Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Weight Loss.

It's not news that I've been trying to lose weight for a while now.  Pretty much for the last 5 years I've been trying and things have been going almost steadily in the wrong direction.  As of my son's 5th birthday, I was 5 pounds away from my highest pregnancy weight (without another person residing within me) and I was at my highest non-pregnant weight ever.

There have been many failed attempts.  I could list reasons why, but to save time, think of every excuse you've ever heard and pretend I just wrote them.

On Monday I very publicly announced (Facebook) that I was committed to losing the first 10 pounds of my 45 pound goal by the end of March.  I invited people to encourage or be mean or otherwise hold me accountable.  I mean it when I say that if you see me eating something terrible, I would like you to throw rocks at me.  See me drinking a soda?  Kick me in the shins.  Maybe that's the only way I'll learn.

It's only been a few days since I decided to get serious and I'm doing what I should be doing.  There isn't really anything to report in terms of actual progress, nor should there be.  I'm ok with that.  Sort of.

Since weight loss is on my mind though, I thought I'd share a few things with you that I found out this week.

My travel mug of coffee is about 35 calories.  One pound is equivalent to 3500 calories.  Every time I look at my travel mug of coffee with it's 3 tablespoons of fat free half and half, all I can think is that it represents 1/100th of a pound.  My cup of tea is only about 5 calories, or 1/700th of a pound.  I would have to cut out 700 cups of tea or 100 mugs of coffee to lose a pound.  So like a day's worth.  I'm kidding.  2 days.

It takes more energy for the human body to deal with cold water than warm water.  I have heard that before and I found out from a very reputable source (Google) that this is true.  I read that one can burn anywhere from 30-70 calories by drinking an 8 oz. glass of ice water.  I will now drink much water.

I also read (same reputable source!) that standing burns about twice as many calories as sitting and that walking burns three to four times as many.  Seriously, how much sitting does one have to do?  I must find a way to sleep standing up.

And, I also read that we burn 3-7% more calories burning cold air versus warm air.  I think I'm going to go outside and breathe later.  But I won't sit down.

I should not here that I'm fully aware that Google itself is not a "source" of information but rather links one to sources.

I was reading up on the Cabbage Soup Diet today.  I remember my mother doing this diet back in the 80s and she lost a lot of weight.  I also remember that you could smell the soup from about 2 blocks away.  Basically this lovely concoction is permitted in unlimited quantities during the 7-day diet and each day you're assigned what you can eat in addition to the soup.  There's a fruit day, vegetable day, fruit AND vegetable day (crazy, right?), banana and skim milk day, beef and tomato day, beef and vegetable day and brown rice and veggie day.  Sounds great.

The diet claims you can lose 10 pounds in 7 days.  I have to admit that I like those numbers.  The diet warns you must not do this longer than 7 days and some people experience weakness and light-headedness, but really, is that so bad?  I was thinking maybe I'd give it a try.  NOT because I really want to lose weight fast and not because I think fad diets with super weight loss claims are a good idea.  Certainly not.  But I think maybe someone that you can trust should try it out and let you know the real scoop on this.  I'll let you know what I decide.  I suspect I will be terribly unpleasant within 3 hours of starting, so there is a very good chance you will know right away which way I went.

Finally, I read today that one can burn up to 400 calories per day by fidgeting.  But I definitely won't be fidgeting at my desk tomorrow.  Definitely not.
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Saturday, February 25, 2012

Temporary Tattoos.

As I type this, my child is in the bathtub.  I am sitting in the hallway, watching him play with a bath toy.  I told him he needed to stay in the tub 5 more minutes or he would get a toy taken away.  And he needed to stop crying and screaming and knock off his general tantrumry.  He has stopped.  My eye is still twitching and I can still feel my heart beating in my temple.

Last week, he was sporting a dinosaur temporary tattoo that he one as a prize for knowing how many stars and stripes were on the American flag.  I'm not a fan of these things.  But I applied it anyway since it was something he proudly earned.  No sooner did that tattoo dry did that child start complaining he was worried it would come off.  Every hand washing, every shower, every time I looked at the stupid thing he started whining that the tattoo would wear away.

It finally did come off and it was no big deal.  I guess he got all the crying out of his system.  Then this morning he appeared from his room with a skeleton one.  He reminded me that I had told him at Halloween that I'd put it on his hand.  Sigh.  Yeah, I did tell him that.  Then I forgot to throw it out.

