The Upstairs Neighbor Part III


10:35 p.m. January 1, 2017

If you have read blog “Neighbor Part II” you are up to speed as to where this story is going to pick up. I don’t write like George Lucas and give you Part IV, V, VI, and then dovetail back around to I, II, and III. (don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Star Wars.)

Note the usage of the p.m. Yes, I am speaking of night time. Time when you are quiet. Time when I should not be listening to the sounds of anything coming from upstairs.

Monday, January 2 is a holiday for me, so I am taking advantage of the opportunity to stay up late. Sitting at my desktop surfing the internet, while watching/listening to a British documentary on Netflix about swingers, (another blog entirely) and I hear what sounds like drops of water falling.

I listen for a moment, and the sound continues.

My investigation leads me to my bathroom, where water is dripping from my ceiling, above my wall mounted cabinets. Yes, Deanna does have her water running in the tub, and come to think of it, it has been on for a while.

I grab a bowl and place it under the worst drip. Suddenly, water begins pouring from my ceiling vent. Off I go to get the largest, empty container a non-hoarder can have.

That container goes on the floor. As it collects the steady stream of water, I phone the After Hours office number. Is it an emergency? Hmm, water pouring into my bathroom from the upstairs apartment constitutes an emergency. Push 2. Leave message.

10:55 p.m. Water has been turned off upstairs and has stopped draining into my bathroom. My floor is wet, and the containers have water in them.

11:00 p.m. knocking at my door. It’s the maintenance man. I walk him to the bathroom and he immediately sees the problem. He informs me that he is going upstairs to find out what is going on.

Upstairs he goes.

Loud knocking. No response.

More knocking. No response.

Very LOUD knocking. No response.

Maintenance man comes back downstairs. Neighbors with large cardboard box are in parking lot looking around, and wondering what in the hell is going on. Looking up, they all see Deanna sitting on her patio, head down, and headphones on.

Maintenance man: Hello?

Maintenance man: Louder. Hello? Hello? Ma’am!

Neighbors literally begin throwing cardboard box up at her railing. Repeatedly. I can hear it hitting the railing.

Maintenance man: VERY LOUDLY. HELLO?! HELLO LADY! (I know, I hear Jerry Lewis in my head too)

I kid you not, the male neighbor has a flashlight on his person, and begins shining it up at her.

Ah, finally, she notices the crowd of 3 trying to get her attention. (I will note here that I am observing all this from my front window)

Maintenance man: I need to come up and look in your apartment. There is a water leak and I need to check it out.

Again, he goes upstairs.

A few minutes pass.  I hear him coming back down the stairs.

Knocking on my door.

Maintenance man: “Well, she said she didn’t overflow the toilet, and she didn’t fill the tub. There is a counter full of empty beer bottles, and she seemed more than a bit incoherent. Her bathroom floor is wet, and towels draped over the side of the tub are soaking wet. I think she overfilled her tub. She is a mess, so I didn’t feel comfortable staying up there. Leave your containers out tonight to catch any drainage, and I will talk to the apartment manager tomorrow about this situation.”

Lovely. This could explain her multiple declarations of love for me…

About an hour later, it sounded as if Bigfoot, and 8, overweight & drunk toddlers, collapsed above my living room. I haven’t heard much from her since then, but the little bit I have heard, leads me to believe she didn’t kill herself in the fall. Ironically, the former neighbor across from me did indeed die after a fall in his kitchen, so my thought process isn’t as far fetched as you might think.

This tenant is proving to be fodder for much blogging. And anger. Frustration. Annoyance. Etc., etc.

I am considering putting 1-800-CHOKE-DAT-HOE on speed dial.

Praying for tolerance –


The Upstairs Neighbor Part II


If you did not know, I have a Facebook page. Don’t say “Doesn’t everyone?” because no, not everyone does. This was the Status Update that I posted on December 28, 2016:

“It is very anti-climactic when you leave your upstairs neighbor a “gift”, and she didn’t come home last night. (The “gift” is a Dollar Tree trash can, container for cig butts, and 2 pkgs of bubble gum. I included the following note: Hello Neighbor. I am gifting you with a trash can & cig butt receptacle. Based on the amount of cig pack wrappers on my patio when I swept today, I don’t think you have one. Enjoy.)”

