Temper Tantrum

I woke up feeling like I needed to be productive today. Still in my jammies and my bare feet I gathered all the laundry from various rooms and carried it to the utility room. I was met with a full basket of clean clothes that haven’t been folded and clean clothes in the dryer. I start to feel a twinge of aggravation flaring up in my gut, but I push it aside while I gather the clean clothes and bring them to the closet to be folded.

We have a very limited amount of space and I have developed a carefully planned system for storing clothes. The majority of our clothes are folded neatly and stored in cubbies. It only takes a few items out of place for the whole thing to look like rabid dingo has made a nest in the closet. I sigh as I look at the wall of what was beautifully folded clothes. There are sleepy pants in the t-shirts, work shirts in the good shirts and nearly half of the clothes are folded stupid. That itch of aggravation is growing into anger. Damnit, Dewie! Realizing I can’t repair it, I just take everything off the shelves and start refolding it. The more I fold the angrier I get.

I’m about halfway through the pile when Dewie shuffles in all sleepy eyed and happy. This makes me even angrier. What in the hell does she have to be so damn happy about?! She rubs her eyes and innocently rasps, “Morning babe. You doing laundry?” Oh, it’s on now.

“I was trying to do laundry, but apparently someone can’t manage to put anything where it goes. Or fold anything right. Or fold anything at all. Why are your clothes all mixed up and folded stupid?”

“I don’t have enough room.”

“You’d have room if you actually FOLDED anything.”

“I can’t fold them like you.” She sweeps her arm toward the wall of clothes like she’s showing a brand new living room set on The Price is Right. “It looks like a damn department store!”

“You could if you tried. You just don’t want to. And why was there two loads of clean laundry in the utility room?!”

“I needed underwear.”

“Ok, new rule! If you wash it, you fold it and put it away! You know what? Even better, you’re banned from laundry!” Wait, what? Crap. I know as soon as it comes out of my stupid face that I have made a tragic mistake. That same carefree grin slides back over Dewie’s face.

“Ok.”

And thus my idiotic tantrum reaps its just reward. 

Dog Business

It was lovely outside yesterday. For some strange reason we have enjoyed cooler weather this week with a refreshing breeze and bright, sunny skies. My favorite time of day is late afternoon when the sun is starting to sink and the earth is lit in a beautiful golden light. It’s like nature’s dimmer switch. It was on such a perfect day and such a perfect time that Dewie and I set off on our nightly dog walk. Scout had already obediently relieved herself in the vacant lot on our street and we were on the back side of the block when we approached the house with actual sod. The grass is so appealing that Scout can’t help but throw herself to the ground and roll around in it. She does this nearly every single day.

A couple of years ago, the house with the sod was one of the unlucky ones on the block that suffered the wrath of the falling tree epidemic. Though the house itself has been nicely repaired, it has remained strangely empty while its residents occupy what can only be described as a two story shed. I don’t know the whole story there, but I would wager that it involves jackassery of the highest caliber and a family whose collective IQ might form one normal person.

Yesterday, as Scout dropped to roll, I noticed there was a scowling man standing beside his truck outside the barn-shed with his arms crossed. Thinking nothing of it, I waved at him and went about my conversation with Dewie.

As we walked closer to him, the man yelled out, “Keep your damn dog out of my yard!” A little taken aback, I initially thought that this man must be someone I know who is messing with me. I try to get a good look at him, but he is in no way familiar.

So, I call back, “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

“I SAID KEEP YOU DAMN DOG OUT OF MY YARD!! I’m tired of stepping in dog shit when I park my truck over there!” Ok, so clearly I don’t know this guy and he is a first class douche bag. We pass this house every day. Scout rolls in his yard every day. She has never pooped here, and there has never been a truck parked there.

“She wasn’t actually in your yard, and she has never crapped by the road in front of your house.”

“I was standing here the whole time! I saw what she did!!” Ok, now the adrenaline is flowing. It’s go time.

“If you were standing there the whole time, you clearly don’t know the difference between crapping and rolling. Besides, she is on a 6 foot leash. The city owns 5 feet from the street. Since you were standing there the whole time (yes, I did imitate him when I said that. Sometimes anger brings our my inner 5 year old) then you could clearly see that my feet were on the street, so technically it is not possible for her to have been in your yard (yes I did it again, I know)!” It’s then that I notice that I have actually taken several giant steps toward the man and I am actually standing in his driveway. The man pushes off the truck he was leaning on and hobbles into the house. His limp is pronounced and his hip seems to be the culprit. The thought actually enters my head that I could probably take him. I mean his balance isn’t that good. I am strangely disappointed when he walks away. How dare he walk away from me when I’m winning!

