Who Pooed In The Hall; or, The Night Josh Got Pissed


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           The dogs think bed time equals round one of fight to the death.  They lay around all night, then the moment I get up to get ready for bed, the fights commence.  These are not serious fights.  The moment it gets serious one of them will puss out and yowl.  The fighting and wrestling will escalate until either Josh or I intervene. 

            This past Thursday night was suspiciously different.   I’m getting ready for bed and both dogs are sitting in their beds looking very pleased.  Thinking back, I should have known something was up.  I’m naively brushing my teeth thinking, “Man, I’ve got some good dogs!” Then Josh came in.

            “What the hell? Lauren, come here.”


            “Where did this come from?” He points to a small turd on the floor. I start laughing.  I can’t help myself.  For some reason I find poop hilarious.  I am a thirteen year old boy. 

            “Well, it doesn’t looked like they took a poop.  Maybe it’s a snack for later?”

            “Boys!” Josh booms across the room. Both dogs look excited and run to Josh. Max bounds right up to Josh like it is treat time.  Why else would he have called?  

            “Who did this?  Max, did you do this?” No, no, nope, Max knows nothing about this.  He looks as innocent as a new born puppy.  He’s only here to love us and be happy.  He doesn’t know anything about any turds in the hallway. 

            “Harley?” He runs up, sees Josh pointing at the poo, swings around and heads right back to bed.  Nope, he doesn’t know anything about any poop.  In fact, he’s exhausted.  Didn’t we know that it is time for bed?

            I can hardly stand it.  I’m giggling like an idiot.  “I guess we will never know who committed this heinous act.”

            “I think it was Max.  He’s the one that likes to carry your stuff outside.”

            Josh is right, Max loves to take my things outside.  As a puppy he would sneak my things outside and tear them limb from limb.  One of the saddest episodes was my favorite pair of Burberry sunglasses.  They were huge, amazing, the perfect hangover glasses, and apparently delicious.  Recently Max has taken to only moving my things outside.  He does not chew them anymore.  It’s as if they need some fresh air. Just this week our roommate, Lisa, sent me a picture of one of my Vibram running shoes.  The caption said, “Guess where this is…”

            I decided that the shoes must be talking to Max like the stuffed giraffe from that book The Art of Racing in the Rain.  My theory is that Max really does not want to take anything outside.  The objects are persuading him.  The shoes keep saying in a high pitched whisper, “Take us outside Max.  We want to see outside.  Max, please take us outside.” All the while, Max is saying, “No. No. No….  Okay!” 

After much questioning, we have concluded that no one knows anything about this glorious fecal specimen.  Josh is miffed about poop being in the house, but I try to make the argument that we cant punish either dog.  Yes, Max likes to move things, but he usually likes to move things from in the house to the yard, not visa versa.  Yes, the turd was found in Max’s bed, but Max doesn’t eat poop.  Harley is the one that likes poo snacks.  Harley is also the one that likes to leave poop in people’s sleeping areas.  (True story, please see our former roommate, Henry, if you have any questions about this).  There is no way to determine which dog committed this heinous crime. 

            “Hey Josh.”


            “What if they got together on this one? Created the greatest idea of their life?”


            “Like Harley said, ‘Hey Max, I like to eat poo and you like to move things around. So let’s move this poo inside for later.”  And then Max was like, ‘YEAH!”

            Josh chuckles, “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

            I go get a bag to clean up our little mystery turd.  I use the “turn the bag inside out trick.” It crosses my mind to chase Josh around with it.  He’d be so pissed! I can’t help but smile.  I triple bag it and toss it in the trash. I come back to find Josh spraying down the entire rug with cleaner.  I try to argue that the poop only touched a tiny section, but he is having none of it.  Josh’s theory is:  Poop has touched the rug, therefore entire rug must be contaminated. 

            Later that night I’m trying to doze off and a thought pops in my head.  I just can’t let it go.  I have to say something.

            “Hey Josh.”


            “What if I was the one that brought the turd in the house?”

            “What the hell?”



Fussy Day


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 September 21, 2012

I’m having a fussy day today.  As a result, I think I’m starting to develop a mild case of Tourette’s.  Well, at least Tourette’s of the mind.  Just so we are clear, I haven’t said anything out loud… yet.

Story 1: 

I should mention that I’m covering for the operator at the moment. A lady just called in and said her left arm is going numb.  Granted, I know that can be very serious, heart attacks blah, blah, blah. I’m not feeling very nice today.  All I wanted to say was, “WELL, have you been sitting on it!?” I didn’t.

Story 2: 

I walked by the doctor’s office around 1pm.  Her lunch smelled amazing.  It didn’t help that a moment before I’d decided that I was starving TO DEATH at my desk.  All of a sudden I had the sudden urge to run in and start yelling, “That smells amazing! Can I put my face in that?” You know, just to weird her out.  If only, I had enough income to try and get myself fired I would have.  Ahh, that would be the life! Again, I didn’t say anything.  I walked right by her office, a little stiff legged because I wanted to yell it out so bad.

Story 3:

Part A:  I went to the bank on my lunch break.  The old man at the window booms, “I think twelve dollars is a very reasonable fee.” I had to stifle the urge to yell back in a mock deep voice , “I THINK NO FEES ARE REASONABLE FEES!”  I don’t.  Instead I text Lisa, who is waiting in the car, the following:




Part B: Still at the bank.  I’m waiting on a banker to sign my insurance check for my roofer.  I thought it was written to me and the bank, like the two checks before it. I look down, and the check is addressed to the roofer and me, not the bank. Before I can sneak out a very nice banker shows up to help me.  I explain my mistake at his desk and he offers to help me with my regular deposits.  As he is filling out the deposit slip, I hear the banker next to me say, “I don’t think our branch is able to do a three million dollar withdraw.” I am all ears.  I look over.  Seriously, who wouldn’t look in my situation? The customer is a very scruffy mildly attractive man.  He looks like a cross between a homeless man and a construction worker.