A bit of history. I have lived in my apartment for a little over 2 years.  For the first 2 years, I didn’t even realize I had anyone living above me. Recently, a single woman moved in. Within about 72 hours, I knew she existed. It was like having a group of drunk toddlers living above me. *See blog post “Neighbors” to get up to speed*

Today, January 1, 2017. As of 10 a.m. today, I had yet to meet my upstairs neighbor. She had been oddly quiet since I left the trash can for her. The note I left was so passive aggressive, that I assumed she might very well be plotting my demise.

10:30 a.m.  I take Sophie out for her morning urinary duties. I notice that my neighbor is sitting cross legged on her patio floor, cigarette in one hand, head down looking at her phone, and some huge earphones on her head. I am NOT going back inside until I have a few polite words with her to break the ice! Sophie roams at the end of her leash while I look like an idiot just standing there casually staring at her.

Finally, she looks up. I wave. She waves. I act like I am speaking with a deaf person, and make pointing motions to my ears. She obviously understands sign language, and pulls her headphones off.

Me: Hi. I just wanted to meet you, and say that I hope you didn’t take the gift of the trash can as a bad thing.

Her: Laughing. I loved it! See, (reaching down beside her and holding it up in the air) I am using it! I love it! I have mean meaning to say Thank You!

Me: I am so glad! I put gum in there, because who doesn’t like gum, so you would know that it wasn’t meant to be mean.

Her: No, I love it! I love you! You are wonderful!

Me: Well, umm, I just gave you a trash can…

Her: Laughing. I know, but I love it! I needed it! Thank you! I love you!

Me: My name is AGS.

Her: I’m Deanna.

Me: I just wanted to touch base. Oh, and one other little thing, when you are giving directions to your booty call from your patio, I can hear every word.

Her: Oh no! Embarrassed laughter. I am single…

Me: I’m single to, no worries. You might also want to pull your bed from against the wall, because I hear all that as well.

Her: Shrieks. Oh no! I am so embarrassed!

Me: Don’t be. I am just letting you know. You might be a government agent who works undercover or something and don’t realize I hear everything.

Her: Laughing.

Me: If you ever need anything, I am down stairs. I just wanted to meet you and say hello.

Her: Nice meeting you. I love you! Thank you again!

I would say that it went very well. I was curious as to how she could possibly love me since she just met me. I AM that lovable, but even this early declaration of love seemed strange.

At this point, you are probably thinking that we lived happily ever after, but you would be wrong.  10:45 p.m. Same day. That is another blog post.

Leaving you with palatable anticipation –




Neighbor: a person living near or next door to the speaker or person referred to.

I consider myself an extremely good neighbor. I have a lot of experience. From a college dorm, apartment, house, duplex, and apartment, I always kept/keep the comfort of my neighbor’s, forefront. (If you don’t think I was a good neighbor, just ask any of the cul-de-sac homeowners when I owned a house in Manteca, CA. The ones involved in a 1 am skinny dip party in one of the swimming pools will be prejudiced no doubt. The first few seasons of Knots Landing weren’t too far fetched…)

I digress. When living in an apartment, I am mindful of my noise level, the dog barking, and the loudness of all the gymnastics I involve myself in regularly. OK, I don’t do “activities” like referenced in the movie “Stepbrothers”, but I have never gotten a complaint. I am even thoughtful enough to keep my headboard a good 5 inches from the wall everywhere I have lived.

Note: When I was a home owner in the cul-de-sac, I actually made homemade bread and gifted loaves to the neighbors for Christmas. Yep, Betty Freaking Crocker here.

Fast forward to the present. I have lived here at Pine Knoll for 2 years. In that time, the apartment above me was so quiet that I questioned if I had neighbors. I only heard the sounds of sweet love-making one time. I did wonder if they were going to come crashing through the ceiling and land on me at one point, but overall, no complaints.

