Adventures In Snowblowing

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Obvioulsy this isn’t my first rodeo. But that doesn’t mean I do things the easy way, or the right way, or the common sense way or any other way that YOU would do things. And that’s ok. That’s not the point of life.

We are in the middle of a March snow storm similar to alllll of the other March snow storms we have had in the past kazillion years of Central New York. This one was hyped and this one actually lived up to the hype. Good for Stella. Yeah, they named it. Stella. Or “STELLLLAAAAAAAAA!!!!”. There was a State of Emergency declared for the entire state and anyone caught driving in my county would be ticketed. Great. Everything was closed including the POST OFFICE!!!!! Yup, that’s right. No mail. It was sleeting, storming and dark of night-ing and the 2017 mailmen said “nope”.

I guess the powers-that-be have finally figured out that snow storms kill people. People actually think that their job is worth dying (or killing) for and the big wigs decided that people are just wrong. So, they close everything and that’s that.

Now, back to me and my fantastic story of pointlessness and annoyance and a little bit of genius.

Last night, at 10:30, after I took my ambien, I decided to go out and snow blow. To get a jump on the morning crappola. I bundled up, sort of, and squeeze out the front door because the snow was so high I could only open the door maybe 6 inches (or a foot, but lets pretend I haven’t gained 50 pounds and I can still squeeze through tiny spaces) and stepped into over 3 feet of snow. Wow. I sort of swim/fall/march to the back yard where the snowblower is and I knock the snow off and prime it and pull the string thing about 100 times. Nothing. I know it needs gas. I know damn well it needs gas and I had even put the gas can NEAR the snowblower like last week in anticipation of getting gas. Which I did not do because duh. Before I got pissed, I went in the basement and grabbed the extension cord and plugged it in and pushed the button and TA DA!!! It started (that’s the little bit of genius part). I did two passes in the driveway and had just started on the third when the damn thing died. No gas.

I looked at my car long and hard. It’s a wonderful Rav 4 and it knows how to drive in the snow. But does it really feel like driving up the driveway in 4 feet of snow? Let’s find out. I kicked around in the general area of where I think I left the gas can, find it, pull it out of the 6 feet of snow and grab the shovel. I shovel off the snow from the top of the car and hop in. I can’t really see anything because snow, but I’ve lived here for 10 years. I know how the driveway goes. And I go…until I stop. In the middle of the damn driveway. *sigh* ok. Looks like I am walking to the gas station.

The good part is that the gas station in only 2 blocks away. The bad part is the village hadn’t plowed the sidewalks or the street so I was literally high stepping thru 11 feet of snow to the gas station in the blinding blizzard with a wind chill of -20. All for nought. The gas station was closed. Of course it was. Everything was closed. It was a state of emergency and no one was supposed to leave their homes otherwise Stella was gonna get ’em.

And then there’s me.

So, I walk back through the chest high snow to my house and squeeze back through the front door and strip and go to bed. Well, first I sat and cried about my frostbit knee region and then I went to bed.

Next morning. I get up, bundle up sort of and walk to the gas station with my gas can. I start filling it and gas just pours out everywhere because the bottom corners are cracked. Ha ha ha. This is so funny. I went inside and asked if they had a gas can and the girl was all “Um…no.” And I was like “Ha ha ha. This is so funny.” And she was like “Um, let me check in the back” And low and behold! A gas can! Now, I have gas all over my hands and mittens from the gas fountain that was the old gas can so I stink and I can taste it and I may or may not be a little loopy from the fumes. I fill up the brand new gas can and kick thru 15 feet of snow, UP hill. I stop to chat with my neighbor who is out shoveling and then onward to snow-blow. I fill ‘er up and get to gettin.

Up the driveway I blow, to the end that is plowed in with snow that is literally over my head. Annnnddddd….stuck. I do my patented Hip Rocking Talk Out Loud To It method and 15 minutes later I am unstuck. Big Guy with Little Dog walks by smiling. I reek of gasoline and sweat and fear and I smile back.I snow blowed for over an hour. I did snow blow thru The Great Wall of Snow at the end of the driveway. Patience and perseverance are two qualities one must have when snowblowing. Really don’t need those qualities for anything else so go ahead and get rid of them as soon as you are done with blowing snow.

