My wife, the lovely and talented Mrs M, is not just lovely and talented. She is more often irritating to me than she is irritable at me. I let a few people close who flip that, just not quite as close. I figure if she’s patient enough to not have killed me in my sleep yet, she’s probably ok to have around. The drawback is she can be annoying sometimes, most often when she’s reminding me of something she asked me to do earlier that I didn’t do yet. She also dabbles in being opinionated and critical, most frequently when I either tried to do something and failed to meet her expectation, or when I didn’t even bother to try. A guy I used to hang out with used to say, “Stay away from ‘puppy love.’ It’s the beginning of a dog’s life.” As I recall, he was the preacher who officiated our wedding… Thanks for the warning, pastor. I kind of like this one, though. Not sure if anyone else would put up with me as well) She is also a savvy shopper, as smart as she is beautiful.
She can find random shit that comes in handy later, if we can find it when the need arises. I have no idea how. But I know why: to give me more work. The most recent example is a paper shredder. What with identity theft becoming so prevalent along with hijacked computers and ransomware, it seems the fuckers who have nothing better to do with their time and genius decide to harassing people out of their comfort zones and their cash through even less upstanding ways than say, politics, medical and dental insurance, contractor labor, car sales, car repair, human resource management, team management, or being a pastor. In no particular order, these are probably the people who irritate me the most in life. Anyway, that’s the reason I celebrate that she found, and purchased, a paper shredder. Not only did she find an industrial quality shredder, but she found it at a garage sale, for $8. It’s not a little crappy shredder. We had the crappy model a while ago, and it fell apart screaming in agony and died. The little teeth just couldn’t handle anything more than one sheet at a time. I’m not testing this one’s endurance, but I JUST priced this thing at between $70 and $80 online, and she bought it some time ago.
I’m working from home now, and I’ve been sort of cleaning here and there when I feel ambitious, and I ran across the stash of old things that needed shredding. She hasn’t run it, but there it’s sat, waiting for purpose. I honestly don’t know why it wasn’t run, except she was waiting for me to do it. An enormous pile of paper was sitting over in the corner like something you’d see on an episode of hoarders. Don’t get me started, or there’ll be another rant. Anyway, I started, a little at a time, when I had time and my attention focused on that and not one of the other pressing things that MUST BE DONE IMMEDIATELY OR THE WORLD AND LIFE AS WE KNOW IT WILL END! Like, taking the dog for a walk, lest he crap or mark his territory ON MY CARPET, which offends me almost as much as it offends Mrs M, but then, who cleans the fucking carpet? (I’ll give you five guesses and the first four don’t count, since there are now five living things in the house, and no, the dog hasn’t mastered scrubbing, he’s only got the spraying down.) Or, taking out the trash lest Mrs M’s fragile sniffer should be offended. (No, clearly, hers doesn’t stink, people, work with me here! I can say it, and I actually LOVE her.)
So, tonight, any stray and unpleasant aromas shall be covered in a layer of air thick with chocolate molecules. Leave the deodorizing spray in the cabinet tonight. Oh. Don’t click play if you don’t like it, but HEY LYNYRD SKYNYRD! Wanna make a little extra dough? (Please say no, please say no, PLEASE SAY NO!!!) This song would go well with a certain air- and fabric- and other- refreshing product. (Please say no!)
That cleaning/freshening spray product, which shall be nameless but rhymes with something in the song title, works pretty well on carpets and the couch cushions. I know because I don’t smell dog “markings” or other dog issuances which have occurred. Anyone else do that instant word dissection thing and notice that “cur” is part of “occurred?” Just me? I just don’t want them to play the song with fucked up lyrics to shill the product. I’ve had enough of that. Good songs get my hatred, and bad songs receive my loathing, when they’re sold to product-selling companies and overplayed until I’m saturated, which doesn’t take very long, especially whenever I hate the song to begin with. That Lynyrd Skynyrd, though… my favorite of their songs today is “Gimme Three Steps.” A great story, woven skillfully into a poem, with a musical setting? That’s my kind of thing. I could write like that, for $10,000 a month, if someone wanted to hire me. No, seriously, who wants to hire me? (I may have to trademark that question, if someone doesn’t hire me soon. Maybe a certain kind of cryptozoologically named company will pay me to use MY slogan.)