We spend the remainder of our walk talking about the crazy man and what a horribly unhappy little person he must be. I very briefly consider taking a dump in a bucket to leave on the edge of his yard so he is clear about what crap actually is. It occurs to me that in a sick way I actually enjoyed the encounter. I am getting confrontational in my old age. If things keep progressing this way, I have a feeling I’m going to be one of those mean, belligerent old people. Fortunately for me, elderly people get a pass on terrible behavior. I think I’m going to need it. 

Egg-sactly!

Grocery shopping is usually one of my favorite pastimes. Let’s face it. I enjoy food. A lot. I also enjoy putting together delicious dishes with as little money as possible. It’s become a kind of a game for me. I spend the morning perusing the ads online and make a game plan as to which stores I am going to patronize and in what order. I know it’s sad, but it gives me a buzz. I love it.

This afternoon, my last stop was Publix. It’s one of my favorites because it’s clean, well lit, beautifully merchandized and the customer service is amazing. I also know when they get their shipments so I can snag the freshest produce and hit the amazing “buy one get one” sales before they’re sold out. Yes, I have put THAT much effort into this. Today however, Publix was a madhouse. It’s Thursday and I’m already aware of the sales, so I can’t fathom any reason for the crowd. I decide to brave it anyway. Apart from the masses of rude people, everything seems pretty normal, until I get to the dairy case.

I round the corner to pick out some eggs and the whole area is demolished. It looks like a midget has been river dancing on the shelves. There’s broken eggs on the floor and strewn over into the yoghurt cups. Almost all the cartons are open with smashed shells stuck to the inside. I’m so shocked that I muse out loud, “What the hell is up with the eggs?”

An adorable old woman in turquoise linen capris and matching blouse walks up beside me. I notice her white hair is wound into a perfect French twist as she reaches over and pats my arm as only little old ladies do.  I immediately feel bad for swearing in front of her but before I can apologize she croaks, “It’s Easter, dear.”

“That’s right, I forgot about that. What is wrong with people?”

The little old lady leans in close enough for me to smell the peppermint on her breath and points to the wreckage in front of her. “You said it, dear. They’re fucking animals. You’d think people will die if they don’t color their damn eggs.”

Pure joy. I love old people. 

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I’ve never been a big fan of newspapers, mainly because they are printed on ridiculously large paper and unless you’re reading it at a table the size of an airplane wing they’re just awkward to handle. Admittedly, I acquire most of my news online. There’s really only one problem with this; almost every single news site online offers a space for the ignorant masses to voice their idiotic opinions.  I know I don’t have to read them, but something in me needs to be reassured that there are reasonable, educated people left in this country. Unfortunately these comments are peppered with stupid, offensive, borderline literate musings that make me long for the days when I could just skip the editorial page.  I can’t help myself; I have to read them even though they often leave me feeling hopeless and skeevy. Here are the worst offenders:

1.     The “everything comes back to politics” people

It could be an article on bird flu, stupid baby names, or the discovery of a rare dinosaur bone. Inevitably, there will be people that blame this on either Obama or the conservative party. I’m pretty sure neither liberals nor conservatives had any hand in naming a kid “Apple” or conspired to hide and then find a rare fossil to further their careers.

2.       Trolling

Because there are no consequences for running your mouth or purposefully picking a fight with someone over the internet, those people who can’t win a fight in real life pick one online. It’s never been funny in the past, and it is not funny now. You know if they said that crap in real life, they would be rewarded with a throat punch.  They know it too. That’s why they stick to the web.

3.       The “every problem in the world can be solved with Jesus” people

Often this is a response to real social issues like gangs, rapists, murderers, etc. Sure. If only Ted Bundy and Charles Manson had been approached by a Jehovah’s Witness, none of that unpleasantness would have happened. I don't know why experts on the human mind have never thought of this! Religion can’t fix mental illness any more than prayer can mend a broken leg. This kind of dismissive attitude is incredibly dangerous and infuriating.

4.       The “conspiracy” people

Not everyone is trying to trick you. You are paranoid and probably smoke too much weed. Sometimes it really is just a coincidence.

5.       The “why did I read this article, this is not news” people

Now, clearly you were interested or you wouldn’t have clicked on it. Did you open the link just so you could berate people that like a little human interest or sleazy celebrity story? You’ve created quite the hypocritical conundrum.  We all bow to you, oh superior one. We look to you to determine our own moral compasses, for you are clearly the most evolved person on the planet. Feel better?