Today, I have what seems to be a single female, around my age, with no flipping idea that I live under her, residing above me. It’s going on 2 months, and Saturday, I think she must have been holding every piece of furniture in her hands, lost her balance, and fell. My son asked, “What in the heck is she doing up there?!” 3 weeks ago, she stood on her patio and gave directions to a VERY geographically challenged individual. I know, because I could hear every direction she gave, since she was standing directly above my bedroom window on her patio. He arrived with beer around midnight. Yes, I looked out to see who couldn’t find the turn at Church’s Chicken. I am a human being after all.

The rapid fire sounds of some sexually deprived people began at 1:40 am. I couldn’t sleep, so I laid in my bed wishing for an ice pick to stab my ears with. Thankfully, satisfaction was reached by 2 am. (I have reenacted the noise for a couple of co-workers, and am very adept at imitating the intensity of that night at any given time.)

She seems to be a night owl, so showers at the most insane hours is common.

Bits of her trash fall through her patio floor and land on my patio bistro table. (beer bottle caps, and the wrappers to her packs of cigarettes)

As you can imagine, AGS is not a happy camper. As you can also imagine, AGS is eagerly awaiting the moment she and I meet in the parking lot. Casually of course, and very neighborly. In a very neighborly fashion, I will make introductions, and you can bet your ass that I will sweetly let her know that I can hear everything. EVERYTHING. I will suggest she pull her headboard from against the wall depending on how it goes.

If you know me personally, you know I am very capable of reading people and playing correctly to the audience. The “chance” meeting just hasn’t offered itself up as of yet. The intensity level also hasn’t reached the point where I am stalking her in order to force the meeting.

I will keep you posted.

If you are a neighbor, be a decent one. Be polite & pleasant. The world already has enough dicks in it.

Oh, and DON’T sit and blow your vehicle horn to get someone to come out to you. Don’t. Everyone hates that.

Here’s hoping it’s a “booty call” free evening –





This past weekend, I spent some amazing time with some of my favorite people. (I will blog on that later)

One of the perks of hanging with my favorite people, is that sometimes, their offspring enter my atmosphere. Generally speaking, if I am kicking it with you, you are cool, and therefore, your kids have a higher chance of being cool as well. I can deal with cool offspring.

One of my tribe, A, birthed a super cool kid named Hannah. (Kristina, you are the bomb-diggity as well, but Hannah specifically asked for a shout out)

Let me give you one example of why Hannah is a super cool kid.  Hannah works for a movie theatre. This conversation took place as she was heading out to work on Saturday-

AGS: Hannah, can you bring me some popcorn?

Hannah: You want some popcorn?

AGS: Yeah, I would love some movie theatre buttered popcorn!

Hannah: I will bring you a tub of popcorn!

Hannah leaves for work. Hannah has a break a few hours later. Hannah does the following:

Gets her movie theatre popcorn bucket.

Washes it.

Goes to a popcorn machine.

Has a fresh batch of popcorn popped, and holds the tub up so the fresh popcorn falls directly into the tub.

Places hot, liquid butter in one takeout cup, and popcorn salt in another.

Brings the HOT popcorn, butter, and salt to me on her break.


Seriously?! Can a kid be any cooler?! (had it been a 6-pack of Taco Casa tacos, I might have possibly had a spontaneous orgasm)

*Tacoma, if you don’t know what that “O” word means, ask A.

Hannah recently turned 18, which means she was permitted to be my Facebook friend. She was very excited about reaching this milestone. My Facebook has settled down a lot since A considered it a too dangerous place for her under 18 children. I hope Hannah isn’t too disappointed.

So, this isn’t a blog where I have a rant about something. It’s a blog for my Hannah, because she asked for a shout out. Hannah, I hope you are happy with how I have immortalized you.

You are loved. I don’t do straight vodka shots to celebrate just anyone’s 18th birthday. I also have never offered to get ordained online so I can marry anyone, so consider yourself & Skylar elite. Stay in school, don’t do stupid things, be nice to people, and don’t text & drive.

Readers, I thank you for your patience if you have read this far. I don’t have to rant in every blog. Also, know that if I am asked to give a shout out, I take it seriously.

So until next time,


Sabbatical is over.


What a sabbatical.

I checked. My last blog was posted on September 19. Let me explain why.

