Piddles

I've given Sasha a new nickname. Piddles. I even made up a little song about her.

Piddles the dog
The wonderful, wonderful dog
When ever she needs to take a leak
It's in to my office that she'll sneak

Piddles the dog
The wonderful, wonderful dog
When her bladder can't hold any more
She pisses on my office floor

The most amazing thing is that I have never, ever caught her peeing in the house. You don't think Chandler is setting her up, do you?

Just One More Thing Sir

Errrrr, errr, err, clack, clack, clack, clack.......
The sound of a dead battery. I had told Mark that turning the car on and off rapidly, over, and over again would not be good for the battery. He insisted it was the only way to get rid of the squealing sound under the hood. No, the only way to get rid of the squealing sound under the hood would be to take the car to the mechanic, and have him replace the bad belt. So last week we finally took the car in to replace the bad belt. It was too late. Just a day later the battery died. Our sixty five month battery died a premature death at just sixteen months. That meant we had to take the car back up to Goodyear, where we had purchased the battery just a year ago.

I hate taking the car to places like Goodyear. I like their prices for tires, and batteries. What I don't like is sitting there waiting for the car.
Thirty minutes into the wait, the guy comes out and tells me, "Your overdue for an oil change."
"Okay, go ahead and change the oil."
Five minutes later he reappears holding a squat little bolt.
"Sir, the drain plug on your car is worn, and you are leaking oil."
I had no idea if that was true or not. He could have swapped out the damn thing for all I know, with a bad one he had on hand.
"Go ahead and replace it."
Ten minutes later he comes into the waiting room again.
"Sir, you need a new anode cable to your battery."
"Sure, why the hell not."
Ten more minutes go by, and he's back.
"Sir, your gas filler cap is missing. Would you like a replacement?"
"Sure, and return the rag I had stuffed in there please."
Ten more minutes later.
"Sir, your wiper blades are streaking. You really should replace them."
At this point I had enough. I was stuck in his crappy waiting room, watching QVC, the only channel his television seemed to pick up, and I was being nickel and dimed to death.
"No. Leave them alone. Just finish up and let us get out of here."
Twenty minutes later Mark paid the bill (Yes, I know. I was just as flabbergasted), and we turned to leave.
"Oh, and one more thing sir." he called out to us, "Your engine mounts are worn out and need to be replaced."

Psst, Wanna Buy a Bridge?

Do you remember that stupid fad back about ten, or eleven years ago called Beanie Babies? People were collecting those little bean bag creatures, and trading them back and forth as if they were gold, or stocks. The more insane put all their life savings into them, hoping that they would increase in value over the years. Have you ever wondered what kind of nut would put their money in Beanie Babies? Well here's a hint, they might just be a tall, skinny, hyperactive fifty one year old black man.

I was cleaning out my office on Saturday, and I came across Mark's collection of Beanie Babies stashed away in the back of the closet. My first impulse was to take them out to the garbage can immediately, but I hesitated. Might Mark have been right, could these stupid little things be worth something? The short answer is no. Beanie Babies are not worth the crap they are made out of. I went to EBay to check them out, and I found about a billion of them for sale there. Most sat for sale at ninety nine cents, with not one bid. One even sat unsold for fifty nine cents. The only one that seemed worth anything was the Princess Diana Beanie Baby, and I think that was actually a joke. After all who would pay $375,000 dollars for a bean bag?

So I once again started towards the garbage can with Mark's bean bag dolls. As I stood there with the lid open I thought, somebody might want these, I should donate them to Goodwill. So I went back into the house, and left them by the front door. As soon as Mark came home I would put them in the back of the PT Cruiser.

I was wrong. As soon as Mark came home he squealed with delight, "You found my Beanie Babies!"
"Yeah, they were in my office where you said nothing of yours was."
"Why are they by the front door?"
"They're going to Goodwill."
"The hell they are." and with that Mark disappeared with the box of Beanie Babies.
It really pisses me off. I was so close, so close to that garbage can I could smell it. I had the lid open, and the box of Beanie Baby crap ready to dump. Mark would never have known, he never takes out the garbage. When will I learn? When will I realize that you cannot compromise with a hoarder?

Photo Friday

Quebec City

Google Maps View

Video Thursday

It rained so much this past weekend that I did not go out for my annual Halloween excursion.

On Monday, Halloween, I went to my regular bowling league. Only one team showed up in costume.

I went as an old bowler.

As Is

I know I've bitched about it before, but at what point does purchasing things for the household, things that you need and don't need, become hoarding? Mark is on my ass to redo my office. He wants me to strip the wall paper, paint it, add crown molding, put up a new ceiling fan, and new window treatments.
"Fine." I said, "As soon as you get all of your crap out of my office, I'll start."
"There is nothing of mine in there." Mark chirped.
"What about those blue plastic tubs?"
"Christmas stuff."
That's not my stuff. If it were up to me Christmas would consist of a string of lights out on the porch, and Christmas cards taped to the mirror in the dining room.
"What about all those clothes?"
"Those are old."
"Again, not mine."
With that Mark started grabbing his clothes out of the closet and stuffing them into a box.
"There, you can take those to Goodwill."
So after a few more exchanges like that it became clear, most of the crap in my office will stay. That is unless I start throwing all my stuff out of there. At that point it becomes Mark's storage locker, not my office, and that's not going to happen.

Some guy called today from a real estate office, asking me if I wanted to sell my house. I said no, but that just may be the answer. I could sell it as is, meaning with all of Mark's crap in it. Maybe even with Mark in it.

How I Wet My Underpants at Three in the Morning

I opened my eyes, awakening from the weird dream I was having. Pressed up against my side was ninety pounds of dog. Beyond my dog Chandler, was Mark, snoring away, oblivious to everything. And literally clinging to the top of my head as if her life depended upon it, was Sasha. Sasha is afraid of storms, and outside I could hear the commotion. Thunder, wind, and rain. Not just any rain, but the kind that is as if a million fire hoses had been turned on and aimed at my house. Fine, I figured ten minutes and it'd be all over. An hour later the rain was still coming down in thick, torrential sheets. I decided to peel Sasha off my skull, and get out of bed to take a look. Outside the living room window I could barely see the swimming pool overflowing through the limited visibility. Then I remembered the cats, Lindsey Lohan, and Britney Spears. They live out there in the yard, so I opened the door to check up on them. Sure enough they were huddled in the entry hall, a little moist, but safe. There was one problem, the water was rising and lapping up against the door sill. It was just about to come over and would end up flooding my tenants apartment. So for the next hour, I stayed out there in the wind, and rain, stooped over, wearing nothing but my underpants, bailing the rain water back over into the yard. This was at three o'clock in the morning. You can't say I don't go the extra mile for my tenants.