Bath Battle

Admittedly, we are a little lax with the general hygiene of our golden retriever in the winter time. When it’s warm outside, she gets a bath roughly every other week. I make her a little platform out of picnic table benches; pull out the garden hose and the whole job takes 15 minutes. It’s so hot here in Florida that we’re usually both mostly dry by the time I clean up my mess and head back in the house. On occasion we’ll wash her in the back of the truck then take her for a spin dry afterwards. Either way, bathing her is really not a problem.

Being February, poor Scout has been pretty stank-a-licious for the better part of two weeks. Just thinking about how long it’s been since she’s had a bath fills me with shame. But it’s just so…hard. Knowing it was my turn to tackle this task; I took a deep breath and set the wheels in motion. Let me set the stage for you…

Our house was built in the late 60’s. While it has many rooms, it should really only have about five. Total. The bathroom is among the tiniest of the prison cell sized spaces. You can literally stand in the middle of the room and touch both walls. If you sat sideways, you could soak your aching feet in the tub while simultaneously dropping a deuce. Seriously. Scout, being a shelter dog came with a complete set of bazaar, neurotic behaviors, one of which is a panicky fear of confined spaces. Unless it’s thundering, then we can’t get her out from behind the couch. With that being said, I go about preparing for battle.

I gather dog towels and a dog wash cloth from her basket. And no, I don’t mean that they are special doggy products, they’re just worn out and too gross for people.  I leave the doggy shampoo, there’s only one soap strong enough to cut this kind of funk.  I grab the Dawn from the kitchen sink. With the goods stashed in the bathroom, I call the dog. I try to sound as upbeat and excited as possible. She walks up to the bathroom door, then fast-walks past it. I stand outside the door, blocking her exit and try again. This time she dances her little clicky nails just out of my reach and emits a pitiful whine. I manage to shove her in the tiny room and close the door. This is where Scout’s skills really shine. In the four feet of space between the door and the tub, she demonstrates straight up civil rights type passive resistance. She literally lies down and goes completely limp. Trying to move her when she gets like this is futile. She weighs nearly 80 pounds and it almost seems as if she is somehow holding onto the floor. I step in the tub and call her like we’re going to have a frolicking good session of playtime if she will only move forward two feet.  Alas, she is neurotic, not stupid. She simply looks away because apparently if she can’t see me, I go away. I finally manage to pull two feet into the tub, the rest of her following because she doesn’t want to enter the tub chin first. I am already tired and sweaty and we have only just begun.

I get the sprayer down and start hosing her down. She does not like this. She backs up as far as she can into the back of the tub, forcing me to arc the water just to get her wet. Having nowhere to put the sprayer, I let it dangle while I grab her two front legs and pull her toward me as quickly as I can because the sprayer is whipping in wild circles, wetting everything in its path. Now the floor is wet. I kneel to keep from busting my ass, but as I mentioned before I am having to work around the toilet. Every time I turn to reach for something like soap or to scoop the hair out of the drain, Scout manages to slowly creep one leg out as if she’s going to make a break for it.  About halfway through I just peel off my wet clothes and get in the tub with her. She tolerates the rest of the bath, finally realizing that she’s not getting out. She’s clean, but in order to dry her off I have to let the water drain from the tub. This consists of about 10 minutes of alternating between letting it drain and scooping the collecting wad of hair clogging it up. Meanwhile Scout is dancing and trying to bull her way past me. 

Finally the tub is drained and the dog is dried and released. I survey the damage. There’s a kiddie pool on the floor around the tub. There are wads of wet hair everywhere. The tub looks like it needs a good shave. I’m standing in my underpants, covered in wet dog hair. There’s no hot water left. In her hasty escape to freedom, Scout knocked over the Dawn and it is adding festive bubbles to the puddles on the floor. Scout has shaken herself all the way down the hallway so walls and floor are spattered with dog water. I legs are literally trembling from squatting for 20 minutes in a row. I go get Scout her chewy treat, get her situated on a towel somewhere, then I get myself situated on a towel somewhere. It was my turn to bathe her, not to clean the bathroom. 