This blog was designed for me to have some place to vent (basically bitch) about whatever got under my skin at any given time.

Enter the final months of the 2016 Presidential Race campaigning and social media.

Holy *. For the first time since I actively began using Facebook and Twitter, the amount of vitriol and hate mongering reached epic proportions.

A little background: I grew up in a house where anger & arguing were like taking a breath. It went hand-in-hand. “Fool!” “Idiot!” “Ignoramus!” “Stupid!” All words I heard uttered on a constant basis. There was always shouting to accompany the cornucopia of name calling. When I was growing up, it didn’t have the fancy label of “verbal abuse” yet. (I was born in 1968, but that last sentence makes it sound like I am a dinosaur)

The constant conflict was why I chaffed at the bit to get the hell out of my childhood home.

I always swore an oath to myself that I would NEVER call anyone “stupid”. I also swore that any children I might have, would be raised to think of “stupid” as a curse word that you did not utter under my roof.

*Note: I successfully raised 2 sons who do not use the word “stupid” in reference to others. Ever.

So, fast track to the present time, my childhood helped shape me into a person who hates conflict. Literally. I abhor it. It is even worse when I am forced to witness conflict between a man & wife. It makes me literally cringe and want to crawl into a hole and die.

I write a blog where I bitch about things. I was going to be adding negative, albeit in a humorous way, to the whole “jacked the hell up” news feed that I dreaded seeing each day. I just couldn’t do it. I did not want my blog to be another piece of negativity, to another person who might be as bothered by the current state of affairs as myself.

Tonight, I got a kick in the ass, from my most narcissistic friend. He said “Hey! Blog woman. That is a command, not an identifier.”

He was right. I do need to get my mojo back. The election is over. I have less dread checking out social media. The world is ready.

(He also might be slightly less narcissistic than he was a few months ago.)

I digress.

You really didn’t miss that much in the 50 days I was MIA. My oldest son turned 25, and I saw a dead body.

Oh, the dead body? Always leave them wanting more they say.


“Your past does not determine who you are. Your past prepares you for who you are to become.”

The Church Douchebag


Sunday morning. Ah, the day of the week that I reserve for sleeping in, no underwear, entire apartment vacuuming, dishwasher emptying, and my laundry. I am in quite the slump. Happily. Like a pig in mud.

I did the regular Catholic Church worship situation for almost 14.5 years. My ex-husband was a Catholic. After my divorce in 2005, I did what fundamentalist refer to as, “backslide”. I stopped attending church of any denomination. No particular reason.  Looking back, any church probably would have imploded as soon as I walked in it throughout the entire year of 2006.

Fast forward to 2013. Back in the Bible Belt, there is a church, or two, on every corner. After 27 years, I moved back to my hometown, and knew no one locally. I don’t go bar hopping, or hit the gym, so I thought that perhaps I could broaden my peer base through church attendance.

I had been invited to a church by a neighbor down the street. I decided one Sunday that I would go with her. I went. All I will say is that I kept falling asleep during the sermon, and it was well lit, so people noticed.

I attended two more times, and then stopped. This time, my reason was because I couldn’t stay awake and was embarrassed to be caught sleeping.

2016. I have been living my Sunday dream for a couple of years. The routine is still the same. I wear a bra now though because I moved to an apartment complex.

The winds of change have been blowing, and I was once again thinking about my peer base. Mind you, it’s not about quantity when it comes to friends, but quality. I had to get burned a few times to get that through my thick head. Eh, I don’t go paint and drink wine, still don’t bar hop or go to the gym. Netflix & Chill is my favorite weekend pastime, so the church idea comes up again.

I had been mulling over a local church, and thought about going for four weeks straight. I didn’t want to go alone and someone who shall remain nameless, J., bailed on me. This past weekend, the monthly “Women’s Night Out” happened.

*NOTE: This WNO is usually referred to as GNO, or Girls Night Out. It was pointed out to me that we ladies in our 40’s are WOMEN, not “Girls”. There is more to it, but you get the idea.

A. spent Saturday night with me. She agreed to go to the church service with me. She is a real trooper.

We made a pact the night before that we would actually get up, get dressed, and attend the 10:45 a.m. service. We successfully arrived at the church, in the rain, and began looking for a parking space.

