The Pit Bull Ate Your Baby? That’s Bizarre, Shocking, and Unheard of!

The first person they interview on the news when, to the general public’s complete lack of shock and bewilderment, a pit bull attacks and maims/kills/eats someone, is the genuinely surprised pit bull lover.  This person gingerly wipes their nose on their muumuu or wife-beater, and then rambles for hours about how strange it is that the gentle/loving/tender/peace-loving/nurturing/mild-tempered dog that they’ve shared their home with for years could have gone and eaten the neighbor’s baby.

As I aimed the laser-sight of my pretty pink taser at the pit bull that had cornered my three year old son and myself against my car yesterday, it occurred to me that I would have a slightly different point of view to share with any interested media outlets.  I shoved Carver in the car, slammed the door and decided that if my neighbor’s dog continued to approach I would pull the trigger.  Then, the dog’s (kind of) owner came running down the street in her housecoat.  In my mind, the humans that this animal belongs to are at fault for this dog’s behavior, as opposed to the dog, however, as I suspect the dog is more prone to biting than the 50-something-year-old lady wearing Mrs. Roper’s finest, I continued to aim at the dog and yelled across the street.  I tried for a “polite” tone, but it’s hard to scream, “I don’t want to tase your dog, but I’m really afraid that it’s going to bite me!” without sounding somewhat discourteous.

I mention that this woman is “kind of” the dog’s owner because she is actually caring for this dog (and a grandson) on behalf of her own son who is incarcerated.  Actually, was until recently incarcerated.  I learned this as he exploded out of their house in his boxer shorts and charged across the street at me.  He seemed put out and just as aggressive as my barking friend, so I considered aiming at him, but after glancing at the large, sharp, more proximous teeth of the dog, I kept still and just repeated myself; “I really don’t want to tase your dog, but I am terrified that he is going to bite me!”  The underwear-clad gentleman didn’t say a word to me and just tried to tackle his dog.  (Usually, one of their family members gets in the car and chases the dog up and down the street until they can herd it into the garage, I guess I can be glad they didn’t drive up on my lawn?)  The dog took off down the street, which is dangerous for the dog and everyone in the vicinity, as there are a group of nearby neighbors who have decided to shoot the dog if they are given an excuse (which they will likely find if they are looking for it.)

I was about to make my escape into my car and to the relative safety of Babies R Us when Grandma Muumuu came back outside and yelled across the street to me.  I expected something like, “Sorry about the dog!”  or “You’re a horrible person, how dare you brandish a taser at my dog!”  What I did not expect was, “Have you seen a baby out here?!”  I could not reply, I could only repeat incredulously, “Have I seen a baby out here?!…”  We stared at each other wordlessly for a moment and then she turned away and started yelling, “Dominique!” as if an infant might come tumbling out of the shrubbery towards her voice.

Is it inappropriate to suggest that the location of said baby can be surmised from the title of this post?

An Open Letter to the Man who Created the Need for me to Fabricate a Death in my Family:

Dear Chester (not his real name),

I’m writing with a suggestion, and let me say straight-away; It is not my place to judge you. I don’t feel that I am the authority that should tell you whether it is right or wrong to obsessively post pictures of your naughty bits on casual encounter websites. I’m not going to weigh in on the astonishing level of interest you appear to have in the “private time” of Fred and Wilma Flintstone, or your extensive collection of images devoted to said interest. Furthermore, I am positive that there is a certain caliber of person who would really appreciate the wit of your Linda Lovelace-themed t-shirt collection. My only suggestion is this: consider selecting a dedicated email address for online activities devoted to these special interests.

Follow my line of reasoning for a moment. You and I exchange email addresses. You purport to need help with your bookkeeping. I am happy to help with your bookkeeping for a reasonable fee. You ask if I’m willing to begin the project at your home. I’ve got a Taser, I’ve watched a fair amount of Kung Fu in my day and I charge more for working on site, so I’m willing to at least research you and consider starting the project at your place. Here’s where we run into a significant problem: I Googled your email address, and easily found multiple pictures of your junk, and your extensive collection of Flintstone porn. As I poured rubbing alcohol over my poor, scarred retinas, I contemplated the wisdom of agreeing to poke through your financial records in the comfort of your house (which has some furniture which I would now have to refuse to sit on) and it became clear to me: It would be unwise to take you on as a client and I must now fabricate a death in my family.