Logic vs Instant Gratification

The kitchen island was delivered a few days ago and it’s been sitting in the craft room waiting for paint because we had it built and I’m not paying them an additional $150 to paint it white when I can do it myself for free.  I am just getting over a pretty bad head cold, so despite the excitement we have not yet seen the layout of the kitchen past the rectangle of tape on the floor. We’ve learned the hard way to measure carefully. Several times.  

So last night, about 10 PM, we have the following conversation:

“So… How are you feeling right this minute?” Dewie doesn’t actually look at me as she asks. Apparently looking at the opposite wall makes this question seem nonchalant.

“A little tired. Not too bad, though.”

“I sure would like to see how that island looks in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, me too. But in order to place the island, what has to happen?”

“We have to move the table.” She sighs and looks at a different wall.

“Correct. And in order to move the table, what has to happen?”

“We have to move the shelves.”

“Right again. And where are we going to put the shelves?”

“In the office.”

“You’re on a roll. Now if we’re going to put the shelves in the office, what has to happen?”

“We have to move the broken shelves." Now she’s rolling her eyes at the ceiling.

“You are very, very smart. So in order to move the island, what do we have to do first?”

“Move the broken shelves.”

“Yep. Are the broken shelves on the curb?”

“Nope.” She sighs dramatically and drops her head back on the couch. She curls her toes around the edge of the coffee table and rocks it back and forth. Suddenly she brightens and turns her head to look at me. “You know I really would like to see what that island looks like in the kitchen.” Resistance is futile. If I don’t help her, she will try to do it herself.

“Alright, but I’m doing this under duress and you’re accepting full responsibility for the consequences.”

“YAYYYYY!!!”

So we push the island into the kitchen, move the table and attempt to empty the shelves.  The kitchen basically looks like it has a severe case of diarrhea. As we lie in bed, waiting for sleep, Dewie asks, “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I tried.”

“I’ll get up really early and have it all put away before you wake up.”

“No you won’t. You’ll go in there, move three things then come into the bedroom with an armful of colorful bowls, poke me awake and ask, ‘Where do you want to put these?’ and it will go on and on until I get up and help you.”

“Yeah probably. So you’ll help me tomorrow?”

Sigh. “Of course.”

Phillip Stands Alone

So I have this weird compulsion of pulling on wily arm hairs to see if they’re loose. I’ve found that when the hair on my arms is beginning to shed it sticks up all funny and comes out with just the slightest tug. This is enormously satisfying to me. I don’t have trichotillomania, the hair I pull is not fully attached and there is no pain involved. I think of it more as obsessive grooming. So, on this particular morning I found three hairs on my left arm which was impressive being as I had already showered. Giving it one last sweep, I stopped dead in my tracks. What I found was the mother of all arm hairs.  I grasped it betwixt my trembling fingers and watched in awe as it stretched toward the heavens. Stretched to its full height, it was about an inch and a half long and several shades darker than the white-blonde hair that covers my arms. I think I’ll call him Phillip.

Now I’m torn. Part of me wants to pluck it. It’s not very attractive. Now that I’ve found it, it’s quite noticeable to me. Every time the light catches it, it bothers me. It’s like Phillip is laughing at me, “Look at you, walking around with this man hair on your arm. I’m just gonna stretch up to my full height and wave around a bit and see if I can get someone’s attention.” Every once in a while I’ll lick my finger and smooth it down but as soon as the spit dries, there he is, popping back up.

The other part of me wants to see just how long it will get. I mean, is it just an exceptional arm hair with arm pit hair DNA, or is it some mutant hair that will continue to grow if left alone? Will it cap off at 2 inches? 3? Or will I eventually have to start wrapping it around my arm like a bracelet? If it does have a predetermined length, will it then reach the shedding point where I can tug it out? That would be awesome. Will another hugely mutant hair take its place?

