Au Naturel Obsession

I don’t normal take those on-line quizzes . . . You know the ones I’m talking about.

What Disney character are you most like?

What Rock and Roll Band are you most like?

Which Harry Potter character are you?

Which superhero are you?

What Olympian God/Goddess are you most like?

What animal are you?

What color are you?

Seriously?  What color am I?  Do I not have a mirror?

But if you have ever ventured into the vast wasteland of Facebook, these quizzes are rampant.  But for some reason, one of them caught my eye recently.  Maybe it was because of this eye image that accompanied the advertisement:

What is your subconscious obsessed with?

I thought I already knew the answer to this one.  SEX.  I’m not ashamed to admit it.  I think about it nearly all the time.  I don’t know why.  I’ve always assumed that this was normal.  And the people who are not obsessed with it–they are what we call liars.  So I was ready to test this scientific assessment to see if it came up with the correct answer.

So I clicked on a series of pictures they displayed before me–and I tried to be as honest as possible since none of them really reminded me of sex anyway–even those inkblots don’t look like anything to me except evidence that your pen is leaking and you need a new pen–and the end result was that my subconscious is apparently obsessed with . . .

NATURE.

 

Whoa.

The only time I really commune with nature is when I run–and I do love to run outside, braving the worst of elements to avoid the dreadmill or elliptical.  We do have two dogs, but getting the dogs was not my idea.  In fact, I went on record saying I didn’t want even one dog, let alone two.  I put my foot down–right into a pile of puppy poop.  It’s not that I don’t like my dogs–I do.  But I am not obsessed with them.  I hate cats.  I loathe cats.  Truth be told, I am deathly allergic to cats and have almost ended up in the hospital unable to breathe thanks to these itchy, scratchy, wheezy little varmints.  The only good cat is a dead one, and sometimes I have to back over them nine times to make sure I get all their lives.

I do like cows.  Hamburgers and steaks are my favorite.  And pigs.  I love me some bacon.  So maybe I am an animal person after all.

Camping?  Please.  If there isn’t indoor plumbing, heat and a/c, and a bed to sleep on, I’ll pass.  If there’s cable TV, I’m there.  No Wifi?  No thank you.

Hiking?  Is that running up hill at a slow pace?  OK, maybe.

Makes me think about nature while doing grocery shopping, cooking . . . okay let’s just stop right there.  I don’t grocery shop and I do not cook.  I have trouble making grilled cheese sandwiches.

Where did I go wrong?  How could I be obsessing about nature, when I’m so busy obsessing about sex?

Then it hit me.  My obsession with sex was conscious.  Subconsciously, I might be obsessing about nature.  Maybe having sex outdoors, getting au naturel, or something like that.

What color am I?  Maybe I should take that test too. . . .could be any one of fifty shades of grey.

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A Bird in the Hand . . . is Dead.

There are certain things that I will never understand, despite being able to take apart an engine and rebuild it with extra parts to spare.  Actually, I can take practically anything apart, put it back together, and have parts left over every time.  But I digress.

The confusing subject of this diatribe is the bathroom.  You wouldn’t know that from the title, but bear with me please.  Sometimes it takes a while to get these things out.

I am not a complete idiot (I am a partial idiot.)  I know what the general purpose of the bathroom is.  I’m not entirely sure why it is called a bathroom, since we more often use it for other things.  Showerroom?  I suppose it sounds better than the peeroom.

It was done in the peeroom, with a wet towel, by Miss Scarlet.

That should keep you thinking for a while.  Anyway, distraction is not the intent of this blog, despite the fact that I am easily distracted.

I suppose I should qualify my subject (I don’t know why, but I will do so anyway since it is my blog and I can clarify if I want to.)  I am talking about bathrooms that have a definitive female personality.  You know the kind I am talking about.  I am not talking about the port-a-potty at the job site.  I understand those.  They make sense, even if they don’t always smell good.

I am talking about restroom facilities with ambience.  These are facilities with household items that do not belong in a bathroom.

I can’t bring myself to call it a powder room.  I have not—will not—put powder on in a bathroom, or any other room for that matter.

