I'm a Fleabit Peanut Monkey

Well damn it if Mark didn't do it to me again. I  mentioned that I really needed a haircut, so Mark picked up the keys to the car and said, let's go. How long would you think a haircut should take, from the time you leave the house until you walk back in the door? Even if you have to wait when you get there, it shouldn't take more than an hour. It took us three. He does it to me every time. I basically get kidnapped while Mark stops at different stores, sandwiching the haircut in there somewhere between Aldi's and Bed Bath and Beyond.

Despite being Shanghaied by Mark, the haircut itself was fabulous. I really enjoy the barber shop that Mark discovered. You know when you go to the zoo and you see the monkeys in there, one sitting quietly while another goes over every inch of the quiet one's body, picking off vermin, dirt, and other unwanted debris? That's how I feel at this barber shop, pampered like that monkey. I sit there in the chair while a nice looking young man meticulously cuts my hair. He not only cuts the hair on my head, but he trims my eyebrows and all the hair in my ears (He was quite impressed with just how long the hair in my ears were). It's not over with that bit of trimming either. He goes back and takes a straight razor to carefully shave a crisp hair line, giving me a very nice, neat and clean look. When it's all done, he slaps some nice smelling after shave on me and hands me a mirror to admire his work. I get all of this service for only twelve dollars, with the extra added bonus of Family Guy running non-stop on big screen televisions all around the shop. I love that place.

Snack Time

I can go for years without vomiting. I have even eaten Arby's and McDonald's without vomiting. So why is it that my dogs can't go for more than a week without puking on the living room floor, and they do it so nonchalantly. Bette will be walking through the room, stop, give a couple of hacks, her entire dinner will end up on the floor, and she will walk away as if nothing happened. Meanwhile, Chandler is happier than a homeless man in a soup kitchen. All he sees on the living room rug is a hot meal.

Last night in bed, I was awakened by Bette's little feet trodding across my back. I could hear her tags jingle, jangle, as she made her way to the edge of the bed and jumped off. Almost as soon as she hit the ground I heard the splash.

"Goddamnit!"

"Hmmmf... snort, what's going on?"

"Nothing. Bette just barfed somewhere on the floor. Go back to sleep."

"Hmmm....  zzzzzzzzzzz"

So I put on my slippers and fumbled my way into the kitchen to get the flashlight. Yes, that's how considerate a person I am. I didn't turn on the bedroom lights and awaken Mark. As my reward God let me not step in the giant pool of vomit as I made my way through the dark. As I wiped up Bette's barf with a wad of paper towels, I could pick out everything Bette had eaten the evening before. Her entire dinner was there. The dog treat that I had given her for not peeing in the house was there. Also mixed in among all that were the bits of cheese, crackers, melted ice cream, and every other snack that Mark had noshed on before going to bed. He doesn't understand that Bette isn't a bottomless pit that he must fill so that she will love him. He also never cleans up her puke piles. So I turned on the lights, and threw in a few extra goddamnits.

I'll Take What's Behind Drawer Number Three

Out on our porch is an old piece of furniture. It's a tall wicker dresser like thing with five drawers in it. It used to sit inside the house and was full of stuff. I'm not sure what Mark had in there, just stuff. When we got new furniture we moved it outside and filled it with outside stuff. I'm not sure just what kind of outside stuff is in there, just stuff. That's the thing, we have furniture all over this place filled with stuff that we haven't used in years that we don't even miss, yet there it sits taking up space. Anyway, what is in that five drawer thing out on the porch is going to remain a mystery. That's because about a year ago I was walking past it and I heard something from inside. Some kind of tiny critter was scrounging around in there. I figured it was a wandering lizard. Over the last few months however, I have heard more noises coming from inside the drawers each time I walk by. Skittering, scratching noises. I decided not to investigate. I didn't want to open a drawer and come face to face with some kind of angry, biting, animal. Yesterday, as I was out back watering the flowers, I walked past the drawers again. The sound of whatever is living in there has become so common that I usually don't pay it any attention. However, yesterday was different. This time the whole piece of furniture rocked back and forth, and from within I heard the distinct scratching and skittering of more than one beast. One of them must be very large if it is capable of actually moving the dresser like that. Like I said, I have no idea what we put in those drawers. If after all these years I haven't had the need to get anything out of them, I figure that it can't be very important. So I have made the decision that I am not opening those drawers ever again. Whatever animal is in there can be assured that they can live there in peace. And when we sell this place and move, I'll leave it for the new owner as a house warming present.

Drives me Crazy

I can't figure out which situation is worse. Is it sitting in the passenger seat while Mark drives, listening to his non-stop haranguing of all the other drivers, putting up with his screams of panic when some texting moron slowly changes lanes in front of him, simply dealing with his horrible driving in general, or is it worse when I decide to drive. Mind you, I can't see very well, but sometimes Mark just makes me so crazy that I grab the keys and take over. Unfortunately Mark can make me just as crazy if I drive. He sits over there constantly making sounds as if he were riding a roller coaster. He screams with his high pitched voice, letting me know that somebody is changing lanes half a block ahead. His condescending attitude towards my driving, as if I had never driven before, gets on my last nerve.

I don't know how we ever make it to where we're going. Yesterday we went to Costco, a drive of about ten miles. On the way over there I mentioned that most black men were excellent drivers because they know that if they make one mistake some snot nosed cop might pull them over. This caused Mark to smile.

"Thank you. I told you I was an excellent driver."

I corrected him.

"Mark, you are not a black man when you are driving. When you drive, you are an eighteen year old Jewish girl in daddy's car, fiddling with your iPhone, while listening to crappy music on the radio."

"Maybe, but at least I'm an eighteen year old Jewish girl with good eyesight that can multitask...  Mr. Magoo."

It’s hotter than two rabbits screwin’ in a wool sock!

I wasn't going to whine about the weather this summer. I wasn't going to go on and on about the relentless heat and humidity or the fact that it's been over ninety degrees every day for the last five weeks. It's been a very strange June here in South Florida. It's supposed to be the rainy season, and June is supposed to be the rainiest month of the year. Yet it has only rained twice on my house as far as I can remember. You would think that with the high humidity and heat it would rain. But no, it's only been hotter than spit on a grill, and we can't even say "It's a dry  heat" like those desert dwellers out west. But like I said, I don't want to be a complainer. I don't want to cry about the high body odor factor here in the summer months. I'm used to the old men who smell like goats wandering around the grocery store, soaking in all that free air conditioning. I've become numb to the fact that at ten at night, when I walk Chandler, it is still over eighty degrees and the humidity has actually increased. Even the neighborhood cats have thrown in the towel. They just loll around under cars or on my swimming pool deck, panting and looking near death from the heat. But I wasn't going to complain about all those horrid heat related problems. No, I wasn't going to whine at all. Not until that rat died of heat stroke up in my attic somewhere. If you have never smelled  a dead rat, consider yourself lucky. I don't know how to describe it, but I'll try. Remember when you were a kid and you had a bad scrape on your knee or arm and your mom put a bandage on it, and then you ran outside to play all day in the heat of summer and you sweat like a little pig, and that bandage got all nasty but you didn't change it, and you didn't even change that bandage the next day until late in the evening? Remember the smell of that bandage when your mom finally pulled it off? Well take that smell, add the smell of rotten chicken, rotten cabbage, and old men with body odor who smell like goats, and you still don't have the aroma of a dead rat.