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I don’t want to get a dog.

I don’t want the fleas.  I don’t want the stink.  I don’t want the hairs.  I don’t want the scrabbling nails and the chewed-up doormat, and I don’t want the noises of chomping and slobbering.  I don’t want someone else making me feel guilty for not paying them enough attention.

And I don’t want to clean up any more poop.

Which brings me to my final fear:  I don’t want to turn into a dog person.  Honestly, I think I dread that even more than I dread the dog itself.

Now, I am sure that there are tens of thousands of courteous, upstanding dog lovers out there who are utterly clear-headed and responsible about their pets.  All I know is that, of the four neighbors who live within woofing distance of our house, three of them are dog owners . . . and they are neither courteous nor upstanding nor clear-headed nor responsible.  They are The Other Kind.

Yesterday, I was stalking around in my blasted November garden, pulling up stakes and feeling slightly ashamed of the incredibly rinky-dink job I did of caring for the poor vegetables this year (I don’t actually remember using a deflated  punching balloon to tie up the tomatoes, but there it is).  I was there not because I’m a good gardener who was prepping the soil for winter, but because we had reached that section in first grade arithmetic when I knew I had to get out, out, out of the house for a couple of seconds, or I  was going to strangle one bright but very obstinate first grader, who would sooner die than admit he understands place value.

So I’m out in my garden, and what do you suppose I find?  I found evidence — EVIDENCE, I tell you — that at least two large dogs have been romping in our yard.   Romping, among other activities.   And one of them, apparently, recently ate a fuzzy white sock.  Ugh.  Ugh.  Ugh.

If you weren’t already impressed enough that I used the word “evidence” instead of “enormous turd” to describe what I found, then allow me to impress you even further:  Guess what I did?

I’ll start with what I didn’t do.  I didn’t grab a rake, scoop up the poop, and fling it at the house of the dog’s owner.  I didn’t scream obscenities, and I didn’t threaten anyone with a hammer.  (Yeah, those were all things I did in my old neighborhood.  And they deserved it!  Lucky for me, it was a street where that kind of behavior was considered fairly unremarkable.)

All I did was knock (okay, maybe pound) on the door of the house from which two large dogs were seen to bound that morning, and explain that, while I do not want to be a bad neighbor, I do not own a dog, and so I get very, very, very angry when I find dog poop in my yard.   And that I would appreciate it if this never happened again.  Ever.  Ever.  Ever.   I also rolled my terrible eyes and gnashed my terrible teeth a bit.  Then I threw the poop at their house!  Ha ha, no, I didn’t.  I put it in a bag and threw it away. But I was still so angry, I went and cleaned my car, too.  That’ll show ‘em.

Why is someone else’s dog poop so upsetting, especially to someone who lives on the highway and regularly picks up trash galore?  I guess it’s different from other litter because some litterbugs just don’t care at all about how they live.  It’s disgusting, but at least they’re consistent:  they throw beer bottles in your yard, they throw beer bottles in their yard, they accidentally swallow the occasional beer bottle — whatever.  A medium-thick carpet of clinking, rolling empties is just an integral part of their chosen lifestyle, and wherever they go, that’s how it is.

image source

But the whole invasive pooping thing is different.  It makes my blood boil because these are people who clearly understand that it is undesirable to have dog poop in one’s yard.  It disgusts them; they do not want it.  And so the only alternative they can see is to send out the dogs to poop in someone else’s yard!  Because that is not disgusting!  Problem solved!  Dogs come home, everyone’s happy.

Now why is that uptight neighbor lady headed this way with a hammer?

I tell you, if I do manage to put a Paypal donate button on this blog, it’ll be for my bail.

Oh, Kentucky. So the moral of this story is:  next time you go see your buddy next door and it turns out he’s already incredibly drunk (love the detail of “already” — as if it’s inevitable, but the timing made things a bit ticklish), that might not be the best time to start dickering over the price of a used lawnmower.