There are candles.  Since Thomas Edison shocked the world (and himself,) there is no good reason why there should be candles in a bathroom.  Especially if they are lit.  And, especially if I burn myself on them. And don’t even get me started if they are scented.

I once went to the bathroom and ate half a bowl of something called potpourri.  I thought it was a trail mix or something like that.

There are often little carved soaps.  I can’t count the times I have been berated for washing my hands using the little decorative soaps the hostess displays.  Why are they there if I can’t use them?  Who decorates with soap anyway?  They look like individual, personalized soaps.  I came out of the bathroom, and I told the next guy going in, “don’t use the rose.  That’s mine!”

This past holiday season, I had the opportunity—well, several times—to use the facilities at a party I attended.  For some unknown reason—unknown at least to me—there was a birdcage hanging in the corner.  I looked and the bird seemed a little under the weather.  I felt sorry for him—or her since I can’t tell the difference without lifting their feathers—so I offered Tweety an hors d’oeuvre.  (Despite what it might taste like, there is no hors meat in them.)  It was a little piece of crap—I think they call them water chestnuts—wrapped in bacon.  I have a few others in my pocket for later.

Well, I shoved the treat in his face, and he fell dead.  I mean he dropped off his perch to the bottom of the cage.  I killed him.  Maybe it wasn’t a water chestnut.  Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten a plate full of them—although that would help explain why I was back in the pooproom again.

I tried to revive him.  I tried to give him mouth to beak, but I think I blew too hard.  He shot away like a deflating balloon.  I used CPR, but his little body just crunched under my fist.  I think I pressed too hard.  His beak fell off.

Thar she blows!

So there I stood with the hostess’s dead pet, in front of the toilet.  Well, what would you do?  I flushed the little bugger and went about my business, hoping that it wasn’t the water chestnut or a piece of bad bacon that did him in.

Back at the party, I pulled my wife aside, and I told her what had happened.  If I keeled over and my nose fell off, I wanted her to know it was the hors d’oeuvre.  I also did this because sooner or later they would go to feed Polly a cracker or a poisoned water chestnut and discover that she (or he—I forgot to look before I flushed) was gone, and I knew from experience I would be blamed.

My wife told me that the birdcage was a decoration.  It was a fake bird.

Did I feel like a partial idiot or what?  I spent five minutes doing mouth-to-beak and chest compressions on that feathered bag of sawdust.  (It did, though, explain the after-taste in my mouth.  I had always thought that parakeet would taste like chicken.)

I was glad the bird wasn’t real.  I wasn’t too keen on handling a dead bird after all, and I had a hard time washing my hands after the funeral.  I couldn’t get the soap to lather at all.  I figured it must have been due to hard water.

“That was the hand lotion,” my wife said.

I should have stuck to the decorative soaps.

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Man’s Best Friend Request

Sometimes you wonder if technology has gone too far.

Take the phone for instance.  Does anyone have just a cell phone anymore?  They can take pictures, record video, text messages, access the Internet and use them to read this blog or play games.  Some people get around this uncomfortable situation by calling them cellular devices instead of cell phones.  They are freaking computers that you can put up to your ear!

And with the proliferation of cellular devices, there are fewer pay phones–and even fewer phone booths.  What are Clark Kent and Dr. Who supposed to do?

But we can be sure that wherever Superman manages to change from Clark Kent into the Man of Steel, he will be able to check his email on his I-phone.

But, I digress.

Sometimes you wonder if technology has gone too far.

Sometimes you know it has.

The issue of concern for me here is that I received a Facebook Friend Request from Kurt.

Wait for it . . .

Kurt is . . . my dog.

Yes.  My dog has asked me to be his friend on Facebook.

I was very concerned about this and discussed it with my wife.  She assures me that the dogs are never allowed on the computer unsupervised.

Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

Then, I got a request from Kurt to accept the status of being his father.

Now, truth be told, we don’t know ‘who’s his daddy.’  He was abandoned and we adopted him.  I guess that makes me his adoptive parent.  I accepted.  (I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.)  I also have to be careful what I type here.  H-e.  M-a-y.  B-e.  R-e-a-d-i-n-g.  T-h-i-s.