The scenario plays out beautifully in my head.  I walk over, and in a joking tone say, “I’m married but I’m sure my husband would let us work something out.  Whadda say to a mere quarter of a million?” He laughs, the bankers laugh, and I laugh too.  Then he writes me a check for a million, because I’m so bold and witty, and tells me to have a wonderful day.

            In reality, I do nothing. I sit quietly, and straining to hear every word of that phone call.  

I don’t know if my rebellious thoughts are because I’m having a fussy day, my job is boring the hell out of me, or I’m just having a pre-thirty crisis in my life.  Part of me really wishes I had done all those things.  Yes, I wish I had put my face in her soup.  It really smelled amazing.  Maybe I would have gotten fired or thrown right out of the bank.  There is also a small part of me that thinks I should have done it all, it would have bettered my day, and I’d get fired only to find my dream job tomorrow.  However, that work thing might backfire.  They might find it so entertaining that they are begging me to stay.



I’m Old


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Originally written in August 2012:

Tonight I was scrubbing coffee stains out of coffee cups and having lustful thoughts about household appliances.  I am officially grown up.  I want a stove, a new dryer, a cheese grater, new pots and pans, a fridge with an ice maker like the one on Pinterest that looks like cabinets from the outside, a grill, and a fire pit.  Oh, to top it off, I’d really like a trap door in my kitchen that leads down into my cellar, with a spiral staircase, so I can keep all my wine cool.

Then,  I started day dreaming about how I should write a review about Pottery Barn dishes.  They are crap.  I want them to be amazing, and wonderful, AND sturdy.  Alas, (hand tragically on forehead) they are far from it.  Seriously, how long is it safe to keep using a bowl with a crack from top to bottom? Am I harboring bacteria in my kitchen cabinet? Why is the back peeling off my beautiful animal skeleton h’ordervers saucers? I thought i would have them forever!

November 6, 2013

Since then I have acquired two of my items.  Dad bought me a fire pit at the Mason Lodge yard sale, and I purchased a cheese grater.  Josh and I both tried out the cheese grater and agreed that the brand Good Grips did indeed have a good grip.  Now that I have a cheese grater, I developed a new fear:  grating my fingers.  It hasn’t happened yet.  I have no reason to fear this, but it was just a passing thought and now I’m terrified.  I use it with extreme caution.

In regards to the damn skeleton plates;  I still have them.  They look worse than ever.

A Dog, A Car, and A Taxidermist


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In the spirit of my favorite holiday, I found the scariest thing I’ve ever written.  The only thing that scares me more is Tailypo.  Originally written in October 2012.

I had to take my dogs to the vet for their annual shots.  Josh went with me for crowd control.  Whenever, Max and Harley are together they like to drag me around.  Individually, they are great, and mostly mind their manners.  The moment they are together both dogs loose all control and act like a bunch of dodos.  It’s a wonder we haven’t been banned from every dog park in Nashville.

The vet visit went well.  They got their annual shots, new tags, and lots of treats. We were told that there was a chance the shots could make them lethargic or possibly feel bad, but it should only last a few hours.  Just a side note: neither dog has ever had any side effects from the shots, so I was not worried.  We pay our bill and leave.

We gave the dogs a chance use the restroom before we left the vets.  Of course, the dogs are not interested in inspecting the bushes or the outside of the building.  They are ready for another car ride.  They each go to their side of the car and are ready to go.  I ask Josh to drive; I’m not in the mood.

We get a couple of miles down the road, when I see a weird motion out of the corner of my eye.  Harley is squatting.  He has assumed the position and is about to poop in my backseat!

“Josh, pull over!  Pull over!”

“What? Why?”

“Harley is about to shit in the back seat!  Pull over!”

“He’s what!”

“Taking a shit! Pull!  Over! Dammit  Oh… he’s shitting.” Diarrhea spews out of Harley.  It hits the seat, showers down back on Harley, and it is pooling in the car seat.  The smell hits us, and Josh starts to dry heave.

“Oh my gosh, uggghhhh.  Ugghhh!”  The car weaves in and out of the next lane.

“Josh pull over!” I roll down my window.

“Where…  Uggggghhhh!

“Don’t you dare puke in my car! Pull over at the car wash.”  I look in the back seat. Harley’s tail and hind legs are covered in crap.  He still has that panicked look on his face.  Our eyes meet, and he interprets the look as an invitation into the front seat.  He bounds into my lap.  On the way up he brushes the sleeve of Josh’s jacket.  This sends Josh into a whole new wave of retching.

“What the fuck is he doing?”

“Josh, he’s scared.”

“uggghhhh, I don’t care what he is, get him out of the car!” The car slams to a halt.  Josh throws himself out of the car.  I open the car door and shove Harley out.  I’m resisting the urge to gag.  I’ve lost any and all concerns for the leash laws.  My main concern is that my brand new shirt and back seat are now covered in shit.

“I can’t ride in that car.” Josh yells.  “In fact, I’m not ever going to ride in that car again.  Nope. No way.  That dog is never getting a car ride again! You hear that Harley! You are walking home.” Harley is strategically circling the car.  He can’t decide if he should get back in the car, sit near me, or stay far away.

