Saturday, August 29, 2009

Dog Derby

Being cute will not save you.

I almost sent for Winston Wolf (Pulp Fiction fixer) to clean up this mess. I'm pretty damned proud of myself for taking control of the situation without resorting to desperate means.

I had five dogs in my happy home for most of yesterday. These would be:

1. Bosco - our resident male Tibetan Spaniel. I've imprinted my personality on him. We thus have a dog who is fiercely independent and doesn't cotton to disturbances in his daily regimen.

2. Smooch - The grand old girl and Bosco's big sister. She calls the shots for all things dog. Part diva, part matriarch, part assassin; she requires one's full attention and all the food you can shove her way.

3. Wendy - She came for in an overnighter. She's been here before and acts better than our dogs (#1 and #2). She's a Golden Retriever and we often fail to account for her relatively large frame. She asks that people fulfill her needs by wedging her massive head onto your lap. It's frustrating for Wendy and us because we don't, try as we may, properly respond to her prompts.

4. Spirit - The neighbor Chihuahua is here for a week. In a word, she's spoiled. She wasted no time making herself at home and is not shy about intruding on dogs #1,2, and 3's space.

5. Paco - Also a chihuahua from the neighbor, he's young and brash. Nervous and active, he may be a candidate for a doggy Xanax.

Wendy arrived Thursday evening and outside of feasting on a pair of underwear that I carelessly failed to hamper during a shower, she was no problem at all. Later the chihuahuas were dropped off. Los perros are immediately intimidated and retreat to their bed in fear of Wendy and the foreign environment. Then Wendy gets rescued. This must be like when the tough guy is bailed out of the county lock up. The chihuahuas make their move. The little heathens tear around the house, and have scattered all the dog toys about. It was cute at first, but at 3:00 was getting old. They did not stop to go out for piss breaks, instead they let loose on the run. Bosco and Smooch are able to shut this out and are sound asleep with my dear wife. I'm on pee pee patrol and trying to localize the mayhem by shutting off rooms. I'm afraid Smooch is going to be rudely jarred from her sleep and murder (justifiably) one of the little demons. With no help, I'm being routed.

I'm up today and the mayhem continues. The wife is not here ( she owes me big time for abandoning me in a time of need) and my dogs are not interested in intervening. Spirit takes a leak on the carpet and I, without regard to the feelings of the neighbor's precious pets, give Spirit all kinds of hell for the "accident" and swoop her up, set her in the grass and wait until she pees again before offering any praise. Paco is stunned. He sheepishly, slinks outdoors. Bosco and Smooch take the opportunity to browse about the yard and walk past the two midgety dogs and shoot them a disdainful look.

All is well now. I don't care how adorable you are. Mess with my stuff or pee on my floor and you pay the price. Word is out. Don't screw with the alpha dog.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Let it be known.

I do not like being an overnight house guest.

The experience makes me miserable. That's right, this is all about me. The discomfort starts with me knowing that I am intruding. No matter how much you tell me otherwise, you'd rather have me stay over at the Marriott. Even if the room is costing upwards to$200, I am not going to use your home to save money. There's a reason the hotel charges what it does. I'm a $200 pain-in-the-ass. It's a bargain.

The rest is about control. I know of no one who stays up later than me. What am I going to do with myself if you turn in at 10? I may want to watch TV all night, or raid your refrigerator. If I carry on like normal, you will not get a good night's sleep. I might add that I sleep in. Don't wake me up at the crack of dawn and feed me breakfast, or talk to me, or look at me. I require coffee, a newspaper, and quiet. I start each day by rearranging my balls, scratching my butt, taking a long whiz with the door open and stumbling to my paper and black coffee. No, I don't want cream or sweetener. That's for the weak. Besides, your coffee is probably not nearly strong enough, is served in a cup (as opposed to a mug) and perhaps has some not-as-God-intended flavor to it like vanilla.

Then there's my mysophobia. It's not quite the severity that was experienced by Howard Hughes, but just enough to pique my already rising anxiety level. I feel as bad about me having my ass on your toilet and wiping my infested hands on your towels just as much as I wonder if your fixtures and linens are clean. Sure, the Marriott presents the same issues, but I know, as a paying customer that I can call them out on this. It would certainly hurt your feelings if I mentioned your lackluster effort in maintaining a sterile environment. The biological remnants of my visit are certainly no joy to you.

It's your rules. Your routine. Your schedule. Your habits. You have a right to live in your castle as you see fit. No matter how accommodating you may be or not be, I am stressed. No matter what you do, I think your actions are driven by my presence.

What I'd like is to meet up with you, go eat somewhere ( I buy) , let you show me around town, have some drinks during a long overdue chat. When the evening closes, I go back to my room and reflect on the great day we shared. You can go home and do what you normally do.

See you tomorrow, my friend, but not before noon.

Oddly enough, I don't mind having overnight guests. You get the run of the house and I do whatever I normally do. I show you where the loose food is and afford you a private bathroom and a TV in your bedroom. All I ask is that you buy dinner.

Monday, August 24, 2009

I'm Doing Great. Bite Me!

The problem with a blog with a title that suggests a stream of grumbling, carping, bitching, pissing, moaning, sniping, ranting, and constant complaining, is that when life is treating you well and / or the meds are doing their job, there is litttle to say that is germane to the theme.

Going by lack of material on Harrumph, Harrumph , one may think I'm in the midst of a halcyon era. This is not the case. I'm simply taking all in stride these days.

There are always necons milling around making audacious statements that have me shaking my head like a can of paint. Where they get Nazi out of a moderate and accommodating leader is beyond me. Congress still operates under a system where bribery is legal through lobbyists. Our troops and contracted killers still patrol foreign lands.

Around home, I gimped around on a sore knee for two months before finally being diagnosed as having arthritis. It hurts, but I can handle it.

Each sojourn to Meijer or Wal-Mart spawns annoying circumstances. The latest being a lady leaving the self-serve lane to go back into the bowels of the store for a forgotten item.

My happy engine is dialed in. I am experiencing just enough annoyance and conflict to keep me motivated and sharp. I've managed to casually solve the day-to-day problems with minimal stress. I've been making the right decisions. I'm on a roll.

The last thing someone wants to read is how wonderful I am doing while they are battling through a shit storm. This is why I've had little to say. I guarantee that these days won't last. My prosaic mood will fade and my capricious nature will return as will the entertaining posts.

Fucking unicorn! Get out of my yard. You're scaring away the butterflies and stomping on my flowers.


Saturday, August 1, 2009

Too much time on my hands

Is wasting time possible in eternity?

This question reared its head today. I jumped all over the tasks I had planned for the day and knocked them out by 2:30 this afternoon. Nothing is slated until tonight, so that leaves me with about 3-4 hours to do anything that I please. I don't want to read a book, because I have a boatload of problems to solve next week that can't be acted upon until Monday. I don't like being interrupted for more than a day or two part way through a reading. I'm not motivated to drag out a guitar , tune it, and evaluate what eroded skills, if any, I still possess. My knee hurts, so jumping on the treadmill is out. It's becoming evident that I don't want to do anything. These are just weak excuses.

This is not the case when I have limited free time. I'll get more enjoyment out of 20 minutes in the middle of an action-packed day than I will during stretches like I'm now facing. So what's it like in eternity? Not a cosmological eternity, but a rendered down, simplified, popular notion of eternity.? (The wings and harp scenario, for example) If today is any indication, trying to fill 50 million years with gratifying activities would not suit me.