Don’t laugh at me–and don’t deny that you’ve never spelled in front of your kid dog.  If I actually say the word T-R-E-A-T he may run me over going to the jar where we keep them!

According to Kurt’s Facebook Page, his relationship status is “complicated.”

Seriously?  He’s a dog!

His interests include eating, sleeping, playing and running.  Those are mine too, but at least I can understand that in a dog.

Kurt, the Ladies Man

Among his favorite movies are Snow Dogs and Old Yeller.

Under television, he likes Clifford the Big Red Dog, Blues Clues, and . . . Vampire Diaries?  I am getting a bit freaked out here.

Under music, Kurt likes Taylor Swift. I am really freaked out now!

Under Books–I didn’t know he could read, but then again, how could he create a Facebook page if he couldn’t!–he lists Go Dog Go, The Pokey Little Puppy and . . .the Twilight Series?  I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone!

It’s like I don’t even know this dog.

Aaack!  Now my other dog, Sammy, has sent me a friend request!

And his music likes include Michael Bublé!  I am beyond freaking now!

I think they may have more friends than I!

All I can say is this:  if they start blogging, I’m outta here!

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Bigger Isn’t Better

American advertising will tell you bigger is better.

A bigger car.  A bigger house,  A bigger paycheck.  A bigger phallus.  Did I just type that out loud?  Wait!  Size doesn’t matter does it, unless you are buying burgers and fries?

But bigger isn’t always better.

A bigger car loan.  A bigger mortgage.  Bigger responsibilities at work.  A bigger need for performance enhancing drugs or surgery due to inadequate anatomy.

Where am I going with this?  Viagra Falls?

No, this near and dear issue arose this morning as I took the dogs out for their morning constitutionals.

Since we adopted Kurt in February, he has grown considerably.

Six months old and still growing!

 With this change in stature, there has been a change in the volume of excrement, if you catch my drift.

"You're going to need a BIGGER BAG!"

With our first dog, Carly–a beagle mix, one baggie could pick up 2 or 3 messes.  With Sammy our miniature dachsund, one baggie could last all week.  But here I am with Kurt and my little Glad sandwich baggie.  It’s like being in a stall with only one square left, and you really need like half a roll.  And no one around to spare a square!  In the end, I have poop on my hands and a new desire to shop for bigger bags.

Don't be HAD . . . Get GLAD!

Maybe BIGGER is BETTER after all, at least when it comes to poop patrol!

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But Wait! There’s More!

As a follow-up to my last post (which obviously wasn’t my last post) about the world ending on May 21st, I bring your attention to the next sign of the impending apocalypse:  Rapture Insurance.  For Pets.

Are cats LEFT BEHIND a bad thing?

O.

M.

G.

Really?

For $135, and $20 for each additional pet, you can be sure that your pet(s) will be cared for after you are whisked away in the Rapture.

. . . pet-loving atheists who have sufficient space to take the usual types of household pets, including birds and hamsters, into their homes to live out their lives. Adoption of large animals like horses and llamas is available in Montana, Idaho, New Hampshire and Vermont.

Alas, Eternal Earth-Bound Pet does not have an atheist representative in Pennsylvania.  Sammy and Kurt will have to fend for themselves in the post-Rapture chaos.  West Virginia is the nearest state with coverage, so we have trained them both to use the GPS and head for West Virginia in the event that we disappear.  Unfortunately, pets have problems understanding “disappear”.  They don’t grasp the concept of “rapture.”  So everytime we leave the house, these two furry little idiots head off to West Virginia.  We’re working on that, but My God, we are running out of time!

And just in case both Harold Camping AND the Mayans are wrong about the world ending soon, your insurance is good for 10 years.  That’s like 70 in dog years!  How can you put a price on peace of mind like this?!

I would have thought that leaving your pet in the care of an atheist might be a deterrent.  I mean, they look so normal on the outside.  But people are buying this stuff.  Apparently, these atheists:

fully endorse the “Rule of Reciprocity”, also known as “The Golden Rule.” We just happen not to believe in God(s). …

Well, isn’t that special?