“Josh, he got sick…” I stop short because I realize that I can hear crying and whimpering.  I’ve left Max in the car.  He is in the car right there in the middle of the scene of the accident.  He has pressed his entire body against the door and is crying.  Not that I blame him.  The car reeks.  I can barely keep myself from gagging.  I open the door and Max flies out.  I start to look for something to clean up with.  I just cleaned out my car and threw out all the half empty water bottles.  I don’t have any wipes and not a single damn napkin in the entire car.  I look up and realize that I have two loose gigantic German Shepherds roaming about the car wash, a gagging husband that will not stop ranting, and nothing to clean anyone or anything up.  I need to call my sister.  Rachel knows what to do with poop. She’s works in the gastrointestinal unit at the hospital.  Why didn’t I think of this before! I scramble around for my phone and am careful not to touch my screen with the soiled part of my hand.

“Hey!  I was just about to call you…”

“Umm….Rachel, could you please come to Rojo Reds car wash and meet us.  Harley shit in the car. It got on Harley, and Josh, and me!  And I have nothing to clean it up with!”

“He. He.”

“Rachel, I’m serious.  Could you please just get here?  I need you to drive Josh back to the house. I don’t think Josh can ride anywhere in this car without puking.”

“Oh, no worries, I’m on my way.”

“Okay thanks.”  I’m feeling better already.  Rachel will be able to help me clean it up.   She will know what to do.  Everything will be okay.  I corral the dogs, and get them back on leashes. Not even five minutes later Rachel pulls in.  She gets out of the car obviously amused.

“Oh thank God you are here! I’m so happy I could hug you!”

“No! No! No hugs!”

“What did you bring?”


“Yeah, what cleaning stuff did you bring?”


“Do you have any wipes, paper towels, hand sanitizer… anything? She shrugs her shoulders and holds out the bottle of water she’s been drinking.  “Are you kidding me?”

“Uh… no.  You said that you needed me to take Josh home.”

“Oh crap.” I take the bottle of water and make a sad attempt to wash my hands off.  Josh has already tried scraping off his sleeve in the grass.

“Well, Harley and I are still a mess.  Max and Josh are pretty much clean.  Do you think you could take Josh and Max home?”

“Sure, but isn’t Harley just going to make a bigger mess getting back in the car?”

“The interior is already covered with shit.  How much worse could it get?”

“Well…” She peers into the car.  “uugghhh… You….uugghhh… need to …. Uugghhh… scrape it out.  That’s a lot of shit… uugghh.”

“Ehh, maybe you are right.”

“With What?” Josh chimes in.

“Here use this.” Rachel rips up a cardboard box in her trunk.


“What else would you use, your hands?”

“Oh fine!”  I take the cardboard and start to scrape gobs of crap out of the car and onto the grass.  All the time I’m thinking, “How will the car ever be the same? Why didn’t I get leather? Don’t puke.  Don’t puke.  Don’t puke.”

“Here, I have this.” Rachel puts down a bed sheet down on the ground.  She normally carries it in her car whenever she has to take the dogs somewhere, unlike myself.  I’ll just open the doors and let any old dog in.

“Okay thanks.” I’m still carefully scooping out my back seat.  I can tell it has soaked into the cushions.  I scrape out as much as I can.  My car smells awful. Rachel is busy getting Max in the car.  I don’t want to be left here alone with a poopy dog and car.  I grab the sheet.   As I’m walking back to the car, I slip and fall onto my back. I almost slide into the car. “What in the world… Oh…  Oh no! No! No!”  I stand up.  My eyes meet Josh’s across the car. I start to laugh.

“You didn’t!” I nod my head.  I’m still laughing.  I walk over to Josh and Rachel.

“Did I get it on me?” I turn around.

“Umm, yep, you sure did.”   I’m laughing harder.  Rachel notices.

“What happened?”

“I slipped and fell in it!  I turn around so she can get the full effect of crap all over my back.  Rachel snickers.  I’m laughing way too hard by this point.  That’s when it happened.  I went from laughing to hysterically crying in about two seconds.  I’m shaking all over.  “I think I should take my clothes off. I’m covered in crap.” I’m sobbing.

“Oh, no, don’t cry! Keep your clothes on.  It’s going to be okay.” Josh carefully pats me on the back, careful to not touch any mess. Rachel takes action, “Oh… kay.  I knew this was going to happen.  You were laughing too much.  Let’s get this show on the road.” She gets the sheet situated, careful not to fall into anything.  She finds a second sheet for me to sit on.  All the while, reminding me to keep my clothes on. I’m still sniffling when she gets me in the car. “You okay to drive?” I nod. “Okay, be careful.  I have stop by my house first and then I’m bringing Max and Josh to your house.  You go straight home. I nod in humble understanding.

There’s nothing quite like involuntarily playing in a poop slip and slide to bring you down a few notches.  I pull out, windows are down, and Harley is looking delighted in the back seat.  I’m sure he’s just beyond happy that we didn’t leave him at the car wash.  I keep crying even though I’m trying to get myself back together again. I keep telling myself, “Just run the car off the road.  Wreck it.  Insurance will cover the damages and I can say that Harley got scared and soiled the car.  Yes, that will work.  I won’t even have to clean.  Now just tilt your wrists to the right and brace for impact.” I can’t do it.  I’m too chicken.  I’m too much of a worry wart.  I don’t want to get hurt and I keep picturing Harley flying out a window and dying.