Chester, I consider myself to be a fairly bold person, but I cannot bring myself to send you an email giving you the real reason that I’m not going to help with your accounting project. What could I say?

“Dear Chester, you’ve carefully documented many of the activities to which you devote your computer desk and there is no amount of money that could ever induce me to sit in that chair.

Yabba Dabba Do,

Laura Lowery”

So here’s the deal Chester, I am going to lie. I’m going to invent a family member, and they are going to die: today. I am going to be so overcome with grief, that I will be unable to accept any new clients at this time.

Best of luck to you, Chester. Overall, I’m actually glad that you used the email address that you did for our correspondence. It would have taken me a while to figure out why I thought it was so creepy that you always had the Flintstones cartoon on in the background every time I was at your house.

Most Sincerely,

Laura Lowery

I sent the following email to “Chester” at 8:34 PM this evening:

“Hi C***,

 I’m sorry to say that my Grandfather has just passed away and it turns out that I will be unable to take on any new clients at this time. My apologies for the inconvenience.

 Best Regards,

Laura Lowery”

An Open Note to Men: If You Are Crouching Behind the Bushes in My Front Yard, I Will Notice, and I Will be Cranky.

I’ve just come home from working at a client’s office.  I’m all prettied up in a summery suit, I’ve got my Thai take-out in hand, and I’m feeling pretty good about what I’ve accomplished with my day.  I open the door, put one 3-inch heel down on the cement, and then I notice that the bushes in my front yard are moving.  3-inch heel quickly retreats back to the car and I slam and lock the door.

In hindsight, I realize that for the brief moment my door was open, I heard my three year old son playing in the back yard with his Grandma – just behind the fence, 2 feet away from the unreasonably active bushes.  Adrenaline propels me out of the car where I stare openly at the bushes, which immediately freeze.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle… the bushes shake, and two feet in dirty tennis shoes scuff out from behind the landscaping onto the sidewalk.  Standing there, smiling guiltily while brandishing a small garden spade, is a tiny, old Asian man, covered in dirt.

Last year, on a Sunday morning, I was about to walk out to my car when I noticed tiny, old Asian man digging holes in our front yard.  Needless to say, this raised a few questions in my mind.  Why does this man hate our front yard?  Is he stealing a patch to replace a part of his yard?  Is there a reason he chose my nicely manicured yard, as opposed to the yard with the futon, or the yard harboring the family of rabid raccoons under their “decorative” boat?  As a preemptive to attacking him with the garden hose, I asked my Dad (who lives in our Mother-In-Law apartment downstairs) if he knew anything about it.  Indeed, tiny, old Asian man had asked Dad if he could “weed” our yard.  Dad offered him a bottle of sake and a tea set to do so.   (My parents find drinking to be akin to blaspheming and kicking puppies, I cannot imagine why they had a bottle of sake and a tea set just hanging about… it’s scandalous.)  Since that first encounter, I’ve noticed that tiny, old Asian man patrols our neighborhood regularly.  Sometimes while shuffling about in his housecoat and slippers, so slow that he appears to not be walking so much as standing and waiting for the Earth to rotate underneath him.  Sometimes he’s out in his shorts, black socks and flip flops, casually munching a gargantuan piece of corn on the cob as he meanders down the street.  Today, he was behind the bushes in my front yard.

Tiny, old Asian man, brandishing his spade, drew my attention to the pile of weeds he had accumulated near the bushes.  I was at a loss for how to respond.  There stood an octogenarian who has been paid with alcohol to weed my yard.  Awkward.

I’m pregnant, I’m tired, I really just want to eat my Thai food, I decide: I’m not dealing with this, I’m going into the house.  I wave to tiny, old Asian man and say, “Thank you.”  I attempt to flee.  Tiny, old Asian man, who does not speak English, yells something across the yard.  I look up, and realize that he is shuffling towards me, beckoning to me, with his shovel.  He wants me to come with him, behind the bushes. 

This is going to seem off topic, but stay with me.  If you’ve ever had your nails done, you know that no one speaks English once they start doing your nails, which is fine – I’d rather just read my book.  I will even accept that pedicurists are entitled to say mean things about me in another language and when I look up with eyebrows raised, and they explain, “I just say you have pretty hair.” I will even pretend I believe them.  (They touch feet all day; there should be some kind of perk.)  Taking a page out of my pedicurist’s book, I gave a wildly exaggerated thumbs up, an awkward half bow, and yelled “THANK YOU!” pretending I had no idea what he wanted and jammed my key in to the front door like a serial killer was three steps off the porch.