“One thing led to another, and before I knew it, there were knives and guns and everything just went haywire.”

He says his brother had a mark on his neck, where a knife was held. But Westmoreland’s loss was more permanent.

“They cut my beard and forced me to eat it,” he said.

I love the fact that it’s the News 18 BIG STORY.  And I love, love, love how the guys says he believes in the “la-awwwwww.”  And check out the mug shots of the two accused men!  Oh man!

Now I’m ready for the weekend.

There are people who don’t understand drinking at all.  You can tell who they are because they say things like,”Isn’t it kind of cold for beer?” or  “I guess it’s okay, as long as you don’t feel like you depend on it” or “Yes, I had a Bahama Mama last weekend, and it was yummy!”

These people are drinkers in the same way as Thomas Kinkade is a painter:  there are enough superficial similarities to the real thing that the casual observer might be taken in — and yet, at the heart, there is this gulf which is vast.  Vast.

I think what people don’t understand is that your relationship with alcohol develops over time, just like in a good marriage.  At first it’s all infatuation and fireworks and throwing up.  But it’s only later, after many years of fidelity and forgiveness, missteps and recovery, that you and your drink can look each other in the eye and say, “Yes, I need you, and you need me.  And I’m all right with that.  Oh, I could live without you — I wouldn’t drop dead if you walked out of my life forever, and I know I could even learn to be happy without you.  But why would I want to?  You’ve been there with me through all the best times of my life, and all the worst, too.  Even when you couldn’t be there, like when the nurse was all, ‘You are 80% effaced; it is time to put that bottledown!’, you were notable by your absence.  Oh alcohol, I am a part of you; and you, pound by blubbery pound, are becoming more and more a part of me.”

What non-drinkers don’t understand is that the city of Boozopolis is a beautiful and variegated place.   Got a few hours to burn?  This bottle of gin looks open and accommodating, willing to let you take the lead, and no hard feelings if it’s just a quickie.  Bourbon is there to take your hand and let you enjoy your misery for a while.  Tequila is a great way to find out whether or not you’ve grown up in the last ten years.  Red wine becomes a river of conversation which appears insightful at the time, and makes room in your heart for all the terrible Irish music you’ve been denied all your sober life.  Or maybe you’re just thirsty?  Well, then, my friend, it is time to have a beer.

I’m not trying to preach, and I’m not trying to nag.  I’m just trying to say that an awful lot of you could be doing a lot more to pick up that glass from time to time, you know? I try my hardest, but I’m only one woman.

Well, what did you do on your weekend?

. . .what English sounds like to non-English speakers.  Now, I’m not sure I know (I found the repeated use of the word “ciusol” somewhat less than convincing), but I certainly have seen something I’ve never seen before.  And it’s only Wednesday.

(thanks to my little brother Izzy for the link, even though he should be doing his Existentialism homework or something)

“How about supper in the tub tonight, Hon?”

Happy anniversary to us.  Yes, it’s our 13th anniversary today.  We celebrated on Saturday, but I can’t really go into a lot of details because (a) it was so lovely and romantic, any descriptions would totally destroy that “second-rate slob who can’t do anything right” cred, and (b) this is a family blog.  Well, no it’s not, but never mind.  *sigh*  It was a very nice anniversary.  How often can you look back at a choice you made in your early twenties and go, “Yeah, I did that exactly right?”

One way indeed.

And yes, I’m also happy because today is the day I send in my book proposal.

For the book I’m writing.

!!!!!!

I hope they can read the file, despite its being so drenched in blood, sweat, and tears (is that bad for files?).  So that was the big project I mentioned!  I hope to get back to more regular blogging now, and if you’ve nothing better to do, maybe you could offer up a quick prayer that if God wants this book to be written, that He will open the editorial board’s eyes to the splendor that is me and everything I have a hand in; and that if He doesn’t want it to be written, that He suddenly gets really preoccupied with the Israeli peace process or something, and doesn’t notice when the editorial board falls all over itself to offer me the standard rich and famous contract.