In the end, the questions win. I’m just too curious to pluck it. Phillip is safe for now. Besides there is always the possibility that all the other arm hairs make fun of Phillip because he’s different, and I wouldn’t want to reinforce bullying type behavior by getting rid of him just because he’s weird. That could send the wrong message to all the other arm hair and would be irresponsible body hair management. They will have to learn to love Phillip for his uniqueness, just as I have. 

School of Badassery

Some people are just naturally awesome. There are so many things I wish I could pull off, but alas, I just don’t exude badass-ness.  The following is a list of ways people that are cooler than me demonstrate their superiority. I so want a piece of that.

   

Lighting a match with your fingernail

I admit it. I am completely impressed by stupid bar tricks. How cool is it to pull out a match and set it aflame with a flick of your thumb? I have tried to practice this technique, but it always results in the head of the match flying off. While this does make an impression, it’s not exactly the one I was going for.

The stadium whistle

I didn’t really even learn to regular whistle until I was grown and honestly, I’m just not good at it. While I’m not above making some noise at a concert or sporting event, there’s just no dignity in the “Woooooo!” Sometimes if there’s a person around me doing the stadium whistle, I’ll just put my fingers in my mouth convincingly, scrunch my face up and pretend that I’m doing it. No. Really.

Juggling

Ok, so maybe juggling is a little goofy, but I’m not talking about like real, professional juggling. I’m not interested in juggling knives or things that are on fire and I don’t want to join the circus. I just want to nonchalantly toss some apples around while I’m talking to someone.

Light a zippo on my jeans

I’m sure you all know where this is going. I have tried. I have set my pants on fire. It’s not so much the flaming pants that ruin the cool façade, it’s putting the fire out. Nothing says super fly like having to extinguish your pants.

Doing things without looking.

Now I know this one is pretty vague, but the badass-est of the badass never have to look at what they’re doing. Whether it’s tossing trash in a can from a distance, shooting a basketball or just passing the salt, the truly badass never have to look at what they’re doing. It’s as if they’re saying, “I don’t have the time to give my attention to such menial tasks and I’m so much more advanced than you that I don’t have to.” Unfortunately, I am not very coordinated. Well let’s just put it out there… I’m a clumsy mess. I trip over cracks in sidewalks. I can’t even walk without looking.

Pop the cap off of a beer by hitting it on the counter.

The drawback to practicing this is that failed attempts often result in glass shards in your beer. I don’t have the money to buy “practice beer.”  Besides, beer and broken glass is not the best combination for me. (see previous list item)

Whenever I see people perform these most splendid feats, I remind myself that at some point they had to practice that and while they were doing it they looked stupid.

Pondering TicTacs

It’s late. The TV is on, but I’m not really paying attention to it; I’m playing boggle on my laptop. I look up as Dewie walks into the living room wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt, carrying a bag of Cheetos. She sits. She munches.

“Why are you eating Cheetos in your skivvies?”

“I don’t know. Just felt right.”

“Huh. It’s a good look for you.”

“Thanks.”

“What if you had to take the dog out? Would you go in your skivvies?”

“Probably.”

“How about to the mail box? Would you walk to the mailbox in your skivvies?”

“Probably.”

“Would you go without the cover of darkness?”

“Probably.”

“Cool. How about to the store? Would you go to the store in your skivvies?”

“Nope.”

“How about if someone offered you $20,000? Then would you go to the store in your skivvies?”

“Yep.”

“Yeah, me too. Would you go to the store in your skivvies and a birthday hat?”

“Why a birthday hat?

“I don’t know. They look dumb. Would you for $20,000?”

“Yep.”

“How about your skivvies, a birthday hat and a tube top?”

“How long would I have to stay in the store?”

“Long enough to buy some Tic-Tacs. Would you wear your skivvies, a birthday hat and a tube top into a 

store to buy some Tic-Tacs for $20,000?”

“Yes.”

"Yeah, me too. How about your skivvies, a birthday hat and pasties?”

“No.”

“For $20,000? Are you sure?”

“Definitely no.”

“Huh. I would. How about your skivvies and TWO birthday hats? No tape or string, just the two hats.”

“Where would I put my money?”

