Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Windex Clean

If I wasn't so damn scared of getting caught I'd run outside and snap a picture right now. But I don't think I could explain straight-faced, "Sorry, didn't mean to invade your privacy - just thought this would make an excellent post!"

Some Grandma is walking a toddler outside our office. As in, the kid is strapped in one of those harness things that dogs wear except it's been cutesified to look like a monkey with the world's longest tail is hanging on to this kid's back. Grandma is seemingly bored following the monkey around (can you blame her? She's walking up and down sidewalks holding a tail), but compensates by puffing on the cigarette she has drooping from the corner of her mouth. If she isn't careful ash will burn monkey's tail. Who am I kidding? It probably has scorched the fur multiple times by now.

Anyway, Smokin' Granny isn't exactly paying attention to the toddler on the other end of the monkey... which is why I'm at my desk laughing my arse off because I had a clear view of toddler toddling up the sidewalk beelining it to our door... and SMACK! Just like a bird - didn't see that glass comin', did ya, big fella?

Monday, July 27, 2009

Is this for real?

I'm not a big fan of those on-line quizzes... you know, the kind reminiscent to the back-in-the-day Teen Magazine quiz where you answered ten vague questions and they told you what kind of kisser you were. This during the time the most passionate kiss I ever experienced was with my wrist.

I guess I just don't buy into the fact that a ten question on-line quiz can tell me how many children I'll have, what house I should live in, or which part of the country I'm best suited. At this point in my life I think I know what I want. (Now, how I get there is an entirely different story.)

Alas, I was suckered into taking a quiz... a handwriting quiz. You write some simple words down and disect away: open letters versus closed letters, slanting to the left or right or standing straight up and down, tails of letters short and chopped off or long and lingering... this is my type of quiz!

This is what I learned about myself after my ten word sampling:

You tend to be logical and practical.
You are guarded with your emotions.
You are well-adjusted and adaptable.
You tend to be skeptical.
You tend to be unswayed by emotional arguments.
You might not be following your heart - for example, you always wanted to be an artist, but you have a career in finance.

How frickin' right on is that?!

Hungry, are you?

Satan ate our wall.

Satan being the dog. V's dog. Not mine. I would not tolerate a dog like this. It is, undeniably, the most destructive dog on the face of the planet. There is nothing off limits to the dog. There is nothing the dog won't try to destroy. The house and everything in it and around it seems to belong to the dog. We just happen to live amongst its belongings. I'm actually surprised I haven't woken up to the dog gnawing its way through my tibia.

The dog existed with V before I met him. Just as my girls existed with me before I met V. It seems only fair, as pointed out by V, that since I can keep the kids he can keep the dog.

I've pointed out that the kids haven't peed on the carpet, or puked on the floor, or eaten my most favorite pair of heels, or chewed through three couches (yes, three). V pointed out that they do mess up the bathroom with their make-up and hair ties and wet towels on the floor. I pointed out that I can make them clean it up, where as the dog just sits there with a smirk on its face watching the poor schmuck clean up doggie do.

The dog is naughty. The dog is destructive. I know this and yet the shenanigans this weekend still threw me over the edge.

V was gone all day Saturday installing carpet for a "friend" who wasn't really a friend of his at all, just someone his sister's husband was friends with, and therefore pushed into the category of "Don't Charge Me - We're Friends, Remember?" (I got to hear later about how much that job would've cost - should've cost! - anyone else. I got to hear about that a lot.)

I woke up by 8 - which is sad, because I used to be able to sleep until 10am easy, but not anymore, thanks to this watermelon attempting to bust through my abdomen. Dotter woke up around then, too. I spent the day washing laundry. Dotter spent the day running around with Satan, making beds for her to sleep on, throwing bones that were never brought back, running around in a game of doggie tag. The dog, in my estimation, received plenty of exercise and plenty of attention. Not to mention every time the washing machine drained the dog sprinted down the basement steps to bark ferociously at the opposing appliance.

Anyway, V was back by 4:30 just as Dotter and I were on our way out to Cheerleading Registration (for her; not me. I know you were wondering). V offered to go with since he hadn't seen us all day. We left at 4:50... registered, stopped at my mother's for about twenty minutes, ran to WalMart to get a skimmer for the pool (and a new raft that was on sale), visited the drive-thru at Taco Bell and made it back home by 6:30pm.

For the record, an hour and a half is plenty of time for a dog to chew through the wainscoting, destroy the base trim, chair rail, and trim around the door, get its teeth around the metal fire door to dent and scratch that, pull out insulation, start gnawing on the piano, and vomit.

V thinks this happened because the dog obviously didn't get enough attention throughout the day. (Can't wait until Cletus the Fetus appears, taking more precious one-on-one time away from the dog.) V also suggested we just wait until the dog dies before we fix up the house and everything it destroys. He estimates about 8 more years of life for the dog. I'm estimating 8 more weeks before I find myself residing in the state mental institution, rocking alone in the corner while mumbling "no bite... no bite... drop it... drop it..."

Job Title

It's almost 9:30 in the morning... can I call it quits?

This job is getting to me. My pregnancy seems to be taking any patience I may have had and is using it for some other valid reason I'm sure. I've been here for an hour and all I've heard is whining. I wish there was a clause in my contract that allowed me to say, "Look, not only are you an adult, but you're actually considered a professional adult. Professional adults don't whine."

I can't help but be brought back to when I was a whiney 9-year old with my mother standing over me saying, "You can stand here and complain for twenty minutes, or you can get started on this and be done in twenty minutes - either way it still needs to be done."

In a few minutes I will be sending out my third eMail describing the same requirements to the same self-entitled person. *sigh* Really I'm nothing more than a babysitter for really big babies who get paid way more than me.