So I put it on, reluctantly, but told him in no uncertain terms that I did not want to hear any complaining of worry that it would come off.  It will come off after a few days.  But he will wash his hands and he will shower and I'm not kidding that I do. not. want. to. hear. it.

Within 2 hours it started.  I gave him that "I warned you" look.  He washed his hands anyway, albeit gently.  I offered to let him play in the tub, my saving grace on a weekend afternoon that follows a weekend morning that starts way too early.  He happily agreed until he got in the water and his hand got wet.

And cue the tantrum, the drama, the tears, the hyperventilating.  I told him that if he made me waste a tub of water, it would be the last tattoo he'd ever have in his life.  He actually had to think about it!  He sat with his hand up on the edge, playing one-handed for a few minutes.  Now he's in there, splashing around like nothing happened.  He's singing away about filling cups with water and I bet if I asked him what he was crying about 10 minutes ago he'd have no idea.

I suppose such is life with a tired 5 year old.  It is 5:04 now.  He has barely stopped talking for the last 12 hours (yes, he's been up since shortly after 5am).  1 hour and 56 minutes until bedtime.  If not sooner.

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Friday, February 24, 2012

My Brain.

Sometimes my brain gets cluttered up with thoughts that prevent me from thinking better ones.  Allow me to share.

1.  I have just a *bit* of BlissDom envy right now.  I heart conferences and heart blogging so I wish I could be there.  I also heart solo air travel and I would have had to fly to Nashville (coincidentally this is one of the biggest reasons I'm not there right now).

2.  BlogHer is 22 weeks and 6 days away, not that I'm keeping a close eye on the calendar or anything.  I'm super-psyched for it already and it's not even soon.  But this does give me more time to work on my blog and my cuteness and stress about packing for a 3 night getaway 15 miles from my house.

3.  Sometimes I see people out and about and I wonder what they do for a living or the foods they eat.  Or where they are going.  Why are you out there?  What are you doing?  What are you thinking about?  Why are you looking at me funny?  Was I staring at you?

4.  Recently I saw a young couple in a beat up car and they were just sitting in it.  I started to wonder if they were about to go on a rampage "Natural Born Killers" style.

5.  When I see garbage bags or rolled up rugs on the side of the highway, I often wonder if there are body parts inside.  Think about it - no one opens those things up, at least not for a while.  And mostly people wouldn't expect to find body parts in them because I think we all hope a serial killer would be more clever  than that (thank you Dexter).  You figure no one will think you would be that stupid to put stuff in there, so you do something THAT stupid just to outsmart everyone.  Brilliant!  One of these days I'm going to stop and look in the bags and rugs.

6.  If people aren't throwing out body parts, why ARE they putting garbage bags and rugs on the side of the highway?  Don't they have bulk pick up days in their town?

7.  I often wonder if I would get so many headaches if I lived in a time when Advil wasn't readily available.  Would my head hurt so much if it was, say, 1740?

8.  I'm not really a big fan of government telling people what to do, especially when what they are doing doesn't actually infringe upon anyone else's rights.  I'm a live and let live sort of gal.  BUT, I would whole-heartedly support a ban on holiday decorations being displayed more than 2 weeks before or 2 weeks after a holiday.  My neighborhood has Christmas, Valentine's and St. Patrick's Day on various houses.  One has two up (and on) at the SAME time (St. Patrick's and Christmas!).

9.  I just spent an absurd amount of time participating in a solo photo shoot.  It is nearly impossible to take a picture of your own hair on an iPhone when you don't have the ability to turn the phone around (need to upgrade!).  I considered making duck face because doing so made 3 of my 4 chins less pronounced.  I also considered taking a picture of the back of my head only so those interested could see the color, but that felt silly.  Oh, and yeah, I'm way too self conscious to let someone take my picture on purpose.

10.  All of this is true.  I promise.  And I almost forgot to renumber when I took out the original #8 which I wasn't feeling anymore.  Someday I'll share it with you though, pinky-swear.  See how I did that?  See how I sucked you in with a cliffhanger?  {evil laugh...}

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Friday, February 17, 2012

Penny Brown Is In My Office.

