Hiya, folks! Becki here, with a blog to tide you over until Rob and I read again.
I love animals. Not enough to not eat the tasty ones, but still, a lot. I grew up on a farm full of animals, and have always had something of a soft spot for even the most pathetic and unlovable creatures.
(Insert your own "this explains your taste in men" joke here, Rob.)
I spent the night last night at the home of a dear friend with two other dear friends. (Will the novelty of the sleepover ever wear off, girls? Will it? It hasn't for me.) We drank wine and talked about boys and kids and friends and family and everything else, and it was lovely.
Then, when leaving, I almost backed into a ravine. Seriously, inches away from doom. But that's not the point of this blog.
After teaching for a few hours (on even fewer hours of sleep...on a floor...ow), I returned to my home with nothing on my mind but the anticipation and delight of an impending nap. I parked the car, headed up the sidewalk, and was certainly surprised to find a rather large and fluffy dog sitting at the top of the steps to my house. "How unusual," I thought to myself, "as I do not own a dog."
I approached the stairs, expecting to see that the dog was tied to my lamppost by one of my Crazy Upstairs Neighbors or perhaps had an owner nearby that I hadn't noticed. Nope. Instead, the dog started barking like I was a vicious home intruder and would not let me up the stairs.
"Now, this is a quandary!" I thought. "This is my house. Maybe I should be barking?"
In the interest of my love of script-style notation, here's how that would have gone.
ME: BARK BARK.
DOG: BARK BARK.
ME: BARK BARK.
DOG: BARK BARK.
You get the picture, yes? Yes.
Barky (let's call him Barky, guys) appeared to be well fed, and had tags (although he certainly wouldn't let me near enough to see them). He was limpy, so I thought maybe he was injured. I'm no hero, so I called Animal Control. They assured me that someone would be there to help me out within the next 4 hours. (Nothing like specificity, Animal Control! High fiiiiive!)
I finally got past him into my apartment, where I got a small dish of water and a small dish of cat food. He was NOT pumped to see me when I returned, but he ate and drank like he'd just dog-sledded a Caprice Classic through the Gobi desert. "Poor little abandoned guy!" I thought to myself. "All alone in this crazy world...I get you, man. I get you."
I sat there with him, making sure he didn't run away before Animal Control arrived. We waited quietly together (the barking abated after the cat food/water was offered, but he was still not interested in me checking his tags) for almost two hours.
And when Animal Control arrived he barked. A lot. Then he walked to a house two yards over, climbed up the stairs, and was greeted with open arms...by his owner. Apparently the back door had been left open, and Barky (whose name is not Barky) scooted out for an adventure in my yard.
I am sure that the folks at Animal Rescue think I am really, really dumb. But this dog was barking A LOT. If your dog was missing, and you heard constant (and eerily familiar) barking two yards away, would you not investigate? Would you not? HMMMM? Anyway, somehow I ended up looking like the opposite of Nancy Drew. I'm glad this story ended happily, though, aren't you? I liked lil' Barky.
This is not the first time a lost animal has found me. The most beautiful little cocker spaniel without tags hopped into my car once while I was checking the mail. I gave her to a friend's grandma, who loved the heck out of her. A handsome yellow cat scratched on my door in the middle of winter. He was given to my friend and her mom, where he lived in the lap of luxury for years.
I am a magnet for bewildered animals and emotionally unavailable men.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
R$b and Be$ki M$ke M$d B$nk
I love Ke$ha, and I wish I had an "S" in my name so I could make it a dollar sign like hers. Since I do have a "c", I guess I could do that "cent" sign, but it is not on my keyboard. What's the world coming to?
Brilliant money making scheme in the car on the way home from Rob's tonight. Here's how that conversation went:
(Also, do you notice that I write in script form most of the time? I think in script form most of the time, so I guess it stands to reason. Anyway, feel free to act these scripts out with friends from your neighborhood and sell some lemonade and make some cents.)
While driving home, I notice a sign that says "Single Lane Only". I clearly thought it said "Single Ladies Only" for a second, and it made me a) excited and b) giggle. I called Rob.
ME: I just saw a sign that said "Single Lane Only" and I thought it said "Single Ladies Only."
ROB: Wouldn't that be great? You could just cruise right to your destination.
ME: BRILLIANT MONEY MAKING SCHEME AHEAD, ROBERT! Let's buy a parking lot, and single people will park their cars there! We'll match them up, and they'll carpool together!
ROB: That is a terrible idea. What if they hate each other on their commute in the morning? They still have to commute home that night.
ME: Hm, we'll have to get a shuttle bus for emergencies. What should we call it? How about "Love in the HOV Lane"?
ROB: You don't think that sounds too much like "Love in the HIV Lane"?
ME: Hm, good point.
ROB: Livin' it up while you're goin' down?