If only they would print newspapers on reasonably sized paper…

Cry Me a Whole Handful

I recently finished the first two books in The Hunger Games series and although they’re not my usual cup of tea, I have to say that I did enjoy them. I was especially impressed that even being young adult novels, they contained such superb character development that the events in the books literally moved me to tears. Several times.  Since I had to wait until payday to download the third book onto my kindle (I’ve reached my budgeted book buying quota for this week), I thought I would talk Dewie into reading the first two. I thought she would enjoy them given her obsession with the show Spartacus. Take out the soft porn, replace the gladiators with kids and throw in a little Beyond the Thunderdome, and it’s eerily similar. I was right. She was hooked.

Dewie tends to be fairly sensitive. When we watch sad movies she’s always the first to start sniffling, especially if it involves kids. Being the evil schemer that I am, I decided I would monitor her progress in the books, estimate when she got to the sad parts, wait for her to cry, and make fun of her.

The next evening, the two of us were lying in bed reading. Knowing a tear-jerker moment was quickly approaching, I casually asked her what was happening in the book. Not bothering to look up, she simply muttered, “Wasps.” I looked at the clock, and estimated an hour, maybe a little less until the first moment of pure, pitiful sadness. About an hour later she puts the kindle down and declares that she’s tired. Confused and a little disappointed, I ask her again where she is in the book.

“Rue just died.”

Ok, now I’m just annoyed. “You didn’t find that… sad?”

“Yeah, it was sad.”

“You didn’t get a little misty eyed, you know with the flowers and the bread and what not?” She just looks at me with this stupid blank look on her face. “You didn’t get to that, did you?”

“No, she just died.”

I’m completely exasperated. “You just stopped in the middle of that?”

“I’m sleepy.”

“Now it’s going to be all anti-climactic. You can’t stop there. You ruined the moment!”

She turns over and pulls the covers up around her neck. “So, I’ll back up a few pages tomorrow.”

I huff like a petulant child. “It won’t be the same!”

“I’m closing my eyes.”

The next night, she finishes the first book and moves on to the second. Again I wait for it. I know it’s coming because she’s making a frowny face and again I’ve estimated when she will approach one of the saddest parts of the story. After 5 minutes or so, her face relaxes and the frown disappears.

“What just happened? “

“Katniss just made her little speech and they just shot the old man.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“The old man did the whistle thing and everyone in the crowd did the whole kiss the three finger salute and everything?”

“Yep.”

“Have you no soul?”

“What?”

“HOW ARE YOU NOT CRYING?!”

“It was sad and little disturbing, but I don’t know, it just wasn’t ‘crying’ sad.”

“You have a cold, black heart you know that?”

She laughs at me and turns over. “I’m closing my eyes…”

“Fine.”

The next evening, I’m lying in bed reading alone and Dewie shuffles into the bedroom, wiping her eyes.

“I just got to the part where they whipped Gale. It was so sad.”

For a second I’m perplexed. “Really? You thought that was sad enough to cry?”

She looks up and shows me her pronounced frown and trembling bottom lip. It’s the most exaggerated sad face I’ve ever seen. A sob rips through her chest and she pounds the bed with her fist. “WHY? WHY? WHY??”

I just look at her. “Really? You pulled out the Kerrigan ‘why?’” She starts to giggle. “I’m going to bed.” I tell her, “ You and your soulless, cold, black heart are welcome to join me.

“I can’t stop here, it would be anti-climactic. I don’t want to ruin the moment.”

“I’m closing my eyes…”

Dreaming of Donkeys

“I wonder why tooth paste foams. Does it have soap in it, and if it does, is that really something I want in my mouth? Oh, probably peroxide. It foams when it comes in contact with catalase which is in saliva. Does all toothpaste have peroxide in it? I should pay attention to that…” My thoughts were cut short by the sound of my name echoing through the house, the annoyance in her voice making it shrill. Dewie should really settle down, you know with the high blood pressure and all. I spit the toothpaste foam into the sink.

“What? I’m brushing my teeth!”

“Well hurry up, your damn donkey’s at the window and he’s gumming up the glass again.” This makes me smile. I’ve always wanted a donkey, and now I finally have one. Just the thought of his scruffy little face makes me grin.

“Tell him I’ll be down in a sec.” I rinse my mouth and swish the toothpaste out of the sink. I turn the water off and listen. “DEWIE! I don’t hear you telling him!”