“I don’t know, in your teeth?”

“No. Money’s dirty. I’m not putting that in my mouth. Would you?”

“Hell yeah. For $20,000 I’d go naked. They’d have to give me the money upfront though, because I’d probably need bail money. Indecent exposure is a misdemeanor, right?”

“Yep. Unless there’s kids in the store. Then you go on the sexual offender’s list.”

“Hmph. Well that just changes everything. I’m sleepy.”

“Me too.”

Cut it Out

I recently became the proud owner of a very sharp, professional chef’s knife. When we purchased it, the salesman would not even allow me to carry it to the checkout counter. He did let me hold a variety of choices, but hovered over me like I was a terrorist with a box cutter. I’m not sure if that was for my protection or his, but either way it was weird. I could stab someone with a pencil if I really wanted to, so I’m not sure what all the precautions were about.

Yesterday Dewie was using my new knife to slice up some oranges. I was pulled to the kitchen by a particularly long string of expletives delivered in a panicked voice. By the time I arrived in the room, she was shaking and crying, unable to put together simple sentences.  Bear in mind that this is a grown woman; a fully adult mature human being.

“Hey, look at me. Calm down. Breathe. Did you cut yourself?”

“Y-y-y-y-essssss.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“Y-y-y-yessss.”

“Let me see. “ She shakes her head. “Dewie! Give me your hand.” She holds up her finger, tightly wrapped in her hand. There is no sign of blood yet. “Open your hand.” (sob, sob, sob) “Come on. Open your hand.”

I inspect the cut and it is bleeding, but not too badly. It’s just enough to pool and drip at a very slow rate. It’s one of those cuts with the useless flap of skin that gets caught on things and causes excruciating pain. It’s not deep at all, and it’s about half a centimeter long. “Alright. That flap of skin is probably going to die, so do you want me to cut it off now or try to save it?”

“No (sob) cut (sob).”

“Ok, wrap this paper towel around it and squish it really tight. I’ll be right back.”  As I dig through the linen closet looking for the first aid box I can hear her quietly mumbling “It hurts. It hurts. I’m going to bleed to death and die.” And I lose it. I’ve tried to be patient, but now it’s just funny. Still giggling, I spray the cut with antiseptic. This brings on the ridiculous reaction of whining and dancing around the kitchen. It’s still bleeding so I put a bandage around it.

Four hours later I ask her how it is and she holds up her purple band aid and says, “It’s still bleeding, see?” There is indeed a small blood stain that can be seen through the bandage. It’s dry.

“Honey, I think that’s old blood. It’s dried. If you were still bleeding, you’d be dead by now.”

“It still hurts. It feels like it should still be bleeding.”

“Let’s take a look.” She carefully peels the band aid off like she’s uncovering a surgery incision. It’s dried up and the skin flap is definitely dead. “Ok, you can leave this skin flap on, but it’s going to get caught on stuff and cause you a lot of pain. It’s also going to increase your chance of infection. It needs to come off.”

“But it’s good skin.”

“It’s dead. Healthy skin is not gray. Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I grab the first aid kit again and a pair of cuticle scissors. “Gimme your finger.” She lets out a whiny type sound. “Give it to me.” She slowly moves it toward me and I quickly lop off the skin flap with the scissors.

“Ow! Wait, that actually feels better.”

“Stay tuned.” I take out the bottle of new skin. “Ok, I’m going to fill this divot with new skin. It’s gonna sting like a bitch, but once it dries it’s going to feel much better.” She looks at me with squinchy eyes.

“It’s going to sting really bad?”

“I said, ‘like a bitch’, that means really bad.”

“No.”

“Take a deep breath.”

“No.” I drop a dab of New Skin in the cut. Dewie reacts like her finger is stuck in the mouth of a wild animal.

“Don’t wave it. Hold it still.”

“It would hurt less if you stabbed me in the face!”

“Shut up. You’re such a baby. Don’t move it until it’s dry.”

After 10 minutes of whining, she taps on the now hardened new skin.

“Hey. It feels fine now.”

Shocking.