We pull off the exit safe, stinky, and sound.  I see the homeless man selling papers.  I haven’t seen him in weeks and I’ve been saving a dollar in my console just to buy a paper from him.  He is always so nice and dependable.  I know this isn’t really an opportune time, seeing as my car is full of shit, but he’s here and I have a dollar.  I hold out my dollar to him at the stop light and he runs over.

“Thank you so much ma’am.” He spies Harley in the back seat.  “Ya been a good boy? Santa goin’ ta bring ya some bones fur Christmas?”  I can’t help but laugh out loud.

“I think this pup maybe getting coal for Christmas.  He just crapped all over the backseat of the car. Sorry, if it smells.”

“Oh my, that is a bad dog!”

“Excuse me, do you have any change…” Another homeless man shows up out of nowhere.  I guess he saw that I was just handing out cash and he decided to waltz on up.  The breeze must have been just right because he starts gagging.  “Oh my gosh!  What do you have in there lady? It smells like shit.”

“It is shit.” He starts to gag and backs away from the car.   My light turns green, and I drive off laughing to myself.  My car smells so bad I ran a homeless person off.  That has got to be a first.

For the next five hours I clean the car.  I can’t get it out.  I also discover that it has soaked through the upholstery and into the seat foam.  If that wasn’t bad enough, crap has soaked through to the trunk.  Josh is in the house calling every car detailing place known to man.  None of them will do it.  I can’t say I blame them. After many calls, Josh finds a place that will attempt it across town.

We drop it off with high hopes.  I ask the attendant, “Should I leave the windows up or down?”

“Oh, they are big boys, just roll them up.  I guarantee they have seen worse.”

“Well, let’s hope so.”

They call back fairly early the next day. Josh calls me at work.

“Well, they quoted us $900 with no guarantee to get either the stain or the smell out.”

“That’s a big no.”

“Yeah I know.”

“They were really nice and recommend that we just replace the seat.”


“I just called every junk yard and Pull-A-Part in Tennessee and none of them have any Versas, they are too new.”

“Well, I guess I could just take out the back seat and have a home made El Camino.  What about getting a new seat?”

“I called and priced it.  They start around $3000.”


“Yeah, a little out of our price range.”

“I’m going to call Dad. Maybe insurance covers it or something.”

I called Dad, he wasn’t very positive about insurance covering it, but he did have a great idea. This was after laughing about Harley pooping in the car for a solid five minutes.  The man that reupholstered his seats might do it.  He gave us the number, and Josh called the guy.  The upholstery man said he would take on our mess for a hundred dollars.  It was like a dream come true!

I was thinking that I was taking the car to a shop.  Oh no, nothing can be that simple.  This man is located off some back roads in the woods.  Apparently, he does this as a side job out of his home.  At this point, it doesn’t matter how far he is.  I’m just stoked at the possibility of being able to drive my car with the windows up.

The road that leads to his house is a little wider than my car.  I don’t meet anyone on these hills.  I’d hate to hit anyone head on, but then again totalling my car at this point wouldn’t be so bad.  We drive up a long driveway in the dark.  I’m really hoping this is the right house.  Only one way to find out,  I walk up to the front door and knock.  The door flies open and I’m greeted by a little yippy dog, a Doberman  and a teenager.

“Uh, Hi.  I’m Lauren.  I’m here for Dan.”

“Oh, he’s expecting you.  Just pull down to the garage.  I’ll have him meet you down there.”

Oh thank God, I have the right house.  Josh pulls the car around back.  I have the little dog following me and jumping at my heals.  Dan meets us around back, as promised.  His daughter joins us downstairs with a plate of vegetables.

“Hey Dad, do you think he can eat an onion.”

“Oh, come on now, don’t go givin’ him an onion. It’ll upset his stomach.”

“It’s a vegetable.”

“Just give em some corn cobs, no onions.” His daughter walks out the side door of the garage, and a deer greets her.  Just seeing a domesticated deer piques my interest to the point that I have completely forgotten why I am here.  I have to touch.  No matter what, I need to pet this animal.

In general, I’m convinced that my quality of life would drastically increase, if only I was allowed to interact with one new animal a day.  I have a list.  First and foremost, I’d really like to spend the day with a raccoon and a purse full of coins.  They are just amazing!  I would also like to spend a day with an elephant, bear cub, a squirrel, a dolphin, a monkey, and the list goes on.  Just the idea of feeding an elephant gives me butterflies.  There are so many cool animals.  I don’t think I can handle playing with baby versions of them.  It’s entirely too much for my lady brain.

“Uh, is he your pet?”

“Who? Oh, you mean Bambi. Well, yes.”

“May I pet him?” I’m trying to keep my excitement from showing.  I can feel it bubbling up in me.

“Sure.” He grabs a box of vanilla wafers. “Let me show you his tricks.”

Oh my gosh!  Not only am I about to pet a baby deer, but he’s so domesticated that he does tricks! I’ve died and gone to heaven! My excitement is to the point that I could jump up and down.

“He only really has one trick.” Bambi is by no means afraid of humans.  He is all in our faces and lipping our hands for some cookies.  “Shake. Bambi, shake.” The deer eagerly raises one hoof into Dave’s hand, and stretches his neck to get the cookie faster.  My heart melts.  “Well, there ya go.  Bambi’s one and only real trick.

“Does he ever come inside?”

“Oh yeah, got that lil’ booger house trained.  He uses his own dog door and everythin’.  I’d have to say he’s better trained than my dogs.

“Will you keep him forever?”

“Nah, got to introduce em into the wild eventually.  That’s why he’s livin’ mostly outside right now.”

“Will you let him back in when it gets really cold?”