“I’m not talking to a donkey.” Ridiculous. I mean he speaks English.

“Fine. Let him slobber up the window.”

I slip into some flip flops and head downstairs. As I enter the kitchen sure enough, there was Lester nipping at the window.  I spin around to face Dewie. “He just wants his sandwich.”

“I got the bread out for you.” Following her finger to the loaf on the counter, my mouth curls downward in a frown.  Dewie’s eyebrows rise above her glasses. “What?”

“He likes the wheat bread.”

Dewie looks at me like I just crapped in her shoe. “Seriously?”

“Well, he does.”  I switch out the loaves and smear a thick layer of peanut butter on the wheat bread, then top it with another slice, mushing it flat with my palm. Opening the window, I reach out and scratch Lester’s course chin. “You want your sammich, little fella? What do you say?”

Lester stomps his foot, huffs and lets out a frolicking, “Heeee-Haw!”

“That’s a good boy. And who’s your favorite human?” Lester jerks his head to the side and nudges my hand. He pushes his velvet nose into my palm. “That’s right. I am. And who’s the evil human who can’t be bothered to make you a peanut butter sammich?”  Lester narrows his eyes and pulls his lips back showing his perfect square, flat teeth. He takes a deep breath and looks right at Dewie and says, “That bitch. ”

It’s my fantasy, I can make him talk if I want to. 

There's No "I" in Polygamy

I recently watched the first season of Sister Wives on Netflix. I don’t necessarily have an issue with the idea of polygamy as a general idea. I’ve seen numerous documentaries featuring group family structures that seem to work for everyone involved, and you know, whatever floats your boat. However, the religious based brand of crazy that these people are selling is fraught with underlying issues that everyone seems to be blissfully ignoring. The biggest problem I see with Cody and his four lovely wives is that there is only one practicing polygamist in the group. The wives are very much monogamous. This creates an imbalance of power that leaves me unsettled at best.  

Let’s start with Cody. At first he seems like a decent guy, but it quickly becomes clear that he uses this bazaar lifestyle and creation of an unnatural number of children to stroke is fragile male ego. Fluffing his age inappropriate, scraggly surfer boy hair, complete with receding hairline, he clearly thinks that he is hilariously charming but is so full of himself that he doesn’t even notice that he's the only one laughing at his jokes.  When asked by his first wife how he would feel if she was showing attention to another man, he replies, “The vulgarity of you taking on another lover is an idea that I’m not even comfortable thinking about. It makes me sick. I realize that may seem somewhat hypocritical, but you chose this lifestyle.” No, Cody, it doesn’t sound SOMEWHAT hypocritical, it is completely hypocritical, but I think he inadvertently hit the nail right on the head. No one in that family wants to address the huge white elephant that everyone is so persistently sidestepping. No one is happy. Except Cody.  It becomes clear that the only real emotional satisfaction the women experience comes from their relationship with each other rather than their relationship with Cody. These women have accepted their role in this shenanigan and are making the best of it. Although they sing the praises of their lifestyle and insist that they are happy, they make it painfully clear that there is a difference between being comfortable and being happy.

Having 13 children, Cody has basically worn out his wives, except for the first wife who only had the one child, but her perpetually red, bloated skin leads me to I suspect that she’s a raging alcoholic. Having sufficiently fattened up his other wives and driven the first one to drink, he takes on a fourth younger, marginally more attractive wife. This causes upheaval in family, showcasing what everyone but the participants already know, that Cody is really the only one that’s ok with this arrangement.  Cody dismisses the issues like he does all the others by saying that, “Change is scary. Everything will settle down. I haven’t courted in 16 years, this is new for everyone.” Well that’s clear that it’s new to you by your continuous use of the word “courting.” Froggy goes a courtin. People date.  The sister wives use little unimportant events such as Cody picking out the new wife’s wedding dress to showcase their displeasure. So you feel betrayed by him because he picked out a dress? Let’s dig a little deeper, ladies.

One of the most disturbing scenes for me was watching the gaggle of little girls playing with Barbies. You guessed it. Four Barbies, one Ken. Then one complains that she doesn’t get enough time to play with Ken and the new wife pipes up, “Just like Daddy has to split his time with your four mommies, you have to share Ken’s time too.” Christ lady, please don’t set these little girls’ moral equilibrium on “freak show.” Get them another freaking Ken doll. I might have felt better about the whole thing if just one little girl took her Barbie across the room and played with it alone, but she was perfectly willing to sacrifice her dignity and share a Ken. 

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.