So when the Rapture occurs, and the world descends into chaos, and you suddenly realize that you were wrong, you still plan on welcoming 70 cats into your house to feed and care for until the Tribulation is over?  Seriously?  On the other hand, there are people that have too many cats now.

I really want to know how a guarantee works after I’m gone or the world ends?  I guess you just have to trust the atheists.

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Who Let the Dogs In?

Who?  Who?

It all started back in 2002 when my daughter decided she wanted a puppy.  We don’t need a dog. I did not want a dog.   It’s not that I am not an animal lover.  I love cows.  In the form of hamburgers and steaks.  I like chickens a lot–they taste like chicken.  I adore lobsters.  In melted butter.  What’s not to love about animals?  Okay, I’m not big on ham–I will not eat it Sam I am–but I do love bacon.  Mmmmm bacon.  I’m making me hungry here.

A few years before she asked for a puppy, I was trying to get on the show, Who Wants to be a Millionaire?–the Regis Philbin version where the general public could answer questions on the phone or take tests to get auditions.  One of the questions the producers supposedly asked was, ‘would you kill a mouse (or hamster or some other small varmint) for a million dollars?”  I’d kill a mouse for a Klondike Bar.  For a million dollars, I’d eat the varmint.  I already pay fast food places to eat whatever they call beef, so getting paid (a lot) to eat a mouse sounds like a great deal.  But I digress.

I really don’t hate animals.  I just don’t want them chewing my shoes, digging holes in my yard, shedding hair in my house, and pooping all over the place.  A puppy is a lot of work (and I am by nature lazy), and I do not want a puppy.

So when my daughter looked at me with those big brown (puppy dog) eyes, I said no to the puppy.  I put my foot down firmly.  And do you know what I got?  Puppy poop on my shoe.

Well this past winter we had to put Carly down as she had an inoperable stomach tumor.  She was arthritic and blind despite only being about 9 years old.  It was a sad day–even I was moved to tears.

But out of my misery, was one bright shining thought:  our house was now dog free again.  No fur on the floor.  No poop in the yard that I had to dodge while mowing.  We had already replaced the white carpets with hardwood and a new set of livingroom furniture since Carly all but shredded the original furniture as a puppy.  Read my lips:  no more dog.

That lasted about a two months.

And now we have TWO puppies.  Not just one but two.  That’s twice the poop if you do the math.

When did I lose control of my house?  I strongly suspect it was when I said ‘I do’ but I really wonder if I ever had any control.  Perhaps it was all just a figment of my imagination.

Kurt

Kurt is a german shepherd mix.  His litter was abandoned.  There were 7 puppies, two males and five females, so they were each named for one of the Von Trapp children.  We ended up with Kurt, and Fraulein Helga was correct:  he is incorrigible. 

Sammy

Brittany chose Carly.  Brandon, my eldest son and second child, got to pick Kurt–he is partial to German Shepherds.  Poor Cameron, my youngest, who favors dachsunds, would have to wait his turn.  That wait turned out to be about six weeks.  Now we have a miniature dachsund named Sammy.  He is basically another chew toy for Kurt who has already quadrupled in size since we got him.

Aren't they soooo cute together?

They play well together–for about five minutes.  They are as bad–if not worse–than my kids.  And the little one attacks the big one like he is some kind of super dog.  He is only a mouthful away from extinction but thinks he can win this battle.  He does have the advantage of being low to the ground and at just the right height to bite Kurt’s . . .well, it’s not his tail and let’s leave it at that.

Mom! Kurt's touching me!

Unfortunately, Kurt being the older sibling, has to have a time out.  But that doesn’t keep the other one from taunting him!

Ha Ha! You can't get me!

Having a dachsund reminds me of the old Sprint commercial. . . STAMPEDE! :

These dogs may be the death of me.  I just hope I don’t have to buy new furniture again.

I originally published the amusing story about getting Carly–Puppy Love–on an old geocities site that no longer exists.  If anyone is interested, leave me a comment and I can repost it here.

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