The other night I was going to do some writing and I thought that it would be the perfect time to get in the office and write at my freshly cleaned desk.  As I was heading in there, I realized I can't.  Why?  Because I'm afraid.  I'm a grown woman and I am afraid of my office at night.  This happened at the old house, too.  I suppose that the biggest reason is that I wouldn't be sitting with my back to the wall which means that someone or something can sneak up on me.  And then probably kill me.

I should point out that the doors were locked and, heretofore, I have never been attacked in my own home.  This is not a fear based on a past occurrence or something that happened to a friend or anything like that.  I have been afraid of the dark for as long as I can remember and I suppose that it started for me the way it starts for most children.  I simply became aware that there is discomfort in being somewhere that you can't see what's around you. What is probably quite abnormal, though, is how this fear didn't fully subside as I got older.  I blame my mother.

When I was little, I would tell my mother things scared me and she did little to comfort my fears.  Generally she would say, "'Chelle, that's stupid."  No explanation for why my fear was irrational, no words of kindness.  I should be thankful though that this was generally what she did because there were plenty of instances where she just made things worse.

I was at my grandparents' house one Saturday evening when a commercial for Dr. Who came on.  It was a pretty girl in a ruffly dress and she approached a coffin.  Just as she got to it, it popped open and a vampire came out and bit her neck.  I screamed.  I had vampire nightmares for the next three nights in a row.  Rather than telling me that vampires aren't real, my mother and I got into a discussion of how a vampire can get into your home.  She explained to me that a vampire can only come in if you invite him in.  I thought I was pretty smart, so I said that I wouldn't invite the vampire in.  Then she explained how clever they are and how they can trick you.  So I said I'd just go to my room (on the second floor) and then the vampire couldn't see me so I'd be safe.  Then she told me they can float to my window and get me to let them in that way.  I was probably around 6 or 7.

I suspect this is when my fear of windows surfaced.  I don't know if it was because I couldn't see out of them, the fact that it was dark out or because I thought vampires would be floating outside of them, but I hated windows at night.  I'm better now, I can go near them, open and close the window itself or adjust curtains.  I could not do this when I was little.  I was afraid I'd get up close and find out someone was right outside.  I was especially scared on the first floor of the house, but it was not much better on the second floor.  You would think I would just be afraid of vampires coming in, but I was afraid of humans coming in through the second floor windows, too.  Because we had a front and back porch on the house, I realized it would be rather simple for someone to climb onto the roof of either porch and then climb in the window.  My mother's response, "Yeah, I suppose someone could..."

Speaking of people getting in the house, at some point I began to have the fear that someone could come into our house and murder us in our sleep.  I was worried that if someone came in I'd have no way out since we only had one staircase.  My mother informed me that I could just go out the window and jump onto the porch roof (see how it's all one big circle here?).  What if I didn't hear them until it was too late?  Well, if the murderer came in through the front or back door, they'd probably kill my mother first who slept downstairs, so that would buy me some time.  Comforting, very comforting.

After my father moved out, my mother never entertained a gentleman caller at the house.  Therefore, the night that I could have sworn I saw a man peek into my room, naturally I was a tad perplexed.  I asked my mother if perhaps my father had been there, she said of course he wasn't, it was probably just the ghost I saw.  Oh, ok.  Wait, what??  That's when she explained to me that she was pretty sure there was a ghost in the house because she often heard someone walking around in the night and sometimes saw shadows and blah, blah, blah and that's probably who I saw.  But he was nice, and probably old Mr. Goodyear who used to own the house and died in there, so I needn't worry.  Um, ok.

I heard about things like Bloody Mary (say her name 3 times while looking in a mirror and she'll jump out of it and kill you) and that made me afraid of mirrors.  Recently someone told me that really only happens between 3 and 4 in the morning, so I'm less afraid of my bathroom now and I might be guilty of waiting until 4 to get up if I need to. 

In no particular order, here are a few other things I'm afraid of.  My phone ringing (what if it's someone calling to say they are coming to kill me?), my doorbell ringing (what if someone doesn't want to just barge in to kill me?) and some TV commercials (particularly those chat lines that try to pretend they aren't sex lines, the voices creep me out).  I don't like my basement at night because of all of the ground level windows and I'm afraid of what I'll find when I get back upstairs.  I'm afraid of the attic, too, but I'm pretty sure everyone is afraid of attics, aren't they?