“Oh yeah, he’ll get to come inside.  Of course he’ll get to come inside fur Christmas.  I already bought em some presents.”

“Ohhh…” This is news to me. Christmas presents for a deer!  What does a deer get for Christmas?  I’m just going to go ahead and assume Vanilla Wafers.

“What made you bring him home?”

“Can’t say.  I’ve been doin’ it my ole life. I got a license and everything.  If an animal needs my help, I help em.  When they are all healed I let em go.”

“Do they hang around?”

“Maybe for awhile, but eventually they all go on.  I just released a squirrel last week.  he comes down every now and then just to say hi.”  He tries to call the squirrel but nothing happens.  I’m super disappointed.  Interacting with a squirrel is pretty high up on my list of cool animals.

“Okay, well lets take a look at that seat.”  Dave and Josh walk off towards the car.  I can’t move.  Who cares about a ruined back seat when there’s a baby deer to pet.

“Lauren are you coming?”

“Umm…. I’ll be there in a minute.” I cant pull myself away.  I’ve never had the opportunity to pet a live deer.  Sure, I spent lots of time petting the stuffed deer on our living room wall as a child.  It’s just not the same.

I hung out with Bambi till he got tired of me and walked off.  I think it was my lack of cookies that bored him.  I went to check on the guys.

Josh and Dave manage to completely rip out my back seat.  For the very first time in my life I legitimately have a two seater, and I’m not as happy about it as I thought I would be.  Dave starts explaining the cleaning process to us.  I’m only half listening to him.  I really don’t care about the details, I’m just grateful that he is willing to take it on.  A word catches my attention and all of a sudden I’m back in the conversation.

“What was that?”

“Oh, I’m goin’ to try out my new drying room fur yur seats.”

“For upholstery?”

“Oh no, for drying skins and such.”

“Skins?” I’m sure the skeptical look on my face is giving me away.

“Well, I do some taxidermy in my free time.”

“Do you have any here?” Josh shoots me a look that says, ‘you sure are nosey’

“Oh yeah.  I got uh few.  You’re more than welcome to look if ya’d like.”

“Oh yes please!” I’m in shock.  Could this man get any more interesting?  Then it hits me; Is this what he’s going to do to Bambi? Oh gross.  We follow him into the back of the garage.  Behind the cars is an office. The room is covered wall to wall with animals.  Most of the pieces are deer.  I keep wondering if he raised these deer himself.  I can’t keep my mouth shut.

“So, what does Bambi think of all this?”

“Ehh, he don’t mind cause he don’t know he’s uh deer. He’s a bona fide member of our family.”

“How many do you think you’ve stuffed?”  Josh tries to steer the conversation before I start asking questions about stuffing Bambi.

Ehh, maybe a couple uh hundred.” There are fish, squirrels, raccoons, a opossum, and even a plastic dinosaur head hung up on the walls. (I have to say, that dinosaur was my favorite.)

“What’s your favorite?”

“I guess I’d have to say my little band here.” He points to a miniature two squirrel band.  “The hardest part is finding instruments the right size.”  The mini band is indeed impressive.  One rodent on the banjo and the other on an airbrushed rainbow guitar. He even has the miniature drum set for the next member of the band all set up and ready.

“One of our friends wanted to taxidermy for awhile.  He bought a couple of mice to start off.  He planned on freezing them and stuffing them, but he got too attached. He couldn’t do it.”

“I think the main problem was he named them and then carried them everywhere in his pocket.”

“You tell your friend, that’s it’s a good thing he didn’t try and stuff em.  Mice are the hardest, too small.  I’d much rather work on a deer any day.

“Good to know.  We’ll pass that along.” Dave shows us a few more animals, his new drying room, and gives us a wealth of advice regarding taxidermy.  Seeing as Josh and I are mostly vegetarians.  (Well, Josh is a vegetarian.  He calls me a puss-a-tarian, because I eat fish about twice a year.)  I don’t know about Josh but I didn’t retain much of the information.  After many “thank yous” and one last good bye to Bambi we were on our way home.

Dave was faster than I had ever imagined.  I got my seat back in less than three days.  It looks great!  Honestly, it’s probably cleaner than it was to begin with.  Most of the dog hair was gone, and the stain is hardly noticeable.  Only one very tiny spot remains.  I have taken Harley and Max on car rides since the incident.  I have wised up; I now put down two sheets before the dogs get to go for a ride.  I’m still interested in getting some legit car covers, but I’m too cheap to shell out the money.



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Originally Written: 7/24/12

Last Sunday I caught a stomach bug. Josh and I had my sister, Rachel and her new husband over for a taco dinner that night.  ( In my defense, I didn’t know I was sick until late Sunday night after I had taken a sleeping pill.)  Luckily, there weren’t any accidents.  I tossed and turned all Sunday night, and by Monday morning I was using the bathroom every ten to fifteen minutes.

          I’m not a big fan of calling out from work.  I went in.  I worked through our busy hours and went home.   By this point I had quit using the bathroom so often.  I think i was just empty.  I crashed and slept off and on for about ten hours.

          By Tuesday I thought I was through with the stomach bug.  I went into work.  I worked a full day.   No big deal.  That afternoon I got a call from my sister saying she had caught the virus, only she was throwing up too.  It sucks that she caught it, it sucks that she was throwing up. What really blows is that she had to work a twelve hour shift in the hospital that night.  I was feeling a little guilty that she caught it from me, so I made a “get well pack” consisting of ginger ale, knock off Kroger brand Pepto, saltine crackers, and some Gatorade.