The moral of the story is this : Pay a plow guy. Or maybe live in Arizona. Or possibly keep the snowblower filled with gas during the winter or just learn how to hibernate? You decide. 

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way

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home from the Women’s March. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, we were in tee-shirts and sunglasses, outside in January, in Seneca Falls, NY. Myself, my youngest daughter, my oldest daughter and my grandbaby. We marched, we listened, we were a part of history. And then, we started walking back to the car.

Now, we took a school bus shuttle from the parking lot to the March, so we were hoping that we would be able to catch a school bus shuttle back to the parking lot, rather than walking the 2 miles. And as luck would have it, a school bus shuttle was just rounding the corner, headed towards the parking lot! And that is where my luck ran out.

We flagged down the bus, he stopped right there in the middle of a left hand turn to open the doors and let us on. What a swell guy! On goes my oldest daughter with my grandbaby, and then my youngest daughter hops on and there is me, on the curb with the baby stroller that is FILLED with bags and outerwear. A diaper bag, a backpack, a bag with ice packs and bottles of breast milk, 3 winter coats, hats, scarves and random baby gear and toys. And cheerios. Cheerios just sprinkled in because babies.

Me, in my floor length hippiefied skirt that I trip on whenever I have to go up stairs and this stroller of nonsense, trying to quickly fold it up and get on the damn bus. I had 3 kids, I am well versed in how strollers work, but apparently now that I am a Nana, I have lost all of my super mom powers and I am relegated to stuffing tissues up my sleeve and always having a fuzzy lifesaver in my pocket. Because I tried to collapse the stroller with everything on it. Did Not Work.

I yell for my youngest to come help me. I throw the majority of bags at her and she climbs back on the bus. I try to collapse the damn stroller again. It gets smaller but it doesn’t click shut. So, I just hold it together and attempt to board the bus. By this point, I am sweating, the bus driver is confused and my kids are rolling their eyes so hard their faces are gonna stick like that. I trip on my skirt up all 3 stairs with the partially open stroller and I try really hard to force it on to the bus. It won’t fit. I stuffed it as far as I could onto the bus. I squashed the bus driver and then I realized that I was not actually on the bus and now the stroller was blocking me from the seats. I had been giggling and muttering to myself the whole time but this realization that I would have to get off the bus and try again nearly made me lose it. Off I go, try, in vain, to make the stroller smaller, get on the bus, trip on my skirt getting up the stairs and … nope.

By now, I am full on laughing like a lunatic, the bus driver has been watching all of this with morbid fascination and my kids have sunken thru the floor. I have effectively gotten the stroller so stuck  that I am leaning on the bus driver and I can’t get to the seats. Ok, so, the only solution is to climb over the stroller or share the bus driver’s seat and help him drive the bus. I opt for Plan A. Around about this time, I notice that the rest of the bus is enthralled with my one woman show. There’s some tittering and ha ha’s and even a couple of “whaaaaa?????”. I’m not deterred. I’ll march 2 miles for a good cause but I’ll be damned if I will walk 2 miles for no good reason.

So, I hike up my skirt, I get one leg over the stroller, get my skirt stuck on one of the wheels, I do a half- calf -triple- latte-jete-pas-de-bourree, let out a “Son of a NUTCRACKER!” and fall into the seat on my left. Ta DA!!!

I am pretty sure I was the full embodiment of why we need a Women’s March.

 

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It Was A Dark And Stormy Night…

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What did YOUR Uterus do today?

It all started when  decided to pretend-pay my bills. I do this usually once a month. I open up all of the bill-ish looking mail that I have been sticking in a basket on my desk for the prior 29 days. Then, I very adultly decide which bills I will pay and which can wait for another 29 days or so. Sometimes I find fun things disguised as bills, like, letters letting me know I have accumulated enough points on my cell phone bill to get 3% off of a brand new toaster ( I don’t toast things so…)  Or a letter from a fellow village resident letting me know that we have someone in the neighborhood who is using all of the bandwidth ( I don’t know what bandwidth is so…). Or, in the case of Last Night, a letter from my GYN telling me I was scheduled for a “procedure” at 9am…the next morning….which would be this morning.