So why am I afraid of the office?  Besides the back not being to wall thing, there's one more thing.  And I have to admit, I'm almost afraid to tell you what it is because the more I think about it, the more it creeps me out.  There's this old email from years ago about a girl named Penny Brown.  I swear to you, just typing her name gives me the chills.  Go on over to and do a search.  You will see her picture.  That girl scares the crap out of me.  I know, she is just a regular girl and, if I remember correctly, that particular girl, whatever her name really is, was never really missing.  But the look on her face, for some reason, leaves me unable to sleep because I'm so afraid of her.  Anyway, as internet rumors often do, this email made the rounds many times.  And somehow I was on everyone's distribution list.  Sometimes I'd get caught off guard and they'd give her a different name, but that smile would still show up.  I've gotten that email so many times, always at night when I'm home alone sitting in our home office (whichever house we happened to be living in at the time), that now I think I associate my office at night with scaring me half to death.

Although it's daylight now, I'm still a little worried that Penny Brown and her disturbing smile is lurking in the house somewhere.  Maybe in a closet, under a bed, in the basement.  She's waiting for the lights to go out so she can kill me.  Maybe she'll call me first to tell me.

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Tuesday, February 14, 2012

A Love Story.

On January 18, 1991, I made out with my future husband for the first time.  We had been on a double date to see Kindergarten Cop and after driving around for a while, the guy of the other couple pulled into the parking lot of the local Roy Rogers.  He turned on the classical music station, put up the hood of the Suzuki Samurai (for privacy, of course) and he and his date left the vehicle.

I had dreamed of that moment with this guy for years.  I was 14 and it was my freshman year of high school.

The next night we went out again, this time to a friend’s house for what was known as the weekly Twin Peaks Party, whether or not Twin Peaks was actually on.  This did, however, mark the first of many Saturday nights we would spend watching TV or a movie.

As children often do when they begin dating, we made it official.  It was something like, “So are we boyfriend and girlfriend now?” “Yes.” “OK.” Please don’t ask me exactly who said what because without looking it up in my journal, I don’t recall.  It was 21 years ago, come on.

By July 4th, we were broken up.  It was not my choice and as a sullen now-15 year old, I cried for months.  I dated other boys, but I still cried.  We went to school together that fall, his senior year now, my sophomore year.  We hung out with friends, talked on the phone and all the other stuff teenager-friends do.  I was still in love.  I did my best not to tell him.

Then, one magical night (it may have been December 23, 1991, but who could say for sure?) we made out behind the school across the street from a friend’s house.  We decided to not make a big deal out of it and not tell people.  I wanted to tell everyone.  I only told my best friend.

As the weeks went on, it was clear we were dating again.  I still didn’t tell anyone and I still didn’t know why we weren’t telling anyone.  I was getting pretty close to saying we needed to discuss the arrangement, but decided I didn’t want to ruin whatever it was that we had.

On February 14, 1992, we had plans to go to dinner.  I was very sick with bronchitis and had to get up early for a cheering competition the next morning, but I was going on this date if it killed me.

He arrived at my house, Valentine’s gift in tow (earrings, as I recall, which I still have).  The card, which I also still have, said that he would like 2/14/1991 to be remembered as the day we officially got back together.  I said no, but I’d be happy if two-fourteen-nineteen ninety TWO could be the day.  This, dear readers, would be the first of many sentimental days that we would fill with inappropriate snark.

And so, twenty years after the day we officially made it official once again, I say to my husband, I love you.  I love you with all that I am.  I have always loved you.  We have grown and changed and been through graduations and jobs and houses and a child and all the mundane stuff in between.  Through all of it, I have loved you.  And through all of it yet to come, I will love you still.  Happy Valentine's Day and (sort of) Anniversary.
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Friday, February 10, 2012


My hair stylist thinks I'm a freak.  I asked her and she said no, but she was giggling, so I think that's a sign.

When I first met her almost a year ago, my hair was pretty long and, well, horrible.  I had not cut it in forever and it showed.  Besides hating to try new places and hating to call places to make appointments, I couldn't find a stylist that didn't break some of the random rules I'd set for the perfect stylist.