I know I made Jesus sad, but this douchebag, in this douchebag SUV, literally parked in the middle of two spaces! I began to work in obscenities like they were oil paints and I was painting the Sistine Chapel. I have zero patience for idiots, and here I was, in the Lord’s parking lot, and the King/Queen of all Idiots was in my eyesight.

We found a park. We attended the service. We went back to my Ford. The King/Queen was still parked in the two spots. We actually sat and stalked the douchebag’s vehicle for 15 minutes, but the douchebag never came out. A. was working with a limited bag of trail mix, so we decided to drop it and go get lunch.

I took photos. You can see for yourself the level of douche I was dealing with. Do I feel bad that I lit up the sky like the 4th of July with my verbiage? Yeah, for a little while I did. My Chipotle steak bowl made me forget about my feelings.

*NOTE: Emotional eating is never ok.

Until next time –


Netflix, Friends, and my OCD


I have some OCD tendencies. Mild OCD if you Google the definition. My desk at work, things have to be in a precise place and I notice if something is moved. It will bother me until I put it back in its place. I can’t just wash one hand, I have to get both hands wet. I can’t have trash in my vehicle. I can’t stand the feel of lotion on my hands. I need to move the furniture when I vacuum. My home accouterments must be in precise places and I will literally start to flip out inside my head if one of them is moved, etc., etc.

Trust me, I have gotten a thousand times better than I was. I didn’t allow my children to get spaghetti until they were older toddlers because of the mess. Messy children make me flip out in my head too.

I have given you some background, and now let me explain the correlation between the Netflix, Friends, and my OCD.

When a lot of the population watched Friends when it originally aired in 1994, including me, I didn’t notice so much. Now, the entire series is on Netflix, and I have watched it about 4 times in it’s entirety (236 episodes) and am on Season 9 as of this writing.

When TV series premier after the summer hiatus, you have forgotten small details about the last episode you saw.

I have the very bad habit of noticing little nuances when watching series with less than 2 minutes between seasons.

Friends is my current OCD “bone of contention” if you will. Let me share a couple of things that are putting my OCD into overdrive over this long holiday weekend:

  1. Season 6 – Chandler is overly chubby. I know that in real life, Matthew Perry was battling an addiction to alcohol & drugs. By the final episode of that season, he was just chubby, chubby, chubby. Season 7 picks up right where 6 left off, and Chandler is almost anorexic. I know that you can’t help dealing with your personal demons in the public eye, but it’s doing a number on my OCD. Spoiler, he gains weight back over the 24 episodes, and naturally, I notice it.
  2. Season 9 – Phoebe’s hair. Dear Lord, I just want to reach into the TV and shave her head! Lisa Kudrow had beautiful hair in the early seasons, but in Season 8, she was stretching it. By Season 9, her bangs and end look like crispy fried chicken. Granted, throughout the series, Phoebe rocked hairstyle like no one else ever has, but man, it looked abused by Season 9. *Let me add here that I wish we lived in a world of Phoebe clones instead of a world of cloned Kardashians.

Those are two of the things that my OCD fixated on like a laser beam. Don’t get me started on the transformation of Patricia Heaton in Everybody Loves Raymond when I watched it in its entirety on Netflix earlier this year…

Thankfully, my OCD does not cause me to love Friends any less. I still “laugh out loud” to many episodes that are as well-worn as an old shoe. I did hit the “Back to Browse” option today while I moved furniture and vacuumed.

I must close now. Phoebe and Mike have a box of rat babies at Rachel’s birthday party over at Monica’s place. Nothing could go wrong there.


Humidity & Me


Humidity: the state or quality of being humid. A quantity representing the amount of water vapor in the atmosphere or a gas.

NOTE: Every * is a substitute for a curse word. THE curse word. The mother of curse words. I can paint a tapestry with * but I chose to shield you from a total obliteration of your faculties because it would make Jesus happy.

Let’s talk about humidity. I *ing hate humidity. Heat I can handle, but *ing humidity, literally makes me angry.

