Stumbling Towards Perfect

I had just sat down in my comfy chair with a large bowl of steaming chili (those of you who know me know I like to have my food extra-piping hot, at scalding level) when I spied movement from outside the window. Mary. The dog walker. Was back. Risking the flesh on my thighs, I quickly tossed my bowl on the end table, leaped across the living room furniture and frantically grabbed my camera. What is with this woman's fascination with our yard? I get that it's the least manicured lot on the block but our house hardly looks vacant. Plus, I've told her before to keep off our yard. To her face. So she knows we live there. Unless she suffers from memory loss. I ran to the front of the house and down the front steps, ignoring the fact it was noon and I was still sporting my baby blue pajama pants that had glow-in-the-dark kittens printed on them. I don't know if you can tell how into our yard she actually is. I should really take a photo from the side. In ...

There's a lady that lives on the opposite end of the block from us. I'll call her "Mary" because her name just happens to be Mary. So Mary has this dog. A little, yipping-mutt type. It's an old dog, more wide than it is long, and it doesn't walk very well. Mary drags her little dog down her driveway, into the street, and walks up the block to our driveway. She continues dragging the dog up our drive like she's going to come to the door and ring the doorbell except she hangs a sharp left at the siding, drags the mutt a few feet into our front yard and hovers outside our dining room window until the mutt makes his deposit. Mary does not pick the deposit up. Ever. This irritates me. And I've asked Mary not to use our yard. Mary explained she has to because the dog is blind. I expressed to Mary that perhaps instead of dragging the blind dog into our yard she could pick someone else's yard to drag the blind dog into because this really isn't wor...