  • You can make small talk with me, but when I stop talking, you stop, too.  I like the quiet and I enjoy watching the process.
  • If I ask you to do something that will look stupid, tell me.
  • If you suggest something and I tell you I don't like the idea because I have fine, curly hair and I know what's going to make it frizz, please understand and meet me half way.
  • When I tell you that I will not be upset if we try something and it doesn't work out, believe me.  I've run around with a lot of stupid hair styles, it always grows back and I've never, EVER in 35 years cried over my hair.  Ever.
After my first cut with Skylar, I knew she was perfect.  She's young and cute and she understands what I'm talking about, which makes it easy to communicate.  For example, she knew exactly what I meant when I said that I loved my new cut, but after a few weeks it started Florence Henderson-ing (The bottom got long and flared out so it has to be cut shorter than the rest - go look at late series Brady Bunch.  You'll see.)  Also, she takes her time making sure that my hair looks symmetrical, even though one side grows faster than the other and the slower growing side is thinner than the other.  

We also talked about bangs.  I said I wanted them "more bangy-er but not TOO bangy."  Somehow, she cut in just the right amount of bangy-ness.  We discussed an even fuller bang (I later found out this is the technical term) and I said I was afraid it would make my face fat.  She said no.  I asked if it would make me look shorter and she said no.  She seems pretty confident that a fuller bang will only make me look like I have bangs and not change my height or weight.  She did mention that my overall length needed to increase to pull it off so it wouldn't square my face too much.  Again, technical terms.

Skylar has been very good about not pushing me to color my hair.  When I've asked her in the past how the grays were doing, she always says not bad and when I'm ready we can talk color.  I could see she was relieved when I said I think it's time.  As she was blowing my hair out today, I mentioned that I looked like a zebra (lots of stripes).  She said I didn't and giggled just like she did when I asked if she thought I was a freak.  I'm on to her.

So I made my first ever appointment for professional color (a glaze, actually).  I feel like I've crossed over some line, what with admitting I need to "cover my grays" and all.  I am a little worried the next step is going to be sitting under a large dryer with rollers every week.  But I trust Skylar and so I will do as she recommends.  Sure I'm old enough to be her mother, but that's OK.  She speaks my language.

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Friday, February 3, 2012

Super Bowl Sunday.

Look at me, being all topical.

I don't like football.  I never have.  The thing I like most about Super Bowl Sunday is that I know it means the regular season is ending and I don't have to hear as much about it on future Sundays and Mondays.  (That is true, right?  The season is ending?)

It's so much worse to live in the area of one of the teams that's in the game.  I keep hearing people talk about "My Giants."  I'm rolling my eyes just thinking about it.  And the people who don't talk about football all year but then suddenly they're all into a team for this game?  Those people make me roll my eyes so far into the back of my head I'm surprised I don't need surgery to correct it.

I don't think I've ever gone to a Super Bowl party.  I can drink beer and eat snacks at home with something enjoyable on TV.  Thank you very much.

Also, that game is on too late and takes too long.  There's a lot of unnecessary stuff going on in there.  Half time shows and what not...  Who needs it?

My favorite Super Bowl Memory?  One year, my then-boyfriend now-husband and I watched some Disney thing about a wolf named Chico.  Chico was cute.  We snuggled on the couch (Kris and I, not Chico).  It was nice.  And there was no football.  I want to say that was 1999.

I could go on and on (and on) but I don't want to.  On Sunday, you will find me probably hiding in my house, putting my kid to bed early and eating dinner while watching  reruns of Weeds and 30 Rock on Netflix.  Feel free to call me a party-pooper or tell me I'm no fun.  I'm ok with that.  Just don't talk to me about the game.

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Thursday, February 2, 2012


I am flabbergasted by the amount of ignorance I witness on a routine basis.

Scene 1.
I don't recall how this came up, but I found myself in the midst of a conversation on whether or not people were born gay.  Despite my best attempts to make it stop, it kept going.  But then one of the participants said that she didn't know about all gay men, but for some at least, it's because their mothers smothered them with affection.  These mothers, it would seem, showed such love and adoration for their male children that they "may not have ended up gay if their mothers would have just left them alone."  She explained that it was bad enough that they were Mama's Boys, but the mothers just didn't stop and that's how they became gay.

I actually asked her if she could hear how ridiculous she sounded, she assured me she was serious.  I explained that this viewpoint was extremely stupid and kind of offensive and I couldn't believe she said it.  She didn't understand why I thought this.  She explained I could think what I wanted (gee, thanks) but that's just how she feels.  I wondered, out loud, if she thought I was going to "turn my son gay" with all the loving on him that I do.  She said she didn't know.  I told her to go away.  I believe I said, "You need to stop talking right now and leave.  Seriously."
Her:  But, no...  I'm just saying...  It's just...
Me:  No.  I'm not kidding.  Please go.  Now.