To give you some idea of my acclimation, I work in an office where the a/c is set at 72’ *ing degrees all the time. I spend a good 8 hours absorbing moisture-free, cold air, and generally exhibit “chicken skin” from being cold. This is what my body is adjusted to for the majority of my day.

My main environment leads me to believe I live in a humid-free world, and I happily buy into that. Some days, my acclimation back to reality are better than others. The worst *ing day this summer thus far was last week. I opened the door at 5 pm to walk to my SUV, and my glasses fog up. “What the *?! Seriously?! My glasses are fogging up!”

I drive to Albertsons. I open my car door and begin walking to the automatic doors. Glasses. Fog. You get the idea. “*****!”

I curse inside my head from the automatic doors to my SUV. The Dollar Tree is next. Lord knows Dollar Tree doesn’t even have what can be in any way defined as “air conditioning” in their stores. Standing in line behind a woman with 56 *ing items for a baby shower, the *ing sweat begins at my bra strap and slowing slides down into my *ing jeans. I HAVE THREE *ING ITEMS AND I AM ABOUT TO SHANK A BITCH!”

From Dollar Tree to my SUV. SUV to my front door.

I swear, I was ready to commit a *ing homicide by that time. This is the part of the story where you think I am able to go inside my apartment and chill. You would be wrong. Sophie has to pee. Back outside I go and today she decides to screw the * around. My hair is literally growing to what seems to be *ing epic proportions. I can feel it absorbing the moisture and expanding. I wore it down. It’s not even pulled back off of my face.

It is *ing ludicrous that I live in this atmosphere. My hair is completely *ed up constantly and “humid homeless” isn’t as *ing attractive as one might think.

We won’t even touch on the fact that I have oily skin… not getting wrinkles as I grow old isn’t really the “bonus” it would seem to be in *ing humid conditions.

A. heard this rant this past weekend. She thought it might be therapeutic to write it down. Based on the use of asterisks, I curse much LESS when I write than I do when I am verbalizing.

My retirement needs to be spent in a dry *ing climate. My hair has done fabulous things in Flagstaff, AZ. North CA makes for great hair as well. My hair was very full in Shanghai, China.  And in Chicago in the winter. Jamee suggested Colorado. A. didn’t give her input on a state or country. Florida is out of the question for obvious reasons.

I see where that paragraph could go for days.

To sum it up, I *ing hate humidity. I honestly try to keep the bitching inside and just curse in my head. Sometimes it comes out, but the majority of the time, unless I am with my girlfriends, it remains inside eating away at my soul. You are welcome. I might need psychiatric help in a few years.

Damn it. Sophie needs to go to pee. It’s humid outside. **************************!!!


My Shower Escapade or Sophie Sucks as a Service Dog

sophie blog

I was showering tonight and I decided that tonight was the night I was going to clean the shower curtain liner. A. is coming to visit on the 20th, and she is spending the night. I like to present my sleepover guests with clean surroundings here in “Sanctuary de Simon”.  Also, never ask an OCD person why, just nod and go with whatever ridiculous thing they are talking about.

So, picture me naked in my shower. No, skip that. I don’t need to give you a reason to go running for the brain bleach, or committing the sin of lusting in your mind. *insert laughter*

I am in the shower, and I have washed to an amazing level of squeaky clean. I notice as I am screwing around with my hand-held shower head, that my shower liner had soap build up on the bottom portion of it. What does an OCD person do? Clean it right then and there of course!

The shower head comes in handy for a multitude of sins, *cough*, I mean, things, and cleaning is one of them. I am bending over, spraying water and making quite a soapy mess on the tub floor. Vigorously I rub to get the built up soap off. So vigorous in fact, that I lose my balance, and go crashing under the curtain and ½ out of the bathtub. My head and breasts are on the mat outside the tub, while my legs are askew in the air above the tub.

I laid there for a few minutes, listening for the sounds of my faithful companion coming to check on me. Minutes passed and I dare say, there never was the jingle jangle of Sophie’s collar at all. Now, Sophie is a black Labrador, and there is no doubt that she feels oppressed here in her apartment all day while I work to keep her happy. Is she punishing me for her oppression? Was this the time that I was going to have the question answered I have asked many times before, “Would Sophie start eating me if I died and nobody knew?”

