Undecorating and Unhinged

The first thing you need to know is that Opie's animals don’t listen. I have tried to train them, tried to mitigate the damage from his lackadaisical approach to discipline, have, in short, attempted to rule them with an iron fist.

But I have, thus far, been unsuccessful.

And I might be running out of time because the second thing you need to know is it’s entirely possible that all of us will not be alive when Opie gets home from work tonight.

It’s not because I don’t love these insane creatures as much as he does. It’s not because I wish them any harm. It is simply because I think we might be in one of those them or me type situations.

It all started when I began taking down the Christmas decorations. I went upstairs to get the boxes out of the closet, completely unaware that Bubba and Sassy had  determined that this was some sort of secret code for “I’m hiding treats in the closet.”

I turned around they were both sitting right outside the closet, blocking my exit and jumping around in the world famous "We Want A Treat Right Now!" dance.

I tried to explain that there were no treats in the closet but Bubba flopped down at the top of the stairs and refused to move, sure this was a ploy to see just how steadfast he was in his desire for a treat.

Sassy, on the other hand, decided her best course of action would be to EARN herself a treat by showing me how fast she could run up and down the steps—preferably after giving me a head start so, after I stepped over Bub and struggled down with my arms full of boxes, she could demonstrate both her speed and her ninja like agility, dashing between my legs without a care in the world.

I thought I yelled “Are you trying to kill me, you ridiculous dog?“ but she obviously heard "I love falling down the stairs! Do you think you could help make that happen, you adorable pooch?" Because as soon as I went back in the closet, she put both her and Bubba’s new toys in a place I couldn’t miss them : the middle of the steps.

Then, after my next trip down the stairs during which I stumbled and nearly broke my neck, stood at the top wagging her tail and suggesting a couple treats would go a long way to easing the tension in the room.

Not to be outdone, Prince wandered over a few minutes later and asked if I was at all interested in seeing how good he is at climbing storage shelves.

“No,” I told him. “What I want is for you to get out of the closet and out of my way!”

“I understand,” Prince agreed. “What you’re saying is, climb to the top and start knocking things off the shelves while you scream at me in an encouraging fashion.”

“That is the EXACT OPPOSITE of what I’m saying, you looney cat!” I shouted.

But it was too late. He was already leaping from box to box like Spider-cat, swatting ornament boxes with reckless abandon.

As you can imagine, the subsequent shouting convinced Bubba that this was pretty much the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to any dog ever. "That's it!" He barked, flinging himself in front of my feet every time I tried to take a step. "No one should move an inch until the man gets home! The only thing that would make this worse would be--"

"THE MAILMAN!" Both dogs howled together.

Because, of course, that was the exact second that the unspeakably evil mailman snuck on the porch in his unspeakably evil way and, with malice oozing from every pore, THREW MAIL IN THE HOUSE.

Then both dogs charged over me (this time as I was trying to carry boxes up the stairs) and raced headlong to face the peril.

That's when I lost whatever tiny grip I still had on sanity and began shouting a series of threats at them that were so offensive that even the unspeakably evil mailman might or might not but definitely could report me to the humane society.

Ever aware of my fragile emotional state, I decided to take a break from undecorating and have a soothing cup of tea.

You know what tea doesn't soothe?  The sound of a man’s voice upstairs, yelling something in Spanish.

Let me say that again for maximum effect: I heard a MAN in the upstairs of OUR HOUSE yelling in Spanish.

I’m not going to lie, I about lost control of my bodily functions.  A situation not helped by the fact that the dogs ran back upstairs to investigate, barking hysterically.

“There can’t actually be someone up there,” I said to myself. “It defies reason to think someone scaled the side of the house, broke in and is now cavorting around our bedroom talking to himself.” 

Because of my fabulous ability to immediately imagine the worst possible outcome, it did occur to me that a homeless Hispanic hobo had been hibernating in the eaves of our home, been awakened by the hysterical hullabaloo, and was hopping out to say hello. But, even as beautifully alliterative as that is, I thought it was a long shot.

