Butt Water

The garlic bread was a dark shade of midnight, the oven had not preheated, and the washing machine had sprung a leak squirting soapy water all over the floor of the mudroom and kitchen when I finally took a moment to race to the upstairs computer and proofread a paper Josiah needed to email to his teacher by 6:00.

"Josiah," I vaguely heard Drake say as I concentrated on capitalization, "did you use my towel?"
"Maybe. I don't remember," Josiah answered.
"Don't use my towel," Drake told him.
"Why not?"
"I use it a couple of times before I put it in the wash, and I don't want to use it if you have used it too."
"It's not a big deal. I'm clean when I get out of the shower, so it shouldn't matter if you use it after me."
"I think it is a big deal, and I don't want you to use my towel," Drake said.

"Well, I think it isn't a big deal."
"Well, it is my towel, so don't use it."
"Josiah," I spoke over my shoulder after deciding that Josiah's logic in declaring that The Enlightenment was only somewhat enlightened needed a little tweaking, "don't use Drake's towel." Thinking my statement would shut down the argument that was brewing, I returned to the essay to insert some badly needed commas.

"I probably will," Josiah whispered just loud enough for the sound to penetrate my proofreading trance.
"Josiah!" I spun around, abandoning the proofreading and glaring at him with my frazzled mother stare. "I don't want you to use Drake's towel. Why is this an issue to you?"
"Well, I just think you guys are overreacting."
"Overreacting?" I took one deep calming breath. Then I launched. "Well, Mister, I'm not overreacting. It is hygienic. Don't use other people's towels. Hopefully you are clean when you get out of the shower, but you still use the towel to clean all your gross parts. And that water gets onto the towel. Drake doesn't want to use a towel that is full of your butt water. And you shouldn't use a towel full of his butt water."
"She said butt water," Josiah told Drake.
"You did, Mom," Drake laughed. "You said butt water."

They didn't stop laughing for a long, long time.

I sometimes work against myself. 

The Alternate Me

Sometimes, when I am home alone, I put on some classical music and take a long, hot shower. Then I contemplate which elegant dress I should wear to my dinner reservations, and I pretend that I know which wine to pair with dessert.

Then I laugh and laugh, pull on my son's sweatpants and attempt to take pictures of my hyperactive dog. After looking at the picture it becomes clear that, not only am I NOT dining at a fancy restaurant, my choice in outfit is apparently an attempt to offend the visual senses of anyone who isn't colorblind.

Maybe that IS why I'm not taken to many fancy restaurants. I believe that I should pay closer attention when dressing.

But I probably won't.

Dog Digs Dirt

Since chickengate, Arrow has had to be chained up. This comforts the neighbors but tortures my dog. And it tortures me because Arrow likes to dig. He digs like he is trying to get to China. This makes him a muddy mess and pretty much guarantees that I will accomplish almost nothing except to sweep up dirt.

One day it was wet and muddy, and I just couldn't deal with another muddy mess. So I made Arrow stay inside almost all day. He has too much energy to be inside all day. He ping-ponged around driving himself and me crazy.

I wrestled with him, chased him, threw a ball for him to catch, and I sweat more than I ever wanted to. Finally, he settled down, so I seized the opportunity to get some housework done.  

But what I thought was the glorious silence of a dog taking a nap, was actually the silence of a dog being very naughty. Because he found more dirt. It didn't matter to him that the dirt was in a pretty pot or helping to grow a pretty green plant. 

So Arrow got booted back outside for better or for worse. I feel guilty and he feels sad. Unless it snows. Then he feels deliriously happy. He plays with it, tries to eat the falling snow right out of the air, rolls in it, and naps in it like it is a comfy bed. It makes us all happy.

Chickengate

No amount of squeaky toys or tennis balls can persuade my dog to stay away from chewing items I consider completely off limits. He chews things that cause me to run away screaming.

When we moved to the country this behavior elevated. Not only did it happen more often, it got strange. One time I found him with a fish in his mouth. Another time it was the entire hindquarter of a deer. Then, months later, a rack of antlers.

My grandpa used to tell me a really gross story about a sly fox finding a chicken and consuming it voraciously leaving blood and feathers everywhere so that he could take a nice long nap. My grandpa was right. I think that fox is my dog.

My neighbor called and said something like, "Your BLEEP dog BLEEP BLEEP my chickens BLEEP dead chickens BLEEP BLEEP blood and feathers everywhere." Not a proud moment for us. Since we were out of town, my cousin had to go pick my bad dog up from my angry neighbor. He said it was hard to defend Arrow because there were feathers sticking out of his fur at all angles. A lot of feathers. It was as if he was planning on attending a costume party and wanted to dress as a chicken.

Not a proud moment.