Why I need a blow-gun, and other news

Today ended in typical Monday fashion, with me trudging maggot-covered trash from bin to curb. For those of you unfamiliar with my past rubbish debacles, I have a garbage can whose lid mysteriously disappeared several months ago. Since then I have had some troubles. Firstly, the absence of lid is practically an invitation to flies to deposit their disgusting offspring near what is apparently a tasty meal of leftovers, and assorted other nastiness. Secondly, I have also had to contend with pesky passers-by tossing their gas station debris loosely in MY garbage pail. One might say “Gee Jennifer, what’s the big deal about a few extra slurpy cups”? Well, I will tell you what the big deal is all about. As my small town lives in an era where mechanized trash pick-up remains a misty dream in the far off future, we are restricted to only placing bins on curbs that have less than a 40 gallon capacity (for those of you on the metric system, sorry, my lousy degree is in Liberal Arts, so you’ll have to do your own conversion here). Unfortunately, hubby and I had missed that handy piece of fine print when we purchased our 50 gallon container. That being said, we must individually place bags at curb (if trash output exceeds two bags, we must pay for additional tickets which must be then affixed to any extraneous trash bags). It is very irritating when, safely garbed in rubber gloves; I must collect other’s soggy, larvae-covered junk and properly place it in bags. This leads us to my third garbage problem. Lately, a pack of ravenous somethings has been mucking about in my bin. For those of you who have yet develop a murderous rage for unseen assailants, let me tell you how it feels. Oh… how ever lovely is it to pick up (again with the gloves) what you believe to be a firm and solid bag of refuse only to have the bottom of it erupt all over your freshly washed, indoor/outdoor, hard-to-find, butchy ladies’ slippers (why they were recently washed is a another story all-together)! Me thinks I would like an aboriginal blow-gun equipped with deadly poison tipped darts. That-a-way, I can stake-out the bin after a particularly odorous batch of trash has been put out. For those of you who would pity any poor, cute, and neigh, cuddly creature, driven by hunger to invade my garbage,… balls to that! I would shoot my poisonous dart in to the furry bottom of any kitty, possum, raccoon, or random homeless man who would dare make an appearance. Anyone know where I might get a gun like that?
In other news, we got carpet. YES, fuzzy, cushy, just plain awesome carpet! You see, due to some poor animal control on the part of previous tenants, we were left with stripped hardwood that some poor idiot though might fare well with a coat of cream-colored paint. The brilliance of this plan faded mere days after our move-in. Our downstairs is rather large (upstairs fared better and was allowed to have replacement carpet instead of paint from the get-go) and with two dogs, a long-necked furry creature, two children, and plenty of visitors, the shiny veneer of this paint job was quickly tarnished. Additionally, anyone who has ever tried to sweep dog fur off of painted hardwood can tell you its sorta like a three-legged dog trying to catch a squirrel. So today, as the three of us are sitting on the stairs watching the carpet men perform their wondrous magic, eyes tearing up with sheer joy (carpet men must have wondered if we were refugees from a fundamentalist cult, never allowed the pleasure of plush flooring), it occurred to me that I will need to have my German shepherd de-clawed. Again, any suggestions as to where one might get this sort of procedure would be kindly appreciated. The carpet men were also amused by my recent attempt at bathroom décor. I’ll be sure to let you know how that goes

I designed and posted this picture behind my toilet in an effort to direct the peeing efforts of both literate, and illiterate males.

This weekend began with mischief and mayhem. First of all, my four year-old regressed to age two and proceeded to wreak havoc while I was performing my ritual animal husbandry tasks. He began by experimenting with the little sprayer hose that lives in the kitchen sink. I come down stairs to find him sopping up 25 gallons of water with every dishcloth and hand towel in the house (he had removed table cloth and was prepared to put it to work as well). James Michael Leo Wilson (that is what I call him when he is naughty) then reorganized the bathroom cabinets (whilst I was bathing ferret) so that all items were readily accessible from the floor! He then surreptitiously removed every furniture cushion and arranged them in a pile in the living room, while I was trying to start demon spawn mower (I use all of my weekly curse words in this exercise). I believe this was done in order to reenact some absurd wrestling maneuver. This brings me to day two.

Saturday: Hubby suggested we all, the five of us (three children, two adults, absurdly outnumbered we are), take a little trip to the Brookston (small Indiana town) Popcorn and Apple Festival. Ahh…The sights. You have your typical yard sale fare, craft booths, and lo and behold “Professional” wrestling. You see, we are walking down various side-streets in this quaint little town when we come upon…yes…a Wrestling Ring, set up right smack dab in the middle of the block! The children begged us to stay for the show, and the loving, acquiescent parents that we are, we agreed. Now I don’t know about ya’ll, but when I think wrestling, I think muscle-bound men writhing around in tight pants. Not so abhorrent, in theory, that is if said theory is applied correctly. Well, let me tell you there were plenty of tight pants, but not a muscle in sight! Oh, believe you me I took pictures. There was one fella who had the supple breasts of a young adult film star (course the rest of him was not so enviable).