ME: It would be difficult to market something that bears more than a passing resemblance to a deadly epidemic.
ROB: Uh, yes.
Anyway, I still think it is a good idea. Single people fill out a little questionnaire. We match them up based on simple criteria: do you smoke? do you like country music? do you listen to Fox News? do you bathe daily? weekly? monthly? Then, based on their answers, they'll hitch a ride together for the day. Seriously, at least you'd have traffic to talk about. Better than some blind dates I've survived, staring at the seconds ticking away on the calculator watch of a 6'11" behemoth while contemplating what would be easier: trying to squeeze my butt out of the bathroom window or faking my own death at Panera.
Do not misread me: I love being single. I'm selfish, stubborn, and frequently irritating. I'd rather be all of those things in the company of my cat than inflict it on some unsuspecting fellow. But there are VERY few perks of being single. You don't get to go on double dates. You do get to go on blind dates with guys who refer to vegetables as "barf".
I'm just sayin', a "Single Ladies Only" lane would certainly brighten my outlook on spinsterhood.
Brilliant money making scheme in the car on the way home from Rob's tonight. Here's how that conversation went:
(Also, do you notice that I write in script form most of the time? I think in script form most of the time, so I guess it stands to reason. Anyway, feel free to act these scripts out with friends from your neighborhood and sell some lemonade and make some cents.)
While driving home, I notice a sign that says "Single Lane Only". I clearly thought it said "Single Ladies Only" for a second, and it made me a) excited and b) giggle. I called Rob.
ME: I just saw a sign that said "Single Lane Only" and I thought it said "Single Ladies Only."
ROB: Wouldn't that be great? You could just cruise right to your destination.
ME: BRILLIANT MONEY MAKING SCHEME AHEAD, ROBERT! Let's buy a parking lot, and single people will park their cars there! We'll match them up, and they'll carpool together!
ROB: That is a terrible idea. What if they hate each other on their commute in the morning? They still have to commute home that night.
ME: Hm, we'll have to get a shuttle bus for emergencies. What should we call it? How about "Love in the HOV Lane"?
ROB: You don't think that sounds too much like "Love in the HIV Lane"?
ME: Hm, good point.
ROB: Livin' it up while you're goin' down?
ME: It would be difficult to market something that bears more than a passing resemblance to a deadly epidemic.
ROB: Uh, yes.
Anyway, I still think it is a good idea. Single people fill out a little questionnaire. We match them up based on simple criteria: do you smoke? do you like country music? do you listen to Fox News? do you bathe daily? weekly? monthly? Then, based on their answers, they'll hitch a ride together for the day. Seriously, at least you'd have traffic to talk about. Better than some blind dates I've survived, staring at the seconds ticking away on the calculator watch of a 6'11" behemoth while contemplating what would be easier: trying to squeeze my butt out of the bathroom window or faking my own death at Panera.
Do not misread me: I love being single. I'm selfish, stubborn, and frequently irritating. I'd rather be all of those things in the company of my cat than inflict it on some unsuspecting fellow. But there are VERY few perks of being single. You don't get to go on double dates. You do get to go on blind dates with guys who refer to vegetables as "barf".
I'm just sayin', a "Single Ladies Only" lane would certainly brighten my outlook on spinsterhood.
Monday, June 6, 2011
This happened!
Imagine, if you will, that you are me. You are in your jammies at 10am, because your work day doesn't begin until 4pm.
(It is great to be me, did you know that?)
Suddenly, a pounding at the door! You contemplate hiding, then you remember that you have no curtains. It would take but one teeny peek in the window to reveal that you are watching Netflix on your couch in your jammies with your cat at 10am on a Monday morning. This is embarrassing (so you definitely shouldn't blog about it), so you flee to the rear of the apartment!
Then you remember: you are neither graceful nor lithe. Whoever was just pounding on your door probably heard you prance down the hall with the agility of an anesthetized water buffalo, so maybe you should just answer the door?
And anyway, there might be an emergency! The building might be on fire! Flames may have alerted passing pedestrians, who have run to the door and are pounding so you can escape with your health and posessions!
Answer the door!!!!
(Note: do not wear a bra. Fire will not wait for your gigantic tatas!)
It's a Pittsburgh Public Works dude. Your upstairs neighbors are apparently doing some house cleaning, and have deposited monumental amounts of garbage on the curb. It's not garbage night. That's frowned upon.
This transpired:
Disgruntled, Irate Community Worker And Drudge: Is that your garbage?
ME: No. It belongs to the upstairs neighbors, and they are not here. (read: they are here, I can hear their delightful pounding, but I'm not about to rat them out to you, pal)
DICWAD: Okay, well, you can't do that.
ME: Do what?
DICWAD: Put your garbage on the curb when it's not garbage day.
ME: Oh, okay. Well, I didn't. So, thanks.