Besides I was trapped: the dogs were up there, after all, and I couldn’t just leave them to deal with any homeless hobos on their own.

Though, in retrospect, they may have just been going upstairs to see if the homeless hobo had any treats on his person.

In any case, I started up the stairs, phone in one hand with 9 and 1 already punched in, pepper spray in the other hand  yelling “Tengo una pistola!” (because I don’t know how to say pepper spray in Spanish) and “Fuera!” (Which, now that I think of it means go out, not get out but I bet a hobo would have taken my point) and “Estoy llamando la policia!” (Which I’m not at all sure is grammatically correct but again probably got my point across)

And found Opie's miserable ridiculous cat sitting on top of the clock radio, smacking at the buttons.

No, this isn't him on the clock radio -- I couldn't get a picture of that
 because I was busy hyperventilating and screaming every curse word I know

Anyway, I'm not sure why our radio is set to Spanish talk radio (but I’m sure it’s Opie's fault) And I don’t know why or even how Prince decided to turn it on.

But I am sure these animals are trying to kill me.

And it's entirely possible I'll kill them first.

Be afraid.

It's Christmas Card Time Again!

Here's the thing, if you know me at all, you know that I take our Christmas card waaayyyy too seriously. I dress the animals in ridiculous outfits:  

I even bribe Opie to wear matching outfits or slap him in a Ralphie pink bunny suit a la The Christmas Story.

I think it's full on AWESOME...Opie allows as how he thinks it's a touch over the top.

Anyway, this year was no exception. I loaded up the dogs with treats, fed Opie beer with reckless abandon, and waited until Prince was so woozy from sleeping in the sun that I could toss some antlers on him without too much loud yowling (no fear, animal lovers, they are yowls of pure enthusiasm.  This is a cat who LOVES costumes, I assure you) and got everyone dressed as hilarious reindeer.

Anyway, we got some great pictures and I foolishly thought the hard part was over.

Until I tried to ORDER the cards. 

Here's what happened:

I got online bright and early for the Cyber Monday sale which included about 55% off, 10 free cards and free shipping.

Bam! I ordered 115 cards!

A few minutes later a confirmation email arrived which said I was getting 105 cards and 115 envelopes.

It didn’t mention the 10 free cards, didn't say they were included in the cards—nothing.

Since, as I mentioned, I get a little more emotionally invested in our Christmas cards than the average bear, I immediately freaked out.

Luckily, they have a helpline so I called it, waited forever to get through, got put on hold, got asked if I wanted a callback instead of waiting, get assured by a robot lady that I wouldn’t lose my place on line and heard that my waiting time is approximately 10 minutes. I reluctantly selected this option and waited an hour to actually talk to a real live person.

So, let’s be honest, I started the conversation ever so slightly incensed.

I explained everything that I just explained above and the girl on the other line said “I see you ordered 105 cards...”

Me (trying to be nice) “No. I ordered 115 because I need 115.”

Her (clearly not listening) "If you need to change your order, you can always cancel this one and re-order in the correct amount.“

Me “Actually, I can’t cancel this order. There’s a 30 minute window to cancel the order and I’m way past that because it took over an hour to talk to someone.”

Her “Well, you could always just order 10 more cards....”

Me “No. As I’m sure you know, your company does tiered discounts for cards so ordering just 10 would be a lot more expensive per card. Plus 10 cards wouldn't be eligible for free shipping. So buying 10 more cards now would essentially cost me three times as much as if they were on the original order — which they already should have been BECAUSE I ORDERED 115 CARDS.  There’s been a mistake here and I didn't make it. Something's gone wrong on YOUR END."

Her “I can probably go ahead and cancel that order for you even though it’s past the window.”

At which point I paused and reflected on how sad I am that I don't have one of those old rotary phones like my grandma used to so I could follow her example of slamming the receiver on the table four or five times in frustration and then pretending like I'd just dropped it.