And so, I went to hang out at my doctor’s office  at 9am. I mean, there was a “procedure” to take place , but I guess the warm up to that was me sitting pants-less for 45 minutes in anticipation. Yeah. 45 minutes of no pants. I swear it must be somewhere in my Permanent Record that I enjoy sitting ass naked in exam rooms. I don’t, but somewhere along the line, someone got the impression that I did, and now, here we are, 43 years later…free ballin…again. I have to say I was curious as to what  this “procedure” would entail. Aren’t you curious?

The nurse came in and took my blood pressure. 119 over 77. She complimented me on my low blood pressure (nurses always do, which is why I added it to my online dating profile). I asked her what all this “procedure” was going to be like. She was pretty vague…something about iodine and a small amount of blood and uterus and cervix. You know how some people hate the word moist? I feel the same way about the word cervix. It absolutely makes me want to gag. I think that is why I had such a hard time going into labor spontaneously. The thought of my cervix doing ANYTHING grosses me out the door.

Anyway, after about 4 days and 1200 texts to my friends about being half naked for no good reason, the doctor came in. She went over what she was about to do. It was something about a straw with a cutting tool and maybe a telescope? something about a spatula and then she said cervix and I tuned out.

I assumed the position, scootched down 3 times and tried to go to my happy place in my mind. All of the sudden, I felt this blinding pain, a cross between a cramp and buck shot being directed into my abdominal cavity. For a minute, I thought my missing right ovary had returned with assault weapons and possibly a rabid narwhal. I probably would have kicked the doctor right in the ear but I think I was being pinned to the table from the inside. There may have been some swearing, there was absolutely some begging and bargaining. At one point, I believe I may have promised the nurse a new car if she would just get the doctor out of my cootch long enough for me to jump out the window.

And then I heard the doctor sigh and say “Well, your cervix is very cooperative but….blah blah blah blahblahblahblah” Yeah, she said the magic word and that was all it took. Let’s just wrap up this TMI nightmare by saying that I had NOT planned on this nonsense today. In fact, I was headed into work when I decided to take this detour into female hell. I love being a girl, there are so many reasons to love being a girl. But the down-there doctor always makes me rethink my stance on feminism.

There is more to the story but, I will leave you with this thought : A gynecologist is simply a dentist for your lady bits.

How To Clean The Glass Between The Glass In Your Oven

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Step 1) Google How to clean the glass in your oven (the in between part)

Step 2) Read  a blog by some lady who has detailed every step, but only the first paragraph because everything after that is just boring

Step 3) Get your oldest screw driver, a hammer, a spatula and a drill bit and start unscrewing every single screw you can see

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Step 4) Pull all the glass pieces out of the oven, throw all of the screws and metal pieces in a pile on the floor

Step 5) Start cleaning the glass with windex. When that doesn’t do it, grab the steel wool and scrub

Step 6) use too much water and more windex and get all of the glass pieces nice and scratched up

Step 7-136) Try to reassemble the oven exactly the way it was…because if you don’t, you will lose heat and nothing (like the 13 pound turkey you are making in a few days for Thanksgiving) will cook correctly

Step 218) After 4 hours of glass shenanigans, stand back  and admire how lovely your oven looks…until you realize you can now see clearly inside the oven which is damn dirty.

20161120_221827Tomorrow I will explain how to install cup hooks inside the cupboard of the kitchen island by getting IN to the cupboard with a hammer, cup hooks and all of the pots and pans you own, which in my case is 337…

So, THAT’S What Labor Looks Like…

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I mean, really, life is never more perfect...

I mean, really, life is never more perfect…

I’m a grandma!!! Or possibly a Nana…although, I might be a Ruby…what I am trying to say is my oldest daughter had a baby on Friday!! And I was her coach!! Now, having had 3 children myself and successfully completing the How To Have A Baby course offered by the hospital, you would think I would have recognized the signs of labor. And before Friday, I would have agreed with you.

I was induced for all 3 of my babies, so MY labor was “hard labor” from the moment they hooked me up to the pitocin. Which is why, when my daughter was writhing in agony on the floor of my bathroom, I was thinking “looks like about 3cm and at least 8 hours and an epidural away from a baby”. I mean, she never SAID she was in labor! This is her first baby, she is my first baby. I just assumed her labor and delivery would be just like mine were…induced, long, painful until the epidural kicked in and then 2 pushes and done! Oh and also, she would be 2 weeks over due. In fact, I said this so much she believed me! So, when she started having cramps and back pain 2 weeks BEFORE her due date, she just assumed it was a bruised tailbone or something.

