Saturday, March 21, 2009

One day I'll be infected

My adventures with toxoplasmosis gondii effing continue. Why can’t I get away from this germy-virus thing?

Our neighborhood is a veritable dog buffet of cat shit since all the feral and “outdoor” cats poop willy-nilly in the sandy soil. Joy to Blanche DuBois, champion of munching all things disgusting!

I do try to keep her away from cat poop, but she’s so low to the ground that it’s hard to tell when she’s sniffing to mark her territory or sniffing to snatch a turd. She’s eaten many a cat turd on my watch, but yesterday I snapped.

Blanche found herself a whopper of a poop fest, and I flipped out. I wrenched her mouth open and started to pull the poo from her mouth. Ever tried this particular maneuver? The poo is slimy and doesn’t want to come out—it’s not like grasping a twig or something reasonably solid. She had worked it down pretty far, so as I held her mouth open with one hand and yanked with the other, she gagged and tried to twist away.

Successful in extracting the turd, I didn’t feel vindicated. I looked at my right hand and thought, “What have I done?” My right hand was covered in semi-moist cat shit. It was my turn to gag. I nearly did vomit, and I held my hand as far from my face as I could. I choked, walking to a palm tree to wipe my hand on its leaves, but this didn’t really cure the waves of nausea.

I yanked the dog leash and wrestled Blanche home, her own necessities be damned. New dilemma: my house key was in my right pocket, and my right hand was covered in gritty shit. I banged on the front door with my left elbow. Twice. Finally Matthew acted goofy and looked through the curtains at me. “Open the damn door!” He obliged and walked away.

“My hand is covered in cat shit. Take the dog. I have to clean up.”

“What?” he asked.

“I got mad at her for always eating cat turds so I reached in her mouth and pulled one out,” I explained. “Now I regret it because I’m absolutely disgusting.”

I let go of her leash and headed for the sink. I used the dish scrubber, dish soap, and a follow-up of bleach. I still felt unclean, though I was probably technically sanitized. I felt I could never use my right hand again because it would always be tainted by that notorious toxoplasmosis carrier, cat feces.

Unhelpfully, Matthew didn’t come to the rescue. I was so mad at the dog I could barely look at her, but he didn’t help. He left her leash on her and didn’t feed her, leaving me to finish the dog walk routine, even though I yelled at him to take care of her.

I didn’t want to touch her, didn’t want to get near her mouth, didn’t want her to belch after dinner, didn’t want her to fart—didn’t want to be anywhere near the organism that reminded me of my terrible fear of infection by toxoplasmosis. But, I did it. If Matthew wasn’t helping, it didn’t mean that her care wasn’t over.

Her sit and stay routine before being rewarded with access to her food was harsher than normal, but what was I supposed to do? Overlook the fact that I had just scrubbed gooey cat shit from under my fingernails?

I still haven’t forgiven her, and this morning I pushed her face away from me every time she got too close. I felt a twinge of guilt for being mad at her for doing something that comes naturally to dogs, but I just couldn’t deal with my emotional connection to her mouth.

I am resolved to be nice to her tonight, but I am not particularly pleased. That mouth still represents colossal horror.

Asshole's revenge

I have a large proboscis. I’m OK with it now, but I really had to grow into my nose, both physically and emotionally.

As a pre-teen, I was teased mercilessly by my peers. They made my life at school a terrible hell, but I obviously survived their cruelty.

My best friend toward the end of middle school was Gretta. She had one of those super cool older sisters that even though she was still in high school; she only hung out with college-age guys. The guys didn’t like me, but they mostly ignored me.

One dreadful sunny day, the college guys turned on me. “Chris ‘nose’ everything,” they taunted. I couldn’t believe adults would be so awful—I thought they were supposed to be mature. “Get it, Chris ‘nose’ everything,” they said over and over.

I played dumb to protect my broken ego—I pretended they said “knows.” Over and over I politely defended myself. “I don’t know everything.”

“No, no, get it? Chris ‘nose’ everything.” Laughter.

I stubbornly continued to protest until they eventually gave up their game—which took them way too long to tire of.

I haven’t heard anyone comment on my nose in years, though it’s still a rudder on my face. I will try to say I outgrew caring, but I know that if someone taunted me again, I’d cry on the inside.

Those jerk-wads have their revenge now. I have a dog that “nose” everything. Blanche must touch everything with her nose. Whether it’s your hand she’s sliming with her wet nose as you type, your laptop, the software I tried to peacefully install this morning, she must give it a good sniff.

Those ass-hats may have been totally out of line, but I kind of ‘know’ what they felt now. My nose my have irrationally irritated them or have just provided jockstrap humor, but now my “nose of the south,” Miss Blanche DuBois, noses all over everything.

I’m not in a dog nose mood today after an incident happened between me and her yesterday afternoon, and I’ve pushed her face away every time she’s gotten in my business. I feel mean, but I just can’t do nose right now, I say as my allergies kick in and my own nose feels like a time bomb.

Blanche ‘nose’ everything.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

There are but seven plots in the world

I just realized that Bridget Jones's Diary is Pride and Prejudice. I feel ripped off.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Do you want to save changes to Document 1?

I normally write my posts in Word then copy them to the little Blogger box. It's just easier that way since Word tends to make me look smarter when it prevents me from making grammatical errors. Today, however, I'm freestyling and microblogging the little things on my mind straight into that Blogger box. We'll see what happens next.

I experimented with wearing no panties. My crotch has this amazing ability to sweat like armpits, and I haven't figured out what to do about it. I tried no undies. To summarize results: no underwear good for social occasions involving standing; no underwear very bad at work.

I bet I've blogged this before, this exact issue: Matthew wants a condo; I want a house. Matthew wants to ensure someone else mows the lawn; I want to live in a neighborhood. I hate this fight. We've had it before. I think I'm right, and he thinks he's right. It's too bad he's wrong, but he's the major financial backer. Sorry, Blanche, you probably won't get a real yard to play in.

I am re-reading Pride and Prejudice. I've never said this before, but I'm saying it now: the movie versions are better. I didn't remember it being this way, but the novel is so tediously bent on absolute precision. Movie concoctions distill the emotions from ten pages of internal strife to a couple of minutes of cringing in disbelief. I freakin love Jane Austen, but Pride and Prejudice, better on film. Sorry doll.

I feel like my life is all screwy--big surprise! Things are topsy-turvy: I want this; I have this goal; is it the right goal; is something else better? I am planning to start an associates degree in computer networking this summer. On the one hand, it seems like a good career move. On the other, it seems like I'm awfully over-educated as it is. My best guess is to start the program and see if I hate it or not. I just have to try.

I'm "dieting." I did great for a few weeks, then bad habits unconsciously picked up. I have to be very mindful. I want to starve myself into anorexia, but I know it's stupid and my body will never do it. I've considered that laproscopic band thing, but then you lose weight so fast that you need cosmetic surgery to remove all your flappy skin. No easy choices. I guess that's a pretty concise summary of life though: no easy choices.

I tried to adopt a pitbull today. It's supposed to be a real lover, but Matthew reminded me of my vow. It took my cat four years to get used to our dog. My precious cat probably has about four years left, and I don't want the remainder of his life to be spent cowering in terror of the new family member. Plus the pitbull will probably eat the cat before they can reach any amicable settlement. Our family is fine the way it is. I have to believe in the things in my life that are precious.

Sunday, March 01, 2009

The list will never end

I just thought of another awesome Christine Wy song lyric:

"Yeah, I fought the four leaf clover and always win."