Scene 2.
I was forced to be in the company of this person.  I was there, he showed up to do something.
Him:  I heard you're going to San Diego.
Me:  You heard correctly.
Him:  You like it there?
Me:  Love it!  I want to move there.
Him:  Really?  It's nice.
Me:  Yeah, I really love it there.
Him:  But you'd really want to live there?
Me:  Definitely!  Not you?
Him:  Nah, too many Mexicans.
Me:  Huh?
Him:  You wouldn't mind all the Mexicans?
Me:  What? Of course not.  (I wish I could show you the face I was making.  It was a mixture of horror and disbelief).
Him:  Oh.  (He looked confused)
Me:  I have no problem with anyone.
Him:  Oh.  (There was a definite tone here, mind you.)
Me:  We live here.  There are all sorts of people here.  I'm fine with it.  How could you not be fine with it?*
Him:  Yeah, I know.  But these are Mexicans.  And there are a LOT of them.
Me:  Are you kidding me?
Him:  Nah.
Me:  Are you done yet? (clearly annoyed, gesturing to what he was doing in my vicinity)
Him:  Nah.
Me:  OK then.  I'm leaving.  (And then I did.)

*We live in a diverse area with people from many different backgrounds.

Honestly, what in the world is wrong with people that they think these things, let alone say them out in public?

I can't believe that people will just come out with this nonsense and not be, in the least bit, ashamed of themselves.  They speak this garbage, all proud, head held high, and think that I'm going to agree with them because they clearly think there is nothing wrong with this.

And you know what?  Shame on me for not saying more.  I expressed my disagreement and displeasure, but I should have told them that it's unacceptable and that I won't listen to it.

But I am going on record, here and now, that I will not tolerate it anymore.  We simply must stop saying hurtful things about people because of their race or color or sexual orientation or religion.  It is not OK.  The jokes aren't funny, the mockery is not cute.  Your theories about why people are like they are or how they are because of who they were born to be, all of it, it HAS to stop.

People are people.  You can dislike people for many reasons - but for believing differently than you, loving differently than you or looking differently than you?  No, these are not good reasons.

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Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Lunchtime Rant.

I have been a dog owner for over 13 years now.  I'm pretty sure though that I knew this little factoid prior to acquiring my little canine friend, so I'm always surprised that people are surprised by this.  Ready?

When you walk a dog, it will often need to shit.

Have you recovered from this revelation yet?  OK, good.

Now, I fully understand that sometimes the dog just went and it they surprises you with another.  I get it.  I only walk my dog on my own property since he's elderly, so when he surprises me and I don't have a disposal mechanism at my, ahem, disposal, I leave it.  I'll be honest.  And sometimes when it rains.  Or it's cold.  Or when I'm just a little lazy.  But then I go and get it later.

Here's the thing though.  IT'S MY LAWN!!!!  If I want to cover it in dog dumps, that's my business (until the town steps in, I suppose).  It does not mean that you can let your dog crap on it and you can leave it there.  Incidentally, I am fine with your dog crapping on my lawn if you clean it up because they are, after all, dogs and they can't really help where they poo.

My house is clearly a house.  It's not public property, nor can you mistake it as such.  Not that you should leave your dog crap all over public property either.  But seriously, I live here.

And, by the way, I have an 80-pound yellow lab who eats a special vegetarian formula food that yields a foundation that is quite specific.  So when your dainty little mutt takes a shit on my lawn and you leave a tiny black turd for me to pick up later, I know that it didn't come out of my dog!!!

Twice this week, you jerk.  Twice I'm picking up your dog's crap.  And don't think I didn't notice that it looks just like the craps I was picking up before it turned cold and you probably stopped walking your dog so far.  If you are smart (because clearly you are not considerate), you will make sure that if you're going to continue this you will do so when I'm not home.  Because if I see you out there letting your dog use my lawn as a toilet and you're not right at that animal's back end with a bag, you are in for it.  This blog is nothing compared to the rant you'll get then.

Thank you for your time.  I am going to eat my lunch now.

PS - I am aware it is unlikely that the dog's owner is reading this.

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