It is partially her father’s “fault” too. He knows a spot on the leg to push to kick start labor. He massaged this spot on my leg when I was pregnant with our 3rd and she was born a day early. She was over to his house on Wednesday and he showed her the spot…which was quite tender when he pressed it. And about 36 hours later…BABY!

Anyway, Thursday night she kept saying she was so uncomfortable. Lots of cramping and her back hurt. Instead of me saying “Let’s call the doctor” I said “Let’s bring down the barcalounger from upstairs so you can recline a bit” Because, she was due March 2nd. It was February 18th. And the 1968 barcalounger, that was my mother’s, will absolutely help her feel better. Her sister and I banged it down the stairs and set it up for her and she sat there for about an hour and then decided to go to bed because she felt pretty lousy. And Dr. Mom here said “Yeah, my knees hurt so, I’ll probably head up too…” And we went to bed. About 1:30am she came into my room saying her back really hurt and she just felt awful. So, I did some of the massage techniques and she shifted about trying to find a position of relief. There was no relief though, because she was in active, hard labor. But I was still thinking she might just be really feeling being 9 months pregnant. I now understand how women  have babies in public restrooms. Denial runs strong in this family.

We timed her ‘uncomfortableness” and it was about every 5 minutes. That seems like a good time for me to take a shower. WHAT?!?!?! Yeah, because in my mind, there was no way that this baby was coming 2 weeks early after just an hour of hard labor. First time babies take forever! With lots of intervention and a hospital! I packed my bag, took a shower, she laid on the floor of my bedroom and threw up everything she had ever eaten in her entire life. I woke up her sister and told her to go start the car, put the dog in the crate and bring down the bags. My daughter got off the toilet, laid down on the bathroom floor and told me she was not going to move. And THAT was when I finally realized that HOLY SHIT! SHE WAS IN LABOR!! And I kicked it into high gear!

I yelled for her sister, I told my daughter that she IS getting off that floor and she IS going downstairs and getting in the car and we will help her. She said “No” I said “As soon as you get to the hospital they will give you some good drugs to ease this pain. You want to be done with this pain right?” She said “Ok” and her sister and I pulled her up, got her into some clothes, into the car and off we went to the hospital that was 35 minutes away. This was about 3:30am.

I truly thought that as soon as we got her outside and in the car, her “uncomfortableness”  would slow down. Wrong again. I really shouldn’t be allowed to think anymore. We started driving and she literally did an Exorcist move where she was aching backwards over the front seat while her feet almost went through the dashboard. While I was holding her hand and telling her what a great job she was doing and to breathe, I was actually debating if I should just run the stoplights. But naw….she can’t be THAT far along. Because labor doesn’t look like this. Labor looks like being in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs. She can’t really be in labor, 2 weeks early. Yeah.

We got to the hospital at 4:09am her sister went in to get the wheelchair because there was no way she was walking anywhere at this point. They triage-d her and guess what? You can probably guess, although I was still clueless…she was 10cm and ready to push! Wait…WHAT?!?!?!

They rushed her to the delivery room, and she immediately started pushing. Her water broke there on the table and with me holding one leg, the nurse holding the other and her sister near her head whispering words of encouragement, with 6 pushes she brought my grandson into the world! At 4:54am.

The next day, while baby nursed, we went over exactly how the heck she just delivered her first baby, 2 weeks early with no pain medication, with less than 3 hours of hard labor… amazing. I have never been so amazed by her in my whole life. And I have watched her do some pretty amazing things. Like be born, take her first steps, ride a bike, drive a car…but the way she handled giving birth to her son will always top the list of Amazing Things My Daughter Has Done. Me? I will cross Midwife off my list of possible jobs…

 

She Touched The Butt

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Don't trust a butt massage by it's cover...

Don’t trust a butt massage by it’s cover…

I’m going to let you in on a few secrets that help keep me sane…I take ambien to sleep and I am addicted to pedicures. You might think that these two things are unrelated but, you would be wrong. And would you rather be right or would you rather be happy? Exactly. So, last night after I took my ambien, I bought a groupon for an hour foot massage. Why? Because I was trying to break my pedicure addiction and about 45 minutes after taking my ambien, I get purchasey.