Mr. M probably still stinks, but we’re used to that. And the dog needs a bath. Maybe tomorrow. Mrs M and the kids won’t do it, so that’s another thing the dog and I get to do together. I hope the shampoo doesn’t irritate him. But tomorrow morning I have to deliver more girl scout cookies, so task on task on task, before work, hooray again. I wonder if he’d feel better, or bite the crap out of me, if we sat in the tub together while I washed him. I grew up with cats, and I like that they bathed themselves. I hope the trust we’ve built holds out. Where’s my swimming trunks? And chain mail armor. That suit will almost completely protect against shark bites. But who protects the sharks?
Holy shit. Look at that cool Neptunic/shark logo emblazoned on her arm, and bonus, also on the top left side of the top. They sell this suit, if you want to look this good before and after diving in the shark-infested water and not-quite serving yourself to the sharks like an hors d’oeuvre. Here’s the link you need, to read the entertaining article and if you want to buy one, email the sales team from this link.
Yeah, I don’t want a shark suit. I’ll never, ever, willingly jump into shark infested water and play “feed-the-fishies.” NE. VER. But I knew the suits existed, and I figured maybe including the photo would add a hint of something to my blog. What’s the word for whatever that hint is a hint of? Quality? Never noticed that HERE before. Beauty? Um, I looked in the mirror today, and I know how dazzling I am to all of you, but when I look at myself it’s half and half, and when Mrs M looks at me…hmm. I’ll have to ask her. Anyway, I’m sure there’s a better word for it. Let me know in the comments below. Just keep in mind, the photo isn’t mine, the model is probably smarter than any stupid comment, AND, she knows people who can take you to where the sharks swim, that is, if she doesn’t have her own boat, so don’t. You know what I mean. Just. Don’t.
I’ll let you know how the dog’s bath goes. We’ll both be cleaner, because I’m climbing in there with him. With some kind of clothes on…where’s my denim shirt? It’s probably the closest thing to chain mail I own. Well, he’ll be clean. I may be eaten alive. Maybe he’ll go for the jugular vein. Best case, he’ll just freak out and freeze like he did last time we bathed him, and endure until the bitter end. In between, a number of dog-bite scenarios come to mind. You haven’t heard this tiny 25lb dog screaming crazed bloody murderous hatred at the neighbors, their kids, or their dogs. He’s scared, but he tells the other, bigger dogs, and people, to fuck off or die. Anyone else dissect courage and see “rage?” Just me? Maybe it’d be better if I had a dog the size of a shark, so one bite would end it. But no. My dog has teeth that bear closer resemblance to a piranha. Honestly, I don’t think I’m afraid, but it’s possible. I’m a bit nervous, truthfully, but I think he’ll behave. He trusted me through a trip to the veterinarian, so maybe he’ll trust me through the bath. Maybe it’ll be a bonding experience, as if we weren’t already totally perfectly psychologically paired.
At least it’s not an anal probe. Holy ass-fucking HELL. The stupid veterinarian KNEW our poor dog was having digestive difficulties, irritated from front to back, knew he was already suffering after we described his discomfort, symptoms and, um, discharge, and could have just done the blood chemistry to figure that out, but no, she had to get a temperature, from the core, where he was already sore. I haven’t had the pleasure of hemorrhoids, but I think the dog had one, and she wanted to poke at it, for fucks sake. And that was just in the entry hall of the Hound’s House of Hellish Horrors. He cried and I wanted to. That wasn’t enough, so she took him into her back-room torture chamber to get the blood sample and then she tried to get a stool sample, that buggering bitch. He cried some more; I could hear it through the damned doorway to doggy distress, and I almost did too.
My blood sample for the doctor’s little experiment is (in installment payments because I don’t just have that lying around) costing us $700 because my insurance is bullshit. I knew the fucking results before the test was collected. I called everything before they called me, Mrs. M heard it, not that she showed me any sense of being impressed when I was spot on about everything. And the dog’s session in the canine chamber of crises and cataclysm was around $300, and what did they tell us? He’s got an irritated lower digestive tract and an upset stomach. Um… No shit, mutt mundunugu! Neither of those will ever happen again. I can’t afford to let them experiment on me, and I won’t allow them to torture the dog ever again.
I’ll check in after the potential shredding. I may just go with the ragged, rugged look. Mrs M hates it when I try to go out with any kind of holes or shreds I didn’t pay for, but our daughter has a pair of jeans that looks like it’s been through the shredder and that’s considered “fashionable.” I mean, what the fuck?! My ego, not to mention my very mortal soul, goes through the shredder on a regular basis.
Hot, isn’t it? I look exactly like that. Except for the likelihood of bloodshed and mayhem. Maybe you just can’t see the scratches because they’re eclipsed by how fine I am. Just ask Mrs. M. Because she needs a good laugh.