          Before I went to the hospital, I decided it would be an excellent idea to go for a 5 mile walk.  I guess this got my GI track moving.  By the time I arrived at the hospital I felt like I was about to have a gas baby.  Lucky for me, the hospital was almost deserted.  Most of the lights were off, there were a handful of nurses leaving, and I felt pretty confidant that I could let one rip without anyone noticing.  I got into the elevator and cut one loose.  The noise alone should have earned me some sort of honorary spot on an Adam Sandler album.  I started to waif it out of my skirt, you know, just to see what kind of damage I did.  Seriously, that was a kick ass fart.  My only regret is that Josh wasn’t there to be annoyed by it.  The elevator doors open.  Of course, I’m face to face with a very nice unsuspecting Hispanic couple.

    At this point I could have saved myself.  I could have come out holding my nose, coughing, or looking disgusted.  I could have said, “Man, someone blew this elevator up!” I could have walked out and said, “Sorry!”  But I didn’t do any of that.  I did the mature adult thing: avoided eye contact, smiled, looked at the ground, and walked out.

   I head down the long hallway towards the nurses desk.  I start to hear coughing and giggling.  I can hear them talking in Spanish.  Oh great, now they know. They know it was me! I get to the nurses desk.  I’m desperate to get out of sight.

          “Hi, is Rachel working on this floor tonight?”

          “No, she’s one floor up.”

          “Oh, okay.  Thanks!” I turn to go back down the hallway, and the couple is still standing there! They were waiting on the next elevator to come!  Oh my gosh! I’m going to have to get on an elevator with them.  I can’t do this! Something in me dies.  The overly insecure child in me will not let me walk down the hall.  I turn and face the nurse, but I can’t speak.  I just give her a panicked look. Should I tell her that I’m the one who blew up the elevator?  I should tell her everything.  Yes, I should confess everything.   After all, I’m totally telling everyone I know about it later.  This shit is hilarious!   There is an awkward silence. 

          “Do you know how to get to the third floor?”

          “No.  No I do not.” (I know perfectly well how to go up one floor! I just freaking rode the elevator up to the second floor!)

          “Well, there are a couple of ways…”

          “OH THANK THE LORD!” I scream in my head.

          “…You can take the stairs…”  At this point I am done listening.

“The stairs are amazing! I love stairs!  I’ll never take an elevator again!” I turn and the couple is still there!  Won’t they ever leave?!  They are still holding their noses and yelling, “WHEW! WHEW!” as loudly as they can.  Fortunately, I see the stairs to my right and dart in the hallway.  I’m not even sure if the nurse was done talking.  I race up the stairs.  I am overcome with relief of being out of the situation and start chuckling at myself. 

I find Rachel; she looks like she’s wilting.  I confess everything, and it’s already hilarious.  She’s holding her stomach, laughing, and telling me to shut up.  She even went downstairs to fill the other nurse in on why I was acting so weird.

I still do not know why I couldn’t own up to my own stench at the time.  Seriously, I could have made it all okay by just pointing at myself with one hand and waving with the other.  Oh well, maybe next time I bomb an elevator I’ll have the guts to own up to it. 



Your Team


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What is Your Team? Only the most amazing game ever! Duh!

I was introduced to the elitist game of Your Team about eight years ago. Josh and Angie, his girlfriend at the time, came up with it. It’s a way to, somewhat discretely, point out freaks, geeks, or weirdos. We started doing this that way we don’t have to say, “Oh my gosh! Look at that 500 lb lady, with a mohawk, break dancing,  in her underwear!” Simply saying, “your team” or “YT” is much more discrete.

The object of the game is to put as many freaks, geeks, or weirdos on the other person’s team.  At the end of time, there will be an all out war of the teams. Josh like’s to say that his first defense will be stairs.  That should eliminate any of the high heel wearing hobos, and the morbidly obese fat people in motor scooters.

Here are the rules:

  1. You cannot start your own team.  Someone must put Aunt Bertha on your team in order for you to have a team. 
  2. You cannot, under any circumstances, put someone on your own team!
  3. All three of you MUST be there in person.  You cannot put some freak on TV on your buddy’s team.  You, the other team captian, and the freak show MUST all be present. 
  4. All Wal-marts (and the TN Charlotte Kroger) are off limits. There are just too many well qualified team members at these locations to finish shopping in a timely fashion.

I met Josh in high school but we didn’t talk. We re-met in college and quickly became good friends.  He explained the game to me and my friend Heather. Once we understood the gist of the game we went hog wild! YT! Your Team! YT! YT! I think we were so stoked about a new people watching game that we weren’t even selective. Brown shoes, black belt: YOUR TEAM! We got our friends, family, and coworkers all playing it too.  It’s so much fun!

At one point in time I totally intended on poor man copy writing Your Team for Josh.  I never got around to it.  Then last week I went to look it up.  Apparently, it’s been in the urban dictionary since 2007…I’m like five years too late.   Josh was not happy, that someone had stolen his idea and published it.  However, it has been over a decade since he all started playing it. We will chalk that one up to a loss.

We all still play YT. But now I’m starting to worry that one day I’ll hear someone whispering, “Your Team.” and gesture towards me.



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Originally posted on: February 2, 2012     

     Had a dream last night.  It was weird.This one goes into the category of my “work dreams.”  In real life, I’m the check out girl at a fertility clinic. It’s not a great job but it helps me eek by on my bills and I get tons of free weird ass stories.

      In my dream, I’m at work.  I’m checking this girl out.  She has a $20 copay.  She leans across the counter and whispers,

     “I’m going to pay in full”

     I think to myself, “Of course you are! It’s a $20 copay! You have to pay the copay.”

