He is here.
At my front door again. We spent two nights together.
And now, the adorable fucker always comes back.
And he just sits there. Looking so damn cute.
That’s how he sucked me in the first time.
I don’t even know he’s out there.
Until my cats go batshit crazy. Growling. Throwing their bodies against the storm door.
Mommy’s little psychos.
Just like that psycho driving behind me last Sunday. [That's right. I see you in the rear view mirror, beeyotch!]
Some people are so lucky that I am managing my anger issues. And that jail is not cute.
Otherwise, I would snatch this tailgating Christmas-shopping-lunatic up and …
Rest my hand.
And slap her crazy ass again.
Nothing ruins Christmas like shopping.
That is why I don’t do it.
Okay, I will do it for my 6-year-old niece and 8-year-old nephew. That’s it.
But Kayla and Mikie are adorable. Kayla talks with a lisp and has pigtails. [See? That's Adorable City.]
Even for an adorable cause, shopping is awful.
I am not putting myself through all of that torment for adults who are clearly old enough to buy their own shit.
It’s just too many cars, lines, and crap I don’t want to do, buy or care about.
I know it’s supposed to be the thought behind the gift.
But my thoughts are – “I can’t believe I agonized for two weeks and all I ended up with is a frigging pair of slippers. I want to ram these slippers up your ass. Merry Christmas.”
When did “caring about a person” become synonymous with buying them shit-they-won’t-like for Christmas?
Here is how this introvert says – I like you…
I talk to you.
Here is how this introvert says – I really like you…
I talk to and spend time with you [within reason, but don't try to "visit" my house every day. M'kay?]
Those are my gifts to you year-round.
Don’t bust my balls about dumb made-up holidays, unless you want me to give to charities. I like buying stuff for charities. It makes me feel like going to work isn’t a complete waste of putting on a good bra and clean undies.
And by charities, I mean actual organizations. Not the buy-me-stuff-because-I-say-so-charity-in-your-head.
That is not real.
Just like all of my fake orgasms. They sound real because: a) practice makes perfect, and b) when you care enough, you send the very best.
Still, not real.
Or Adorable City like puppies.
Like the one sitting at my door. Making my cats go bonkers.
This summer, I doggysat MoosethePuppy for 2 days before I passed him off to my neighbor’s sister for the remaining 7 days of my neighbor’s vacation.
And every frakking second was hell.
I thought, “Hey, it’s a cute little puppy. How hard could it be? This would be a good test to see if I could get my own puppy.”
Just for the record.
If someone says – “Are you sure you want to do this?” – multiple times over the course of a month – like my neighbors did before they went on vacation, what they mean is…
Run, stupid, run!
But did I listen? Of course not. I never do. Why make life easy?!
Now, he – MoosethePuppy – is in my dining room in his playpin barking his 9-month-old furry little head off.
God, he’s so cute. Like an old rap mop with big floppy ears and big brown eyes.
[Note to self: All cute things have potential for evil. That includes boys, pets, and bras.]
God, he’s so loud. So flippin’ loud. The barking always sounded cute and dainty when it was coming from my neighbor’s house next door.
But now, each bark sounds like a bullet piercing my gullible soul.
Let me check the poop/pee/sleep list of instructions my neighbors left me.
It accompanied the playpin, 2 dog beds, a barrel of food, snacks and bottled water, multiple toys, and a bag with more chotchkies than all of the hoarders in 5 continents.
Step 1. Put yapping, winging thing in playpin. Check.
Step 2. Do not pick him up if he cries. Check.
Step 3. Yapping, winging thing falls asleep in 10 minutes. [Not! Notnotnotnotnotnot!]
We started this charade an hour ago. It is 1 AM.
I snuck into the dining room, creeping through the darkness like a burglar. And there he is. MoosethePuppy. Up on his hind legs in the playpin. Wagging his tail excitedly.
I am Elvis to him.
Elvis in Crocs and torn pajamas.
God, he is so cute. [Don’t pick him up. Don’t pick him up. Don’t pick him up!]
Okay. Just this once… [Sucker.]
I know what his happy, furry little ass wants.
The same thing his furry little ass has been doing for the last 8 hours…
Play inside. Play outside. Run inside. Run outside. Shred every piece of paper he sees into confetti. Go outside. Then inside. Eat random things like a plastic coaster [which I can’t believe didn’t kill him]. Chase my 2 cats who hate him. Wrestle with my socks. Bark incessantly. Nap for 2 seconds. Rinse and repeat.
My totally-territorial, spoiled cats hated me.
They were sequestered in their secret war room – behind the couch in the attic – plotting their revenge against me.
Their list goes like this…
- Projectile vomit expensive cat food on the rug. Check.
- Increase stinky litter box poopage tenfold. Check.
- “Accidentally” maul her while she sleeps. Check.
- Slowly smother her by sleeping on her face. Check.
Note to self: Cats are smart enough to kill you and get away with it.
My boss has been warning me for years not to get a puppy. Because every 6 months, I say, “I want a puppy. They are just so cute.” [I totally hate talking about work at work. What for?]
And then, she warns me, knowing I hate extra work of all kinds. That furry critters require a very long theatrical production of puppy maintenance and care.
Maintenance and care sucks ass.
And who knew puppies also required a truckload of furniture.
I am frantically donating all of the extra crap in my house.
Because I want less crap.
And certainly not puppy crap.
Buying tons of crap is expensive, especially when you are incredibly cheap. More crap means more cleaning around said crap.
And I am not doing that either.
I couldn’t wait to get rid of that cute mound of furry, adorable never-ending barking [and by that, I mean get the hell out of my house.] But every time Moose escapes my neighbor’s clutches and runs out of their front door, he ends up at mine.
Where his little ass will stay
unless I want my cats to put a hit out on me.
When my neighbors returned from vacation, I told them how great he was
at driving me crazy and he seemed to have a lot of fun but can never, ever come back.
The teenage daughter, Honesty, interjected with a mixture of typical teenage apathy and candor – “I always wanted a puppy, until I got one. Now, I’m never, ever getting another one. That is just waaaaaay too much work.”
Great?! Now you tell me!
Nothing ruins having a puppy like having a puppy.
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