My pedicure addiction began when I needed something to do when my kids went to their father’s  for the weekend. I was encouraged by all of my single mom pals to “do something for myself” and “enjoy having some alone time”. Two years later, I am worried that my toenails might fall off. Logically, I thought that just getting a foot massage without the clipping, filing, grating and acid bath might save my toes. What I wasn’t prepared for was losing my virginity. Ok, that’s an exaggeration…but you’ll understand once I tell you what all took place.

So, I have seen these “foot massage” places popping up recently around town. I pegged one of them as a “happy ending” sort of joint. A “rub and tug”. A “suck, bang, blow”. But what do I know really? I’m just a naive old lady who has watched way too many HBO shows. Last night a groupon pops up for a place right near the pedicure place for half off an hour foot massage with reflexology. That must be for me! I bought the shit out of that groupon and today, I went to Angel’s Reflexology Foot Massage Palace for an hour foot massage.

I’m horrible at getting massages. My body is always in pain and my mind never shuts up.  I make my daughter take a picture of me before I left, just in case I get kidnapped and sold into some sort of middle aged white lady sex massage ring or killed, but really just because I  liked my outfit and I wanted to remember it for next week when I go out with the girls. Off I go to possibly get molested!

I walk in and right there in the entry way are recliners with two people reclined in them both getting foot massages. Well, this is awkward. They put me into the chair next to them and take my glasses so I am now blind. I can see blurry shapes but that’s about it. They bring out a big bucket and stick my feet into it. Then the massage lady starts with my head. Not sure what that has to do with a foot massage but she’s the professional so…

She was massaging my face, focused on the sinuses and it was actually pretty good, except that I was holding in cackling laughs thinking about the faces she is making my face make when all of the sudden she pinches my nose closed. That’s never happened before. Just pinched my nose close. All the way closed. I was wondering if I was supposed to switch to breathing through my mouth, if this was some sort of weird sex game…but I wasn’t there for sex so I held my breath for as long as possible and then I just opened my mouth just a tiny bit and took a breath through the side. She let go. I think I won that round.

Next she grabbed my arm and smacked it. Hard. Then she massaged down my arm, hitting every trigger point on the way. She got to my stomach, put her hands on my pubic bone and gave it a pop. Huh. Not sure what that was about. She got to my legs and feet. My pants pushed up above my knees cutting off circulation which sort of defeats the purpose I suppose. She worked on one leg for a long time. Then the other leg and I thought that would be it. But oh was I wrong.

She told me to flip over. I was in a recliner. I was thinking this was going to be a super awkward position, laying on my stomach in a recliner. BUT, as I sat up she did some voodoo magic and a hole opened up right where my face goes. Unfortunately, it was just a round hole so my face went to far through and every time she massaged my shoulders she was accidentally (on purpose?) choking me. The second time in an hour my oxygen intake was being cut off. Kinky to you, annoying and a little concerning to me. Luckily it didn’t last long…she moved down my back and right to my butt. She touched the butt. Alot. So much butt touching. I have to assume that if I were a customer looking for some butt touching, this would have been heaven, butt touching heaven. Maybe if I had responded to being molested while face down in a recliner in a positive manor, I would have been allowed to go behind the beaded curtain where the music was slightly different (more bow chicka wow wow, less crickets and water dripping). But instead, I just laid there, face down, making incredulous faces at the floor, holding in my giggles and wondering how I get myself into these situations.

And then, she was done. And gone. And I was left to whale flip my body over and flop out of the recliner. The other two people who were there when I walked in had left with lots of loud talking and compliments and promises to be back the following week. I had to search for my glasses, find my purse and slink out the door. I felt slightly violated, very naughty and like I had a sneak peek at an odd, sub culture of massage palaces…I’ve been around the block a few times in this life, just not the block that had one of these massage palaces. I won’t say my life is now complete, I will say it was possibly the closest to 50 Shades that I will ever be. Just so you know, if you think it’s one of “those places”…it is. Trust yourself and hide your butt.

Spencer The Fearless

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He looks brave, doesn’t he?

It was one of those days. I woke up knowing it was one of those days. Truth be told, I wake up every day knowing it’s one of those days. I just never know what is going to happen to make it one of those days.