     She stretches out a closed palm and whispers, “hold out your hand.”

     I hold out my hand and she drops $1.88 in change and a baggie of weed in my hand.  The change falls out of my hand and I shove the baggie under my desk. I panic, and I’m sure it’s showing on my face.

     “I’m all paid up now,” She gets up to leave.  “Have a good one.” She winks at me and walks off.

    My mind is racing a mile a minute.  What the hell am I supposed to do with this?  Does she want me to front her the remaining $18.12 and take the weed? That must be what she wanted me to do! Where the hell am I going to get $18.12? Did anyone see this happen? There’s a nurse standing behind me.  Did she see it happen? Oh my goodness, what should I do and why am I dreaming about weed?  Should I write “No Charge” on the ticket? Will anyone notice if I do? Oh shit!

     I never found out if I kept the weed or not.  The dream ends and another dream, about trying to find a bathroom because I’m about to pee myself, starts.


Words With Friends


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Originally posted:  January 25, 2012

Words with Friends is way too complicated for me. I just sit around putting random letters in spaces till it makes a word. This strategy takes forever. However, I have learned that “QI, ZOEAL, AAH, AWEE” are all words.

Yesterday, I was playing Words with Friends with my co-worker, Stephanie. I played the word “ZOEAL” for 30 points. I also found out that ZOEAL means relating to zoea, which is the larvae of crabs and some other types of crustaceans. (This is according to http://www.yourdictionary.com/zoeal.)  My new shellfish word made me feel pretty bad ass.

My turn comes around again, and I play the word, “QUAD.”  A minute later my phone goes off.  She’s already played her word! I just cant wrap my head around how fast she plays this game. She’s played the word, “SQUAD.” I can’t for the life of me think of what a “SQUAD” is.  I keep picturing some sort of retarded squid.  Before i think, I type; “What the hell is a SQUAD?” I hit send. Then it hits me.  I know what a “squad” is.  “Squad” as in “Squadron.” I’m a moron!  I can’t cancel the message.  It has already sent. There aren’t enough words in the English language to adequately express how much i wanted to take that message back.  The conversations goes something like this:

Me: How are you so fast?! And what the hell is a squad?

Me: Never mind… I was thinking shellfish.  Not army.

Me: I feel like a dumb bunny.

Stephanie: Hahaha what a dumb bunny

Me: Seriously I’ve never wished I could delete a comment so bad.

Regardless, I still feel like a dumb bunny.  The worst part was I was even playing Call of Duty with Josh.  I should have immediately thought about a squadron.  Ugh.



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There’s this children’s book that royally screwed with my head when I was a kid.  It’s called “Tailypo.” Seriously, I was so traumatized that I cried every night before bed for three months.  I’m pretty sure that my parents contemplated murdering the elementary school’s librarian for reading that book to me.  They got very little sleep.  I was in Kindergarten at the time.  As a result, my parents requested that I leave the library at reading time if a scary story was to be read.  Every Halloween season I could be found sitting on a bench outside the office. I felt like such a dork.

The story of Tailypo isn’t exactly a happy go lucky children’s ghost story.  Oh no, it’s pretty dark.  The gist of the story is that a woodsman comes across a strange creature.  He chops off the creature’s tail and eats it.  The creature comes back and asks for his “tailypo.” Obviously, the woodsman can’t give it back, he just freakin’ ate it! (Because that is the sane and logical thing to do when you come across something strange: physically assault it, cut off an appendage, and eat it.)  The creature comes back in the middle of the night, creeps to the end of the bed and asks for his “tailypo” again.  The woodsman doesn’t have it.  The creature eats the man feet first, his two dogs, and the entire house sans the chimney.  On the very last page, the creature says something along the lines of, “Now I got my tailypo.”  It’s really a heart warming all American story.     Here is a better summary if you are so inclined to freak yourself out.  Please, do not read it to me.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tailypo

Granted, it’s been 23 years since I heard the story for the first time, but I still don’t like it.  I have recovered.  I don’t cry before bed any more  and I can watch scary movies.  However, I still prefer to sleep with a blanket tucked around my feet.  It relaxes me.  Josh calls it cocooning.  My cocooning often leaves Josh out in the cold. I go to bed way before Josh does, and he has to readjust the sheets every night before he goes to bed.     Friday night I wake up around 3 AM to get a drink of water.  Josh was still up.  I start to doze off when something starts grabbing at my feet.

“Tailypo! Tailypo! Tailypo!”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! YOooouuuuu!  I start kicking as violently as possible.  Josh bursts out laughing. I can’t help it, even in my sleepy, angry stupor I’m chuckling.  “YOU ARE AN ASS!”

” If I’m as ass, then why are you laughing?”


I don’t think we stopped laughing for another ten minutes.  It was really funny.  With all the shit that I’ve done to him, I can’t believe it’s taken him this long to get back at me.     I’ve been laughing about this ever since it happened.

The Tailypo jokes don’t end there.  My family is constantly teasing me about it.  My dad keeps telling me that he’s collecting those fox tails from road kill to make me my very own tailypo. The horrible part is, I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.  He very well may be collecting road kill.

The moral of the story: Do NOT read your five year old Tailypo unless of course you’d like to scare the shit out of a little kid.  Then, by all means, read it to them.

