Slide

About a year ago we bought an insert for our sliding glass door that was equipped with a doggy door. A modern engineering marvel! Do I even have to tell you how thrilled we were to find out they made something like this? A solution that didn't require major construction! A miraculous invention, I tell you! Our lives would be forever changed!

Except for one problem: Of the three dogs exactly NONE of them would go near it.

We tried everything. The husband bribed them with treats. I screamed when That Dog The Size Of A Donkey -- the same dog the SPCA claimed would "be the smaller than Toto" -- pooped directly in front of the doggy door rather than set a paw through it. The husband went so far as to climb through it and SHOW them how it worked.

But nothing convinced them to use it. So eventually the doggy door went away. We were defeated and took it down.

And year past and our little family changed dramatically. In January we lost our old sweet Pug and were completely devastated. We swore we'd never have a third dog again. Then three days later brought Gibbs the Pug home. He was just a few weeks old and so small he fit in the palm of my hand.

Suddenly it's eight months later. Time just blew past and that tiny creature is not so itsy anymore. Also, he likes too poop in my closet. Because why the hell not! Seabiscut is already shitting by the glass door. Why not just make the husband the mayor of Craptown while they're at it!

Which brings us to the return of the doggy door.

The husband, head popper scooper, has had enough. Now he's working fulltime from his home office and needed the dogs to be able to let themselves out. Apparently stopping a conference call with the president of a major oil company so your yapping dog can take a shit in the yard is considered poor form.

So the door insert returned.

And so did the dogs' standoff.

For days, the husband tried to get them to use it. After a week of no dice he finally threw them in the yard and left them. It's 110 degrees here and we figured they'd eventually get used to the idea and bite the bullet. I know I'd climb my fatass through a little door to escape that kind of heat. We figured if they so it once it will click. Right?

Uh. No.

They did eventually come through it to get back into the house. Once. But you would have thought they were storming the beaches of Normandy on D-Day.

Only this ended with some wiseass dropping trou and taking a dump in the enemy's foxhole. Yes. I'm serious. That big fuzzy fucking dog WAITED until he was back inside and pooped on the floor.

And so I lost all hope and the husband's blood pressure went so high steam literally came out of his ears.

Having been soundly defeated, we gave up and life went on. This time the door remained up. We were both too shattered to move it. And so things went. Until I found myself sick and sleeping, propped up on the couch... Within sight and sound of the doggy door.

One night during my infirmary, as I lay snuggled up, I heard the distinct sound of the doggy door being used! Hooray! Yes! A victory! Except all the dogs were laying on the couch with me.

Uh oh.

Of course my mind immediately assumed a horned, venom-spitting predator was coming through after us. And I screamed for the husband. But he was in the other room and sleeping hard. Also, why were the dogs not freaking out? And OH MY GOD WHERE IS MY CAT!!! What if she's they prey!?!

So I scream GERTRUDE! Then I whistle for her and then scream her name over and over.

Wild thoughts raced through my head. What if some rabid dog has broken into yard, found the doggy door and came into snatch my cat?!?! My sweet Gertrude! No not my Gertie!

THE DINGO ATE MY BABY!

And then I hear a meow. A faint little meow. So I call her again and am answered by another meow. A few seconds later I hear the flap of the doggy door. And then the pitter patter of Gertie's tiny feet on the wood floor. As the relief washes over me, the reality of the situation strikes. The dangerous predator IS Gert.

Now its like three weeks later and the fucking cat is the only animal at our house that will use the doggy door.

Morning. Noon. And night. Flap. Thump. Flap. Thump. In and out.

Gert has tasted the sweet freedom of the backyard and will not be shackled by the man. No longer will she be oppressed! Free at last! Free at last! Can I get an AMEN, brothers and sisters of the Internet!

Can you imagine! This is the same animal that stole someone's pet hampster. And ate it.

It's only matter of time before the neighbors unite and storm our home with torches and pitchforks in search of the seven-pound serial killer.

But Ripken says not to worry. They'd have to crawl through the portal to hell/dog door to get to us. Only Satan himself can so easily pass through, which his why him's sissy has no problem making the trip.

Besides if they did make it through the tiny, evil square of doom, they'd never make it past the piles of dog shit.

Booby traps are only one of Riken's many free "services".


-- Posted From My iPhone

The Horse

At the very end of a long week, I was one of three people left in our office this afternoon. The silence from the other 20 or so people being absent amplified our every action. And thus provided me with an awsome tidbit to share at next week's staff meeting.

The following is an actual conversation I overheard today:

HIM: "Hey, I emailed you that horse video I was telling you about."

HER: "Yeah, I was just about to watch it..."

DRAMATIC PAUSE and GASP

HER: "Oh. My. God. THAT. Thing. Is. Gigantic!!! How is that even possible?!?"

HIM: "I know, RIGHT!"

HER: "You HAVE to send me more of those!"

Annnnnnd scene.

I don't know what the horse was doing in that video, but I DO know what I'm going to imply when I retell this story to everyone else in our office on Monday.

-- Post From My iPhone

Better(wo)man

Today was a a better day.

The doctor as officially unleashed me upon the the world again. I'm no longer a giant mass of contagious infection and have been cleared to return to all normal activities.

This news became especially sweet a few moments later. Just minutes after deeming me no longer a biohazard, the lab faxed over the results of the lastest culture of the THING that had commenced the hostile takeover of my face.