I looked outside a little later this evening, and there’s another patch of lawn missing.  Tiny, old Asian man is probably somewhere blogging about his stingy neighbors who owe him another 3 bottles of sake.

It’s Not Breaking in if You Leave the Door Unlocked

Thank you to those of you who keep telling me I need to post, it’s really nice that you care/are interested/notice.

Why does my subconscious think this animal wants to eat me?

I don’t sleep well.  If I’m not dreaming about ferocious, giant white ferrets and blowing up a bridge with a fully occupied school bus on (recurring, always in the same dream, and not awesome), Charley snores like the poster boy for sleep apnea and the tiniest sound wakes me up as if someone is laying on our doorbell at 2 o’clock in the morning.

That is actually what happened last night though, the doorbell rang right at 2 am.  I thought maybe Charley’s dog was just breathing too loudly for me to sleep through again, but then someone started pounding on the front door.  Charley, who I promptly poked until he glared a sleepy eyeball at me, didn’t believe me (to his credit, I’ve needlessly shaken him awake several times in the middle of the night so that he can confirm, yet again, that the house continues to be burglar-free) but the pounding continued so the man of the house trotted off to the door, and I followed at a safe distance clutching my taser, preparing to find the paintballs if this was an ill-timed game of doorbell ditching.  (Not that we have ever shot paintballs at mischievous neighborhood kids in the middle of the night, recently.)

As the police carry tasers that are more powerful than my own, I put mine away when we realized that’s who was at the door.  The conversation went like this:

The PoPo:  “Do you guys know the kid across the street?”

Charley:  “Yes…”

The Fuzz: “Do you leave your car doors unlocked?”

Charley: “Sometimes…”

Big John: “Do you have a Nextel phone?”

Charley: “Yes…”

The Heat: “Does it look like this?”

Charley: [sigh] “Yes.”

I’m out of police nicknames and frankly, I find the Urban Dictionary’s list of suggestions unsuitable (also, it appears that there are a lot of angry policeman writing definitions on Urban Dictionary these days), so I will sum up by saying that Charley received his (apparently) unscathed wallet from the car and locked it, and then declined to press charges against neighbor-kid.  We returned to bed where he immediately resumed snoring and I laid awake for several hours.

This morning, I walked over to compare notes with a couple of neighbors.  One neighbor indicates that neighbor-kid got in a fist fight in order to return some items that “someone else” stole out of her car a couple of weeks ago.  Another neighbor says neighbor-kid bums cigarettes off of him sometimes, but he seems like such a sweet kid.  We all agree, it’s sad and he’s a nice kid, and I said I would just talk to him next time I saw him, and then neighbor-kid comes out of the front door of his house.

If he was insincere (I don’t think he was) he put on a good show.  He came right over to me and apologized repeatedly, and cited his misguided pharmaceutical experiments.  He didn’t deny anything, and our conversation almost immediately turned into an After School Special/DARE pep rally.  (Incidentally, I had a DARE cop tell me I was on track to be a victim of gang-rape after I was caught sneaking into the Teacher’s Lounge to use the coke machine when I was in 8^th grade, I should probably write a post about that guy.)  I finally just told him, the phone is just stuff, but he has a whole, long, potentially happy life ahead of him.  I told him that Charley and I care about him, and if he ever wants to come over and talk, we’d be around.  I hope that being nice was the right thing to do.  Either way, he gave me a hug after I told him to go home, drink water, and sleep all day; now I smell like smoke, and stuff…

Cliff Lee is an Attractive Man & Carver is not Gay

Carver had his two year old well baby check up today.  Other than a brief discussion pertaining to why Carver keeps telling me that he has a bird in his ear (possibly Eustachian Tube Dysfunction) and the benefits of adding Ovaltine vs. whey protein to his morning smoothie, our pediatrician had all good things to say about Carver’s health.  Then we started talking baseball.