Oh, and here’s a note for anyone else thinking of writing a book:  of all the thousands of words I’ve written, rewritten, scrapped, totally rewritten, edited, proofread, and re-re-rewritten so far, you know what the hardest part was?  The cover letter.

There is an interesting conversation going on at Inside Catholic now, stemming from the “Down Syndrome Couples” post.  I just left a comment which I thought was (like everything else I’ve ever said) pretty important, and something which I did not always realize or internalize.  This is what makes our beloved Church so very different from every other Church, and so durable.

I don’t mean to pile onto Jason Negri — I really don’t.  It’s just that the Church’s teaching on human sexuality is so central to our times (and maybe to all times), and so horribly misunderstood.  Here’s what I said in my comment:

Negri said in one of his comments on his original post on Inside Catholic:

Church pronouncements on moral issues purport to be universally applicable, but are not exceptions sometimes made for extraordinary circumstances (nuns at risk of rape in Africa are using birth control, people with severely limited mental capacity are not held responsible for some deliberate actions, same for children before the age of reason, etc.)? I’m wondering – and honestly wondering – whether an exception might be made for Monica and David whose developmental disabilities might well put them right between the points of able to marry but unable to care for children.

Someone correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that the Church does NOT make exceptions. It is incredibly consistent in developing guidelines for specific extraordinary circumstances, without ever departing from the original principle.

The nuns protecting themselves from rape (without risking an abortion) are not violating, or availing themselves of an exception to, the principle that sexual love is to be unitive and procreative — rather, they are protecting themselves from an act which is purely violent. When a mentally disabled person or child is not held morally responsible for hurting someone when he doesn’t know better, it’s not an “exception” to the fifth commandment — it’s just a different act entirely from someone who knows better and hurts someone anyway.

Sterilization of a Down syndrome couple for the purpose of separating sex from children, however, would be an exception. That’s what makes it different from the examples Negri gave, and that’s what makes it wrong.

I just wanted to reiterate that the Church does not “make exceptions” — it is a Rock.

So, come join the conversation.  It’s been a very helpful and eye-opening discussion for me.

EDITED TO ADD:

One commenter, CC, very helpfully posted this:

From the USCCB’s “Ethical and Religious Directives for Catholic Health Care Services” (http://www.usccb.org/bishops/directives.shtml):

Compassionate and understanding care should be given to a person who is the victim of sexual assault. Health care providers should cooperate with law enforcement officials and offer the person psychological and spiritual support as well as accurate medical information. A female who has been raped should be able to defend herself against a potential conception from the sexual assault. If, after appropriate testing, there is no evidence that conception has occurred already, she may be treated with medications that would prevent ovulation, sperm capacitation, or fertilization. It is not permissible, however, to initiate or to recommend treatments that have as their purpose or direct effect the removal, destruction, or interference with the implantation of a fertilized ovum.

It seems to me no different from protecting yourself from someone maniac wielding a baster full of sperm, right?  There is no particular reason you should accept being impregnated in the context of an attack.

7 things it’s kind of weird that we don’t have

The other day, as I was getting all wet, I thought to myself, “Why don’t we have an umbrella?”  I guess the real reason is that you can’t have one or two umbrellas for a family of ten, but who wants ten umbrellas?  Not us, that’s who.

There’s other things that we don’t seem to have, for some reason.  I don’t mean things that we have that keep on breaking, like a vacuum cleaner — or things we keep ontrying to have, but can’t seem to keep in the house, like pens or Band-aids or money (that would spoil some vast, eternal plan).  I’m talking about things that we seem to have opted out of — things our household just doesn’t do.

Okay, so #1 is ten umbrellas.

#2:  A mop.  The last two times I had a mop, the kids used them to stir up the mud puddle at the bottom of the slide.  Then, when I told them I wanted my mop back, they threw it in the swamp, and then it started to snow.  So, the way the kitchen floor looks?  Their fault, 100%.