One other “professional” wrestler had obviously forgotten that when one is a man, and if that one man wears tights, that man should also take care to wear proper undergarments. What I saw wasn’t impressive, and I have done grave stone rubbings that were, uhh…less revealing. I should mention that the high point of this family field trip was that yours truly was privileged enough to see an actual elf! Oh yes! I was crowd watching, as is my want, when I noticed a peculiarly dressed elderly man beginning his approach. I looked a bit closer, and noticed that he had elf ears! Not believing my eyes, the blackberry camera and I approached for a closer inspection. The ears were typically pointed and very large. I could detect no obvious seem where they might be attached, and as said elf was nearly one-hundred, I doubted a malicious hoax. The picture is posted. You be the judge.

Later that evening hubby and I are reclining on the sofa, when it occurs to us that we have no suitable snack food. Now as we live in the land that the twenty-four hour shop-center forgot (I haven’t forgotten that Comcast also disbelieves in the existence of Delphi), this is quite a revelation at ten o’clock at night. We strategize for a bit and admit that we are willing to pay an excessive amount of money for gas station priced munchies. The debate then ensues regarding which of us is more suitable to approach middle-aged gas station attendant in pajamas. Guess who lost? So, I am at nearest gas station (so close I am on foot, in slippers, mind you), and discover that they do not carry salsa (communist bastards!). I then make the decision to cross highway (why did the pajama clad woman cross the road? To get to the higher end gas station of course) and procure salsa from other gas station just minutes from closing time. All of this public humiliation for fountain pops, salsa, and almond snickers. Was it worth it? Yes, yum.

Exercise is for masochistic zealots!

Recently, due to an improvement in the weather, I have taken to walking Samson (10 month old German Shepherd) with more regularity. This has led me to develop an unhealthy interest in my fitness level. The last two days I have decided to up the ante a bit by mixing in a little jogging with the walking. Yesterday, I challenged myself to jogging half of the distance that we typically walk. Samson, spurred by an increase in my normal speed also decided to brake into a brisk trot, which for me is a full-on run. After several minutes (I know, I know only minutes!), I felt close to death. My heart was drumming in my chest, and I was having an increasingly difficult time breathing. Luckily for me, dogs have a keen sense of hearing and Samson was able to detect the barely audible popping sound the human heart makes just before it explodes (I imagine it’s akin to the sound of a chipmunk passing gas). He immediately slowed his pace with out any spoken command, handy for me since I was not, at that point, capable of coherent speech. The dog then turned to face me with a look on his face that can only be described as a mixture of pity and amusement (I have been on the receiving end of this look often enough that I recognize it when I see it, even from a dog). It was at this point I discovered the sweat absorption limit of the eye brows. They had had their fill and began to empty directly into my apoplectic eyes. So, we stumbled home, I partially blind and with what felt like my spleen impaled on that extra rib women have. Upon our arrival, hubby took in my hitching breath and flushed face and asked: “What, did you run or something?” I answered in the affirmative, and to show how truly out of character a run is for yours truly, he promptly asked: “Was someone chasing you?”
Five things I never thought I would ever say:
1. Is that poo?
2. Just spit it into my hand!
3. Let me smell your head.
4. Bend over farther.
5. I need more exercise.

Why I hate Comcast Cable.

For those of you whose lives are interesting enough not to have kept abreast of my doggy trials, we recently lost our prized cable box remote. We arrived home from a baseball game a few weeks ago to discover only one recognizable fragment remaining of our precious device (batteries were never recovered). The next afternoon I promptly called Comcast to arrange a replacement. Since we live in the bustling metropolis of Delphi, I was informed that I had two options: I could travel to Peru, Monticello, or Logansport to pick up a new remote, or I could have one sent to me. Since I am unfamiliar with any of the aforementioned towns, I elected the latter option. Well, about ten days passed, and still no remote had arrived. I stationed myself on porch and prepared to make second call to Comcast (I would much rather be subjected to water-boarding). At this point I was pleasantly reassured that due to the mailing difficulties, my order may have been delayed, and I should be expecting remote to arrive any day. One more week passes…I have grown weary of squatting in front of box (I know I am sounding horribly bourgeois here given that people in Haiti subsist on tinned peaches for weeks at a time, but hey if GM can complain….). I phone Comcast again yesterday, much less I accommodating at this point, I informed the rep that unless the package had been sent from Turkmenistan, it should have arrived long ago. I’ll give her some credit; she chuckled (probably thinking I was talking about Alabama). She checked on my order and informed me that only half of the order had been completed and remote had never left the Middle East at all. Argggghhh! I was then placed on hold, ostensibly so she could complete said order. After twenty or so minutes (her nails had dried sufficiently enough to handle phone), she came back on the line to inform me that my area was not eligible for shipping service. What the hell? Is Delphi the land the cable gods forgot? No internet, no DVR, no phone service, no general office, etc. I then, in my most pleading voice, asked the woman if there was any way I might pick up a remote from the Lafayette office since it is nearest to my residence. She replied, with a tone of disdain I am sure she normally reserves for kiddy porn solicitors, that this was impossible as the Lafayette office was not in my “group”. I hung up at this point, no point risking criminal charges. I felt helpless and violated. So if anyone has an extra remote or is willing to engage in acts of corporate sabotage, please feel free to contact me.

All that remains of the Comcast remote...