this person to continue being an inconsiderate hosebag. Indy hates other dogs when she's on a leash. It's weird, she does okay with them otherwise. I learned this when there was a Westie in our front yard when we returned from a walk one day. I thought, I guess I'll let them say hi to each other. The westie approached Indy, tail wagging, and Indy proceeded to snarl and surround the expanse of the dog's chest with her mouth. I yanked her from him yelling, and he took off hurriedly, occasionally throwing a worried glance over his shoulder to make sure Indy wasn't following him.
I figure I take her by this house, devil dog rushes us, and Indy swallows it whole. The owner will come out seconds later, upset and frantic "Where did Precious go? Where is he?" (the most malicious of dogs have the sweetest sounding names. For example, a dog named Muffin once tried to remove my thumb. And a pooch name Cupcake once bit a co-worker in the face.) "Where did who go?" I'll ask, looking concerned and perplexed. Then Indy will belch a little puff of white fur....HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! What??!!

My mom bought us the most awesome new lid for our mustard.....

This is how it looks while in use.....

Cool, eh? She got my sister one for her ketchup with the holes in the nostrils. Like squeezing bloody boogers onto your burger. MMmmmm

In recent neighborhood news, someone lost their pants....

Being me, I photographed it for my blog. If I was/were (I'm not sure which is proper grammar so I put both) Aaron, I would check to see if they were my size. If they're too small, you're screwed. However, if they're a little large, no problem....

They come complete with a belt for waist size adjustment.

HOARDERS

I LOVE this show. It is fascinating and repulsive. I can't watch new episodes, it comes on at 10:00 (way too late for my tired old ass), so I watch it On Demand. I guess these people have some mental disorder that makes it impossible for them to throw anything away. In most cases, they lost something at some point in their lives, and this caused them to start saving EVERYTHING. Like, "My dad left when I was 5, so now I have this mountain of crusty paper plates and used kleenex to fill the void."
My fave was one with this crazy rhino of a dude and his chain smoking wife. They had to remove over 50 firearms and knives from his house before they could come in to clean. They had a big argument during the show, and right in the middle of it, completely off subject, he shouts "Oh will you just go get me a pickle!" "NO, I will not go get you a pickle!" she fires back. Later it shows the cleaning crew (all wearing gloves and face masks) emptying out the fridge. One of the first items tossed? None other than the pickle jar. Symbolic? I like to think so. The jar is their house and life, murky and containing a stench that will make your mouth fill with saliva and your eyes burn. And they are the pickles, previously crisp and fresh, but now shriveled and sour- puckered, bitter versions of their former selves. Or not. Maybe I just hate pickles.
Since I've been watching this outstanding program, I've decided there are a few houses in my area that are HIGHLY suspect of being hoarder homes. I wish I could get a look inside of them. There's the creepy dude with the two bright yellow cars and like 40 cats milling around in the front yard and driveway. I run by it, and I'm positive that he has crap piled to his ceiling.
Then there's the people with all of the appliances and old furniture crowding their front porch.
But those are the obvious places. You can't always judge the inside of the house by the outside. For example, my ex-boyfriend's mom's house looked neat and tidy on the outside. His smarmy stepdad took really good care of the lawn, there was landscaping and flowers, yadda yadda. You'd never know it was a regular obstacle course and death trap on the on the inside, littered with dog poop land mines, giant underwear lurking in the cracks of the sofa waiting to pounce, and mutant, man eating cockroaches.
Then there's my house. If you went by the overgrown bushes (with the occasional dead one thrown in), weed-riddled lawn, and shaggy sidewalks, you'd think it was a regular dumpster with windows. I'm no Betty Homemaker, but I do try to keep things half-way decent. Although I can see the potential for becoming a hoarder....
For instance- water bottles. I drink a lot of bottled water, but I have a hard time keeping track of the one I'm drinking. I probably rarely finish a whole one, because I can never remember where I put it. Then if I find one I'm like "Is this really mine? And if it is, is it from now or a couple days ago?" When I go to bed I always bring my current bottle with me, and take maybe another swig or two before lights out. When morning arrives, I decide it's too old now, it has been sitting there growing God knows what all night. So I leave it there. I've probably accumulated up to 12 bottles on my night stand at one time before finally emptying them into the dog's water dish. When I bring my new one, I simply shove the rest of the group far right, so I don't confuse my new one with any of the old ones. Come sun up, that bottle joins the rest of the backwash brigade. It's weird, like some beverage mental block.
Aaron has potential too. He likes to buy random, useless items from yard sales. A woman's scuba suit. A fireman's outfit. A unicycle. Have you ever tried to ride one of those things?! Impossible!
He also brings home bicycles that he finds abandoned on the side of the road if they look like they only need minor repair.
So who knows? In twenty years, you may see us on a show like Hoarders. Reese and Tatum, trying to live their own lives and ashamed of their crraazzy parents, contact the program for an emergency intervention, following an incident where they couldn't reach me for two days, only to find I had become trapped under an avalanche of water bottles. At least I wouldn't die of thirst. (actually I probably would, afraid to ingest the ancient H2O). Aaron never even knew I was missing, through all of the towers and layers of junk (and with the hood of his scuba suit muffling sounds), he didn't hear me yelling for help. And when he's training one of his chickens to ride the unicycle, he tends to shut the rest of the world out....