Seriously, my grandma was hilarious.

Anyway, since I have an iPhone that is about as fragile as a wet Kleenex, slamming my phone against the table was out of the question, I settled for making obscene gestures at the screen and silently questioning how hard it would be to find this girl and punch her right in the throat.

Me (summoning a level of patience I didn't even know I had) “That really won't help since, as I said, the problem appears to be on YOUR END with the whole 10 free card promotion thing. So if you cancel it and I try to reorder everything, the same exact thing is going to happen because I'm going to use the exact same promotion."

Her “I can see you ordered 105 cards—“

Me “NO! That’s what I’m trying to explain. I ordered 115 cards. The order clearly says 115 envelopes and 105 cards. Which means there has to be some sort of mistake because it’s actually not possible to order more envelopes than cards.

Her “What’s that?”

Me (using my best patient teacher voice and not at all letting on that I was ready to hunt this girl down like wild game) "It’s not possible to order more envelopes than cards. I know this because I’ve tried. But your company has a completely unwarranted and unrealistic faith in my ability to fill out 115 Christmas cards without making a mistake so they will only send me as many envelopes as cards. Something else is happening here!!”

Her “If you’d like to cancel your order —“

Me: “Look, I’m trying really hard not to get nasty because I know you were not personally responsible for this mistake. I also know this is probably one your busiest days and things are pretty busy. So I'm trying to be nice but to be honest, I’m about three seconds from going 8 kinds of whack job crazy.”

Dramatic pause on her end then she said “Oh yes, here it is. 10 free cards, you’re right. You’re getting 115 cards.”

Unfortunately, I have a suspicious heart. Plus she was using that tone that indicated she thought I'd already gone 5 kinds of whack job crazy and was simply trying to get off the phone before I turned it up 3 more notches.

On a slightly unrelated note, I should probably question the life choices that have made me so familiar with the tone people use when dealing with a lunatic but I'll think about that tomorrow.

Anyway, as I was saying, I have a suspicious heart and she overcame her earlier confusion in a shockingly short time. Plus, I'm no lawyer but I watch A LOT of court TV. Therefore, when she said "Can I help you with anything else?" I responded "Yeah, I just need to get confirmation of that in writing."

And she said "Excuse me?"

Me, now using my best Judge Judy tone and, let's be honest, imagining myself on her show: "I need written confirmation that I'm getting the 115 cards that I ordered because the email I have says only 105 are being shipped. I just need something in writing so if only 105 cards arrive, I have some recourse without going through this whole hullaballoo again."

I think it's a testament to how worked up I was that yes, I actually used the word hullaballoo.

In any case, she said "I don't understand."

And then I did the dramatic pause thing and finally asked "Do you really not understand the words I just said or is it that you don't have the authority to send an email to me?"

The long and the short of it was, she's not involved in all this email-shemail business.

I hung up, considered a variety of violent options, considered alcoholic amelioration of my feelings--spent a brief second pondering how much I love the word ameliorate--and finally did what I should have done all along: got on Twitter.  I sent the company a private message, indicated that as one who is familiar with the power of social media I understand exactly how vocal online complaints can cost a company business, and explained the whole thing again.

I got the email confirmation.

Even better, the 115 cards arrived, I'm getting them addressed, and with luck should have them in the mail tomorrow.

So, it's official -- it's the holiday season and these are the happiest holiday hounds (and cat) around!

 

And don't even get me started on this one, he is clearly chock full of Christmas cheer!

As I've said before, I bet he looks back on all those years he was single and just weeps about how boring his life used to be.

Happy Holidays everyone!

Mutts, Murder Plots and Mayhem

This dog is trying to kill me.

Here’s what happened:

This afternoon, while I was attempting to take a shower, Bubba flung himself against the bathroom door and burst in like a fur-covered barking, crying bomb.

I, of course, assumed there was something horrifying occurring so jumped from the shower and grabbed my pepper spray like a soap-covered, naked Ninja, preparing to face the peril.