DICWAD: Where's your landlord?
ME: Um, I don't know? New York City? That's where he lives. I've never met him.
DICWAD: Well, do you have his phone number?!
ME: (lie) Nope.
DICWAD: I mean, this is ridiculous. Your garbage pickup isn't until Wednesday, and it's only Monday.
ME: No, no. Our garbage pickup is Tuesday.
DICWAD: Uh, NO. Your garbage pickup is WEDNESDAY.
(He is not pleased with the fact that a braless, pajama clad bedhead is arguing with him. Clearly, this is not in his job description.)
ME: Is that new? Has that just changed?
DICWAD: (laughing) No, it has ALWAYS BEEN ON WEDNESDAY.
ME: I have lived here for 6 years. For 6 years, I have been putting my garbage out on Monday night, and it is gone on Tuesday morning. Who has been picking it up!?
DICWAD: Well, I don't know, but your garbage pickup day is Wednesday, lady. I am the boss. I think I know more about pickup days than you do.
ME: (concentrating very, very hard on not punching this toolbag for just calling me "lady") Yes, but you have to keep track of many, many garbage pickup times. I only have to know one. Mine. Which is Tuesday.
DICWAD: You are clearly very confused, honey.
ME: Aaaaaaaaaand, we're done here. (close door firmly, making sure boobs are safely inside)
WHAT I SHOULD HAVE SAID:
Can I have your name and phone number so I can call you on Wednesday morning to pick up the garbage that is still sitting on my curb because my garbage pickup is Tuesday?
But I didn't, because I was too busy thinking, "Who argues with a garbage man at 10am on a gorgeous, sunny Monday morning? People who don't work in offices." So, maybe there are perks to being Not Me, too.
(It is great to be me, did you know that?)
Suddenly, a pounding at the door! You contemplate hiding, then you remember that you have no curtains. It would take but one teeny peek in the window to reveal that you are watching Netflix on your couch in your jammies with your cat at 10am on a Monday morning. This is embarrassing (so you definitely shouldn't blog about it), so you flee to the rear of the apartment!
Then you remember: you are neither graceful nor lithe. Whoever was just pounding on your door probably heard you prance down the hall with the agility of an anesthetized water buffalo, so maybe you should just answer the door?
And anyway, there might be an emergency! The building might be on fire! Flames may have alerted passing pedestrians, who have run to the door and are pounding so you can escape with your health and posessions!
Answer the door!!!!
(Note: do not wear a bra. Fire will not wait for your gigantic tatas!)
It's a Pittsburgh Public Works dude. Your upstairs neighbors are apparently doing some house cleaning, and have deposited monumental amounts of garbage on the curb. It's not garbage night. That's frowned upon.
This transpired:
Disgruntled, Irate Community Worker And Drudge: Is that your garbage?
ME: No. It belongs to the upstairs neighbors, and they are not here. (read: they are here, I can hear their delightful pounding, but I'm not about to rat them out to you, pal)
DICWAD: Okay, well, you can't do that.
ME: Do what?
DICWAD: Put your garbage on the curb when it's not garbage day.
ME: Oh, okay. Well, I didn't. So, thanks.
DICWAD: Where's your landlord?
ME: Um, I don't know? New York City? That's where he lives. I've never met him.
DICWAD: Well, do you have his phone number?!
ME: (lie) Nope.
DICWAD: I mean, this is ridiculous. Your garbage pickup isn't until Wednesday, and it's only Monday.
ME: No, no. Our garbage pickup is Tuesday.
DICWAD: Uh, NO. Your garbage pickup is WEDNESDAY.
(He is not pleased with the fact that a braless, pajama clad bedhead is arguing with him. Clearly, this is not in his job description.)
ME: Is that new? Has that just changed?
DICWAD: (laughing) No, it has ALWAYS BEEN ON WEDNESDAY.
ME: I have lived here for 6 years. For 6 years, I have been putting my garbage out on Monday night, and it is gone on Tuesday morning. Who has been picking it up!?
DICWAD: Well, I don't know, but your garbage pickup day is Wednesday, lady. I am the boss. I think I know more about pickup days than you do.
ME: (concentrating very, very hard on not punching this toolbag for just calling me "lady") Yes, but you have to keep track of many, many garbage pickup times. I only have to know one. Mine. Which is Tuesday.
DICWAD: You are clearly very confused, honey.
ME: Aaaaaaaaaand, we're done here. (close door firmly, making sure boobs are safely inside)
WHAT I SHOULD HAVE SAID:
Can I have your name and phone number so I can call you on Wednesday morning to pick up the garbage that is still sitting on my curb because my garbage pickup is Tuesday?
But I didn't, because I was too busy thinking, "Who argues with a garbage man at 10am on a gorgeous, sunny Monday morning? People who don't work in offices." So, maybe there are perks to being Not Me, too.
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