I get up and remind the kid to let the dogs out. I remind the other kid to feed the dogs. Then I yell at the dogs for good measure and out the door I go to take the kids to school. This particular day, I come home and start working on the hor d’oeuvres for that evening. I volunteered to make hors d’oeuvres for our local theater company’s open night. Silly me. The dogs do not like it when I cook because they are barred from the kitchen which is their favorite place to be what with all the food falling or just sitting idly on counters waiting to be stolen.

Anyway, the kids come home. I drop one off to a friend’s house and come home to continue my hors d’oeuvres crafting. I pop the stuffed mushrooms in the oven and run the two younger kids to karate. I come back and I notice there is smoke coming from the oven. This isn’t the most unusual thing I have ever seen, so I just wait and watch. I open the oven door and smoke rolls out in great waves. But being a relatively mellow person, I simply shut the oven door again and wait. For what I am not yet sure.

I do this open and close with the oven door a few more times and my anxiety level starts to rise as does the smoke level in the kitchen. I start to get nervous about the fire alarm going off because it is connected to my security system and I don’t remember any passwords or numbers to
punch in. I have no idea what I will do if it…..SHIT! The alarm goes off!!!!

Now, the sensible thing for me to do would have been to shut the oven off. But who can be sensible when there is this nuclear bell ringing and the dogs have broken down the barricade and are now practically up my butt. I run to the key pad and start punching in random numbers….nothing. Except now Spencer has started pawing at my thighs as if that will help me to shut the alarm off.

My leg is bleeding and the alarm is going off, the smoke is still happening, and the phone is ringing. I run into the dark living room to the only phone that is currently working. The dogs are both trying to hang on to my legs as I run. Worse than scared children. I am tripping and kicking them as I go.

I answer the phone and it is the securities lady. I can’t hear her with the alarm going off, but I manage to give her my password and I hear her say something about a code I can punch in and that the fire department has already been dispatched. I thank her, hang up, turn around and step right in a HUGE pile of dog poop compliments of Spencer the fearless.

I go hopping back into the kitchen with the dogs still trying to jump into my arms. I punch in the code and the main alarm stops. I still have the voice saying “Fire. First floor. Oven” and it won’t shut up. That’s just humiliating. I am still not sure if it was a voice in my head or if it was coming from the alarm system. It very well may have been Spencer.

I hop over to the sink and scrub my foot off. I finally shut the oven off and
open the windows. I grab plastic bags and walk back to where the poop is
waiting, cleaning up all the little turds along the way. I do this with a
quickness as the fire department could be there any second!! At this point,
Spencer has given up on me and is trying to save himself. He is at the backdoor, on his hind legs trying to punch through the glass. Emma, the good dog, is sitting between me and Spencer waiting to see which one of us will survive and then she will decide where her loyalties lie.

I check the time and see I am now 10 minutes late picking up the kids from
karate. So, I leave a note on the front door : Hi Firemen, Nothing on fire here. Went to pick up kids. Be right back!! Spencer gave up trying to bust out the glass and is now concentrating on the door knob, cursing his lack of thumbs.

I get back and still no firemen. It had been over 20 minutes at that point. I am hoping that the security lady canceled them and it wasn’t personal thing (it’s a small town, you never know). Now, with all of this commotion, I am scattered. I have to regroup and figure out what I need to get done so that I can get these hors d’oeuvres to the show. What needs to be kept warm and what needs to be kept cold on the 45 minute ride to the theater. On a good day this is difficult because I have to think ahead so that Spencer doesn’t nab my food on the way out the door.

And he is still trying to escape the house. I am walking things from the fridge to the car, and he is trying his damnedest to push past me and get out. He’s such a drama queen. The smoke had cleared, the alarm was off. But he insists on acting the part of scared dog. He doesn’t know when to quit.

Meanwhile, my mean cat Cecelia, who has been gone for 4 days, shows up at the door. Cecelia is the meanest cat alive and no one understands why I keep her. But this is why. When my dog, who is supposed to be my best friend and loyal to the end is confronted with a bit of smoke and a fire alarm, he poops knowing I will step in it with my bare feet and then tries to break down the back door and save himself. Cecelia, on the other hand, who will never allow us to pet her, or even look at her, hears the alarm and decides she best come home and see if there is anything she can do for us.

Nature vs. nurture. Spencer has withdrawn his application for fire dog as of
yesterday.