It didn’t help that I, we, had watched “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” less than an hour before. I felt like Blanche and Sophie was all too well playing the part of Baby Jane Hudson.

Not content to just go on and get my ass up, I milked it a little longer to see if Sophie would investigate. As I lay there, I loudly proclaimed, “White Lives Matter.” Nothing. She didn’t budge. I am over this situation, so I get up, get back in the shower to wash off, and finished up my nightly rituals.

I headed into the bedroom and there lay sleeping beauty, hogging up the entire right side of the queen bed. I swear she smirked a little as she opened one eye to watch me walk towards her.

I learned a few things tonight-

  1. Sophie would suck ass as a service dog.
  2. The bathtub mat should be in use during cleaning shower sessions of any kind.
  3. Laying on a hard floor boobs down is not very comfortable.
  4. It’s amazing how much water a rouge hand-held shower head can spray onto a bathroom floor.
  5. Black Labs Matter and should be spoiled rotten regardless if the question of, “Will Sophie eat me if I die?” goes unanswered.

I am off to take 2 Tylenol and perform our nightly “one minute-one act play”. It stars Sophie and myself. I crawl into bed, and extend my legs under the cover, into my usual area. (Sophie is laying atop the comforter directly on top of my designated area.) She pretends to be greatly put off by this, and with great aplomb, rolls over to her space, and lets out a loud, overly dramatic sigh. I then secure my sleeping position and the curtain drops.

Nightly. We perform this every night. Do I ever get tired of it? No, and just between you and me, I wouldn’t have it any other way.


Farewell Areola

blog art 1

“The Woman Who Loved Sophie Too Much”, AKA, “Areola”, has moved out of the apartment next to me. I am sure Sophie is more upset than I am. Not only did her breasts almost flop out onto Sophie’s head every time she would pet her, but she always had dog treats she passed out like they were free. (she worked at PetCo, so maybe she knew something I didn’t…)

I just intimated that Sophie was happy to have boobage almost plopping on her head…. I don’t know that Sophie likes that at all. We don’t role play that when we are home alone. I am speaking more from my perspective as the dog owner who was fearful this was about to happen on a regular basis.

Sidenote: I almost told her to just flop one of them out on the day she told Sophie goodbye. Just because. I grinned the entire time she was bent over thinking about saying it.

I always thought that perhaps she didn’t have all the synapses connecting because she missed a lot of “normal” social cues. For example, it’s 5:30 pm on a weekday. I arrive home carrying a Jucy’s Taco bag and a large drink. What would you do in this situation if you walked out of your door and saw me?

1. Walk to my door and stand there telling me how glad Sophie must be to have me home since she is barking her head off. “She must be so happy because she hadn’t barked all day long. I heard her barking and came outside to check and see if you were home. Sure enough, it’s you. She is so excited for you to be home.” Etc., etc.

2. Smile, perhaps even wave, and go back inside your own apartment so I can get inside mine and eat while my food is hot.

Typically, one would choose option 2 because that is what considerate people do, or people of have a strong grasp of social etiquette.

Another strange thing was that she was in the process of getting her driver’s license. She was 25 and had failed the driving test twice. Her husband, who is 63, and her old college professor, bought her a brand new SUV as incentive. She did all her driving with her husband as her co-pilot, as required by Texas law. Her husband took a job in Houston, thus the relocation, and he let her navigate her SUV back and forth to Houston in the months ahead of the move. One day I was forced into small talk and mentioned that she was going to be driving in Houston. Her response was, “Oh, I love driving in Houston! I just go get in this one lane, and zoom, I am passing everybody!”.

1. One does not simply ever love driving in Houston. Ever.

2. I don’t think she realizes that she can’t use the HOV lane once she gets her DL and is driving solo

It’s been a full week since they moved. I haven’t waxed melancholy yet. My gut instinct is that I won’t. My son walked to my apartment for lunch today and texted me while I was at work, “If you play your cards right, your new neighbors might just give you a beer out of their cooler which they have set up right outside the door.” Ah, new neighbors. I have mediocre hopes that they are cool & fabulous. Like me.