“It’s too perilous!” Bubba barked and attempted to run around me in a circle (difficult in the close confines of our bathroom) then sat in front of the door, crying, and trying to prevent my departure.

Nonetheless, determined to protect our other pets, our Christmas presents, and our home in general from whatever danger drove Bubba to this desperate course of action, I threw on a towel and snuck out of the bathroom, pepper spray in hand.

(Side note: yes, as a matter of fact, I do take my pepper spray into the bathroom when I shower. Why? FOR JUST SUCH AN OCCASION, THAT'S WHY!!)

Anyway, as soon as I had the pepper spray cocked and ready to go, I began sneaking through the house, looking for intruders. Meanwhile, Bubba trailed me from room to room, circling me and letting out the occasional whine.

And you know what the problem was?

The cat was sleeping in the middle of the dog bed.

The fact that I did not, in that moment, pepper spray Bubba is a testament to my strength of character

I would like to explain WHY a sleeping cat is cause for such a frantic response but I have no idea. And I can’t ask Bubba because we are currently not speaking. However, my theory is that this had nothing to do with the cat and is instead part of some nefarious plot to scare me into a heart attack..

So, in sum, dogs are clearly uncomfortable letting sleeping cats lie, nudity seems to impair my Ninja skills, and Bubba is either trying to kill me or punish me for dressing him in Christmas clothing or both.

If I wake up dead tomorrow, you all know who to blame.

Happy Birthday?

Last night I found mouse droppings in the cabinet.

This is, of course, disgusting.

However, this is rural Oklahoma and we do tend to get one or two of the horrifying, vermin-ridden creatures when the weather turns warm.

What really bothers me is the fact that we have a CAT for the love of heaven, not to mention 2 dogs. And although Sassypants isn’t much of a hunter, Bubba is a serial squirderer AND a birderer.  Why, why WHY am I the one who has to find and deal with a mouse in the house?

And by “deal with” I obviously mean scream at Opie to do something.

The long and the short of it is, we pulled everything out of the cabinet and set traps before we went to bed last night.

On a slightly related note, I’m curious if anyone in the history of mankind has ever caught a mouse in one of the humane, catch and release, cost about 10 times more than the snap trap type traps? Every single time we have had a mouse, I have put those things out loaded to the gills with peanut butter, and every single time the mouse has chosen to run over the snap trap instead.

The mice are clearly suicidal.

In any case, the point of this whole drama is that today is Opie’s birthday and he took the day off work. And, it is interesting to note, starting your morning listening to your wife scream about dead mice in the cabinets and then being forced to remove the mouse carcass amid more shrieking before you are allowed any coffee is, apparently, NOT a good start to your birthday celebrations.

Though he seems happy enough now....hmmmm...wondering if he spiked his coffee when my back was turned….

Mouse? What mouse? I don't see no stinkin' mouse in here.

It's Been That Kind of Day

So, I just came downstairs from putting away laundry and noticed that one of the animals has knocked over a plant. And, just to make sure that I didn't miss the overturned plant, they have considerately spread the dirt over as much of the living room carpet as animally possible.

How all this happened in less than 2 minutes is a mystery that I didn't have time to ponder because I was very busy screaming at all of them indiscriminately (they all tried to point the paw at each other but everyone had incriminating dirt in his/her fur...except the cat, who of course has no fur, but is so often the plant killing culprit that I don't feel a bit bad at including him in my tantrum) and getting out the vacuum to clean up the dirt.

The screaming didn't phase them.  However, the sound of the vacuum is anathema in this house--the second I turned it on, I had 3 terrorized animals racing around the living room like maniacs.

At which point they KNOCKED OVER ANOTHER PLANT.

I'm not really sure if this means I have too many plants or that I vacuum far too rarely...but I also have an uncomfortable vision of getting caught in an endless cycle of vacuuming, plant desecration, and screaming for the rest of the afternoon.

And I'm pretty sure I need a drink.