I like talking baseball with men.  It’s fun for me when they assume I won’t know the difference between a squeeze play and a ShiskaBerry.  Anyway, I was as disturbed as the next person to learn that A-Rod sleeps with a self-portrait of himself painted as a centaur over his bed, but I usually chat more about the game as opposed to the gossip.  You can imagine my surprise when the pediatrician (a straight, married male in his 50’s) didn’t want to talk about Cliff Lee’s impending trade, rather, what a hottie he is and who did I think the cutest Mariner was these days…  (I’m not sure BTW, we’re going to the game on Saturday so that I can hate on the Yankees, so if Charley and I are bowled over by the Greek-godlike good looks of any of the M’s, I’ll post an update I guess.)

I extracted myself from the Cliff Lee love-in as soon as possible and felt in the clear as the pediatrician started to leave the room.  He turned around though and added, “I almost forgot to tell you!  Carver doesn’t show any signs of being gay.”  (Carver has been taking care of a baby doll that was left at our house after our 4th of July party, so I know Charley will be relieved to hear the diagnosis.  I told you, Babe.  He’s just practicing to be a nurturing father!)  Our pediatrician went on to explain that he has a success rate of 66% at predicting which of his patients are gay from the time they are 2 years old.  The deciding factor seemed to be that Carver was playing with his cars in the waiting room, saying “vroom.”  To quote our pediatrician, “Girls just don’t say ‘vroom’ when they play.  Girls play things like kitchen and menu.”  The best response I could come up with was, “Ah.  Good to know.  Thank you.”  I’m not sure what to tell poor Charley about this.  One of my favorite toys when I was a little girl was my black and gold big-rig with a giant eagle painted on the side.  I said “vroom” all the time.

Too Much Crazy: The Skanky Waitress or The Creepy Hand Patient?

Today I find myself with too much material to blog at once.  Do I rant about the woman who held hands with my husband, or the man who asked me for information about my showering habits?  I have the strongest feelings about Skanky Waitress, so I suppose I’ll start there.

Sunday evening, Charley, Carver, and I and some other family members stopped by Chopstix in Everett for “Family Night.”  I know, I know – if you’ve been to Chopstix on a Friday, you know it’s less “family-friendly” and more “white-trash fabulous” but we were hoping that Carver would enjoy the piano playing, singing, and child-friendly dance floor (which he did.)  In fact, Family Night is poorly attended and Carver had the run of the restaurant.  Charley and I spent most of the evening leaning on opposite ends of the bar watching Carver squeal, spin, and dance his way around the room.

While I was leaning against said bar, one waitress came over to tell me how cute Carver is (it’s true) and lament her weekend without her 2-year-old son.  I thought it was odd that she would strike up a conversation about unfortunate custody arrangements with a stranger, but I found it even more curious that it seemed like she was trying to block my view of the restaurant while we talked.  I peeked over the rather large woman’s shoulder and found the motivation for our chat.  Large Waitress’s friend, Skanky Waitress, was leaning over the bar (doing that thing poorly-endowed women do when they try to create cleavage by squashing their arms – if you’re male and you don’t know what I mean, ask your wife or a good, female friend that isn’t me.)  in the process of placing both her hands deliberately on top of Charley’s left hand!

There were two occupied tables in the restaurant and only one couple trying to corral a child (Charley and I.)  She at first glance, must have known he was romantically involved.  After first glance, at the second glance, when she had to find out where his left hand was so that she could try to hold it, I imagine she noticed that there was a wedding ring there.  All of these thoughts crossed my mind in the 2 seconds it took me to dodge Large in order to make my way over to Skank.  To Charley’s credit he was already moving out of reach before I got there so that he could kiss my forehead and put his arm around me.  By the time I turned around to make my own inappropriate physical contact with Skank, she had slithered back to the kitchen where she stayed until we left at closing.  Skank.

TMI Barista

I work from the same coffee shop at least one day every week.  I’ve never been a “regular” anywhere before and I enjoy the familiarity of having someone know my order before I say a word.  That’s really the only familiarity I enjoy.

TMI barista was making coffee for an decidedly unattractive man, and she was flirting vigorously.  When TMI flirts, this means she’s fighting with her husband.  I was next in line and prepared myself for the tedious play-by-play I was surely about to hear about their most recent fight over a Rolls Royce (I suspect that TMI is prone to exaggeration), the novel she’s writing (purportedly a romance), or how much his parents don’t like her (that does happen from time-to-time.)

She asked how I was, I said I was ok, how about her?  She said: “Oh really, if you think you’re having a bad day, wait ’til you hear this!” …and then didn’t take a breath for 15 minutes.