The results were astounding. I had contracted MRSA, a particularly nasty variety of staph infection. One that often is resistant to drugs.

My sisters, both medical professionals, are pretty laid back about thier fear of diseases. They work in hopitals and see all sorts of sicknesses every day, none of which seem to scare them... Except for MRSA.

A few months ago, my BFF and I were working a festival near her home -- insert shameless plug for Queen B Designs here. There we met a group of ladies who had a booth benefiting their friend who had contracted MRSA days after giving birth. As a result, she was in a coma, had full organ failure and had all four limbs amputated.

Now THAT is a game-changer.

Which is why it's 3 a.m. and I am wide away, countIng my blessings. Sleep is just out of my grasp and my brain is working overtime.

Also the pug is snuggled up next to me and keeps farting so badly that I'm starting to affixiate.

I'll survive MRSA just to be gassed by Special Agent Gibbs. There is no justice in this world.




-- Post From My iPhone

Eye-rate

Hey, remember that time the doctor called me "girlfriend" then stuck a needle in my eye?

Wait. My bad. That was today.

You know you've got a certain reputation when you walk up to the receptionist at the doctors office and she replies: "Oh, it's you again."

This was followed by the nurse exclaiming: OH MY GOD!!! WHAT HAPPENED?!? WHAT DID YOU DO???

That's when I knew the best case scenerio that I'd been hoping for wasn't going to happen.

So my nose is better and the infection is mostly gone from my cheeks, upper lips and nose. My right eye is okay too, save for a tad bit of puffiness. But all that progress was overshadowed by the THING growing on my left eyelid.

As I was about to learn, infection cannot go away unless the puss is drained from the abcess. And do you know how they do that? By lancing it! With a scapel! Which isn't so bad because they almost always numb you first. Except guess who couldn't be numbed because of the location of the infection AND traditional lancing would not work because of tear ducts being compromised!?

So I lay very still while the doctor pierced my swollen, infected eyelid with a giant syringe. I had to use every muscle in my body to not kick the doctor in the nards.

Meanwhile, my husband could not contain his excitement, as this was like getting to witness the popping of the most awesome zit ever. So he took pictures.

The really awesome, really Asian doctor warned me to be motionless. You know, because he was poking my eye with a fucking needle. And then says, "brace you self, girl friend, this gone hurt."

And one prick later I'm motionless, but have forgotten how to breathe and lost control of my bladder.

Thus concludes the second act of "Eyepocolypse Now." The finale is scheduled for Friday, when I return to the doctor for a third time this week. I can't wait to discover the new ways I'll be traumatized.

-- Post From My iPhone

In Which I Complain Loudly and Feel Sorry For Myself

If there is a strange, rare disease out there I am going to get it. And if I don't get it, one of my two BFFs will. We are a regular three-woman freak show. And I'm not even kidding.

This morning I woke up feeling like something was going to explode off my face. The entire left side of my face was swollen, tender and kind of gucky.

I dismissed this as allergies. I've been struggling for a couple of weeks with something in the air. Not at all untypical for me. So I went on to work.

I knew something was wrong when I was sitting at my desk and I got the chills. I am never cold and today was the hottest day of the year. Plus I felt dizzy and thought I might faint. But all that I kind of cast aside as the usual bout of allergies. Maybe I was even getting a cold. Nothing to worry about.

Until at about 1:15 it hit me: I WAS NOT HUNGRY.

Internet, I am always hungry. Especially at an hour past my normal lunch time.

Crap. Someone call 911. Shit just got real.

I immediately tell my boss that in heading out and to the emergency care doctor I go. With each moment things are getting fuzzier. My hands are shaking and I'm sweating like a whore in church.

After about two hours of doctors and tests, a nurse returns to my exam room. In a hazmat suit and with a giant red sign that says CONTAMINATED.

And that's when I blinked and was transported into one of Hunter S. Thompson's tripped out dreams.

Nurse Vader is talking to me but all I hear is WAHK WAHK WA WA WAHK.

She pulls out a giant needle and man handles me into a position in which she can access my hip.

I scream like a bitch.

My bad, that was just the rubbing alcohol cold on my ass. The hip is higher up and to the left, lady.

Oops. Have lost control of inner monologue. Am talking very loudly.

Why is she laughing?

Ha ha, bitch. Being sick is a barrel of monkies.

And then I puked. Mostly in the garbage can. Maybe like 90 percent in trash, 10 percent on Nurse Giggles. Who's laughing now?

What do you mean you still haven't given me the shot?

You win.

Is it okay if I lay my face on this cool tile counter top?

Why, yes, I would fancy something for the pain.

And somehow I ended up at home with my perscriptions filled.

For next bit I sleep, watch tv and sleep some more.

Then I've slept for like 7 hours and really have to pee.

Also. Pain pills!

And in the bathroom, through my swollen Shrek face I see the worlds largest spider. And it's the brown one wearing a banjo.

So I smack that sucker with a book.

Only it explodes with hundreds of tiny baby spiders!

More screaming. More book squishing. Except they are too tiny and now crawling all over!!!

Beause I am both resourseful and high I grab the only toxic thing I see: a 10-year old can of Aquanet.

Which is empty!

So I fling open the cabinet. And find two rolls of toilet paper, Costco size box if tampons and a rusty can of Scrubbing Bubbles.

Yes. I Scrubbing Bubbled them to death. It also makes a fine weed killer.

True story.

-- Post From My iPhone