#3:  Paper towels.  This is a holdover from our super-poor days, when the kids would get one hot dog each, and I would get an empty bun.  Just couldn’t get myself to spend money on paper towels, and I still can’t, even though nowadays we’re so flush I buy hot dogs by the dozen.  I’m pathetically attached to my stack of cloth dish towels, and know what each one is especially good for:  this one for absorbancy, that one for scrubbing power, these two for their lack of funky smell (when you’re drying something for company), etc.  I would take a picture, if I felt like getting up right now.

#4:  Microwave oven.  When we moved here, our adorable kitchen (proportions of a hobbit hole, ambiance of Mordor) had about 5 square inches of counter space — and most of that was taken up by my enormously pregnant belly  which I rested on the countertop while shrieking at the other kids to stop jumping off of the moving boxes (it took . . . a while  . . . to unpack), so I got rid of the microwave (which wasn’t actually a very good one, since I originally found it on the side of the road one rainy day).  So now I just remember to defrost meat in the morning (sometimes I decide what’s for dinner by having a meat race!  Two small chickens, or one large roast — who will it be?  Ready . . . defrost!  It’s so much fun), and have explained to the children that microwaved popcorn causes tooth cancer.

#5:  TV.  I mean, we have a monitor and a DVD player, but no dish or antenna or whatever.  I don’t feel self-righteous about it, because I waste gobs and gobs of precious time rotting my brain with Netflix and the internet.  To give you an idea of the level of cultural purity in our household, my husband and I recently had a startlingly long discussion about character development in the third season of Reno 911.

#6:  SKIRTS!  How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t have any skirts!  Except the long black one I wear to Mass, the brown dress I wear to parties, the blue dotted one I wear on dates, the two denim ones for warm days, the white flouncy one for happy spring days,  the brown one with flowers for happy fall days, the long flowered one for sad fall days, the gray wool one for winter Mass, the straight plaid one for when I want to look smart, the skimpy brown one with gold beads for covering up at the beach, the retro red dress my husband is convinced still fits me, and of course the red satin formal skirt for next time I’m a pregnant bridesmaid.  And the blue, empire-waisted one for the next next time I’m a pregnant bridesmaid.  There, I just wanted to clear that up: I do not wear skirts or dresses, and do not own any.  It’s all part of my strident feminist plan to destroy the institution of marriage.

#7:  Jen, can we just change this to six quick takes?

Yesterday, I was less of a person and more of a heap of pulverized bits of exhaustion.  So, while my husband took seriously my explanation that everything was horrible, there was no hope, and nothing was ever going to go well ever again no matter how hard we tried, he also figured out that I should get some sleep. So he got up with the kids, got them breakfast, made sure they were dressed and brushed and had all their various bags and papers and snacks and permission slips, and did the hour-long drive to school and back.  And I slept.  When he got home, he made coffee and started pumping out the flooding basement.  And I slept. This is his only day off this week.

(image source)

Hey, I have a post up on the blog of TODAYMoms!  They’re doing a series about home school, and asked me to write a short piece on . . . burrrrrrrrrn ouuuuuut.  It starts like this:

What does it take to be a great home-schooler? Passion, energy, creativity, high ideals and whole-hearted devotion to your kids.

What does it take to spoil home-schooling? Passion, energy, creativity, high ideals and whole-hearted devotion to your kids.

OK, not always. But many home-schooling moms find themselves burned out after a few years, exhausted by the very things that made the whole enterprise possible.

Welcome, TODAYMom moms — and to my regular readers, all four of you, please come and take a look.  I can’t tell you how pleased I am that my path to fortune and glory will be paved with tales of excruciating personal failure.  Stay tuned for the rest in the series,  which will explain why I am also okay with losing the battle against carpet stains, the size of my hips, the amount of hair on my upper lip, and that funky smell coming from under the couch.