She led in with a graphic description of what I believe the Bible (Mark 5:25) would refer to as an “issue of blood.”  She related the story of the “accident” she had while working at the store the previous day so loudly and with such vivid detail (yelling words such as: bleeding, clot, and placenta – Fact: yelling the word “placenta” will make every person in any room feel awkward.) that one of the several men sitting within earshot actually got pale and looked like he was terrified of catching some terrible, estrogen-related disease through his ears, or to be fair, possibly his coffee cup.  TMI segued from her blood issue by letting me know that I need not worry about it being a miscarriage (I wasn’t) because she’s had 7 of those and she knows what that is like.

Over 15 minutes she also covered the following:

• I think I scared that guy that was just in here.  But that’s good, he’s young.
• My husband just sent me to Vegas because his parents hurt my feelings.  Then he went and visited them while I was gone.  Now I’m going to make him send me away on another trip.
• My mother-in-law thinks I’m crazy .
• My mother-in-law never buys my children greeting cards.
• I’m going to start referring to friends and family that you don’t know by their first name and inform you about their lives as if you care.
• “There are a lot of people who don’t really know me that think I’m a very sane person.”
• I really enjoyed my last visit to the Ferrari dealership.
• The pros and cons of many, many, many methods of birth control.
• I find it acceptable to hold your drink hostage while I talk to you loudly and graphically about my uterus.

I like the coffee too much at this place to stop going.  I’m sure I’ll get the update from TMI next week.  In the meanwhile, I’ll work on creative ways to make myself unappealing to talk to.

An email to the wrong Laura (me) from (an angry) Laura to (an irresponsible, transient) Laura

I received the following email this morning at 3:54 a.m. from a complete stranger (who has apparently been friends for 10 years with someone who has refused to give her an accurate email address – I can see why.)  I’m looking forward to crafting my response and have highlighted some of my favorite excerpts below.

Laura,

Well, since i can’t sleep worrying over what is going to transpire tomorrow when the neighbor report the dog incident, I thought i would take this opportunity to let you know how completely horrified I am about how things ended yesterday. Though I can’t imagine what you were thinking in taking the dog out at the exact time i asked you not to (and when the specific dog I warned about was out),

I can get over that and chalk it up to bad judgement and an unfortunate accident, though it will likely be a very expensive lesson for me.

What I can’t get over, is the fact that you left my house with dirty dishes in the sink, and no less then 10 bags of garbage upstairs and in the garage. To add insult to injury, when I asked if you would be taking them to recycling (since you had the truck and could do it in one trip), you said “I don’t want to go there” as if it were just too much of an inconvenience, not taking into consideration what an inconvenience it would be for me (or for anyone else for that matter).  Leaving Rochelle in charge of helping was no answer. She of course did not show up to take anything to recycling, which is now closed until Saturday, when I will be spending probably at least an hour hauling things back and forth because I cannot fit all of that in one trip. Thankfully I am getting the $20 back, because it will cost more than that to dump everything.

I spent 35 minutes this morning pulling all the trash to the front of the garage and putting in bags what was left outside in the rain, so that Rochelle could easily identify what needed to go. I then found two more full bags of trash upstairs.  I spent part of my lunch hour taking other things left in the garage to  goodwill.

While Nanette was kind enough today to call and ask when she might come over to clean upstairs, I don’t really want someone cleaning my upstairs. That was YOUR responsibility. I don’t want to have to be here to let her in and be left with coordinating when she can come and clean, etc. and it isn’t her job even if you did give her 20 dollars and a TV.

I guess what it boils down to is that I am truly hurt and offended at your lack of care or concern. After 10 years of friendship, this is what I’m left with? It’s super disappointing.

I got the feeling yesterday that you were just sort of washing your hands of things and off to a new start. That is great for you, but not so great for those of us left cleaning up the mess both literally and figuratively. I hope we can come to resolution in the future, as I hate throwing away friendships, but right now I am just truly hurt and needed to let you know so that I can try to go to sleep.

I do hope you have a good trip and arrive safely.

-Laura

An introduction:

Crazy people find me.  I don’t know why, they just do.  As much as crazy people irritate/befuddle/flabbergast me, they make for good stories.  I’m not sure if I can write them down as good stories or not, but I’ll give it a try here.