  • TailyPo (ceciliascribbles.wordpress.com)

The Christmas Decorations Are Going Down

I wrote this a while ago.  I’m still amazed at how fast the decorations went down that year.  Unfortunately it wasn’t the case this year.  For some unknown reason, I lost the tops to all the Christmas bins.  No idea how I did that, but I did.  Here it is late October and I still have a Christmas tree in my office turned junk room.  It’s tacky as hell, and I’ve done nothing about it for ten months.  Now that I’m a mere two months away from Christmas, I just do not see a point in putting them in storage.  Hell, I should just start putting them up now.  Just kidding, I’m not that ambitious.  Regardless, I hope you enjoy the tale of my success in 2012.  

Originally Written:  January 14, 2012

New Record!  All my Christmas decorations are down!!  This beats the previous records of  1. Right after Valentines Day  and 2. May 10, 2010.


    The Christmas tree came down last week!  Inside decorations are my responsibility because i don’t like participating in the Christmas light fiasco. It’s too cold to decorate the house outside and I’m slightly afraid of heights. Granted, I didn’t have the cold weather to use as an excuse this year.  It’s 60 freakin’ degrees outside! Our gigantic fake tree is included in my indoor duties.  This tree is horrible.  It’s seven feet tall, made of a million pieces, and it’s a pain in the ass.

    This year Max, my one year old German Shepherd, decided that it was his job to personally supervise all the Christmas tree events.  He sniffed and snotted on every branch. he laid down under my feet, because, of course, that is the best vantage point in the room. It was not long before his A.D.D. kicked in and he decided that the Christmas tree box needed an inspection.  He kept staring at the bottom of this big empty box.  I told him to go ahead and get in.  He got right in and sat down.  I think he thought it was a really cool doggie fort.



    Christmas “helping” didn’t end there. Josh decided to take down the Christmas lights this past Sunday.  I helped, or tried to help.  Well, so did Max and Harley.  They ran from window to window to try to watch us take down every light, staple, and decoration.  Now all the front windows in our house are decorated with nose prints and snot streaks.

    Our house is really tall, much taller than it looks. Josh outlined the top of the A-frame in lights.  Actually, he outlined everything possible. The Christmas lights are his baby.  He spends all year planning, plotting, and counting lights.  The house looks amazing. It’s probably the brightest house on the block.  He spent the last two weeks in November checking every string for burned out bulbs.  (Don’t knock it.  This is very serious business!)    Here is a picture of the finished product:



     I volunteer to go up the ladder the first time (it’s at a lower point in the house to the left) just to see what it’s like on top of the house.  The stupid ladder bounces.  I take two steps it starts moving. Every two rungs i have to stop and wait for it to stop wobbling. My heart is racing. I get the staples out, the string of lights fall, and I scramble down.    

    Josh decides to move the 13 ft ladder to move the ladder over by himself.  He grabs the bottom so the majority of the ladder is over his head and the ladder starts to tip backwards.  He stumbles a few feet trying to get the ladder balanced. He looks like something off The Three Stooges.  I start to laugh.  It’s freakin’ hilarious, I can’t help it. It’s super funny to watch someone carry around a gigantic ladder that’s quickly tipping over. Then he starts yelling,

    “Help! Help!”

    I run over to grab it.

    “You were just standing there laughing.” He’s rubbing his shoulders.

    “You looked like you had it, and it looked really funny.”

    He stairs blankly at me and lets out a sigh.


    Josh makes a humphing noise.  I realize that the light are hanging over what I’m hoping is the phone line and not a power line. I point it out to Josh. The string of lights is draped over the wire.  Josh reassures me that it’s just a telephone wire.  I ball up the lights and hand them to Josh.  I cant throw or catch anything to save my life. He takes the lights, gives it his best effort, and flings them.  They get caught on the phone lines. Ugh, Im still convinced that one of us is going to get electrocuted.    

   Then he looks me dead in the eye and says, “I’m over the weight limit.”

   “Oh shit balls.” I know he’s right. I’m not very good with heights and it’s like two stories up with a bouncy ladder.  I don’t want him to fall.  If he falls and gets hurt then he gets to stay home and play video games for weeks.  Plus, he doesn’t have health insurance right now and I do.  I think about it some more and eyeball the top of the house.  If anyone is going to get hurt and play video games I want it to be me.  I start to climb.

    The ladder is still bouncy.  I take two steps and wait for the ladder to stop moving. It isn’t so bad at the top of the ladder. If I fall I’ll hit the bushes.  They look nice and fluffy, or so I tell myself.  I get all the way up and realize that I still have to untangle the lights from the “phone lines.”  I reach out for the lights and brace myself for a very electrifying death.  Nothing happens.  I’m not comfortable enough to let go of the ladder so I do everything one handed. I reach out with one hand and keep a death grip on the ladder with the other.  I get the lights free of the damn wire.  I concentrate on pulling out the staples out of the roof.  I get the lights down, and fly down the ladder.  I’ve had enough of the top of our house to last me a lifetime.

    The rest of the undecorating was rather boring. Josh takes the lights down.  I roll them up.  At this point i start to feel sorry for the dogs.  Their noses have to be sore by now.  They have had them pressed against the glass for over an hour.  I decided that it wouldnt hurt anything to let the dogs supervise from inside our car. It’s a pretty day.  We dont have to be going anywhere, they just love to sit in the car.  Here is how it started out:

Max is on patrol and monitoring the undecorating.  He means business perched in the front seat.  Harley is lounging in the backseat.  I think they would both live in the car if I let them.  As we all know, monitoring can be exhausting:

    This is how he ended up napping.


   Needless to say, I think we were all worn out after three hours of dedecorating and supervising.  I can’t possibly describe how happy I am that it is still January and all out decorations are down!