My Effing Dog, The Shedding Siberian Huskie with Nuclear Pee

Sorry to be so graphic. I have a Siberian. That's a kind of dog in case you live in Kansas and haven't read anything but the Burpee Seed Catalog for the last 100 years. Most of them have blue eyes. Mine has brown eye because he's full of '**it.'

Here's the weird, irritating part. I live on .71 of an acre. About 25% of that is lawn. I fawn over this lawn. Siberian boy pees all over it. Now, where he goes, there's a bullseye where the grass turns brown. After that, the grass grows like it's in an Easter Basket. I can't get rid of him... he was an engagement present from my bride. Wringing his neck would cause some marital conflict.

His name is Oslo. I call him Chernobyl and Three Mile Island. He likes to watch my wife get undressed. That's because he thinks he is Cary Grant. He thinks I am Woody Allen. I hate this damn dog.

Huskies have two layers of fur. Come spring, all 19 layers shed. I haven't been in a client meeting in the past three weeks in clothes without Huskie hair. It's in my food.

Huskies don't bark. They talk.Yesterday he told me he was going to steal my truck and kill me with a tire iron.

People in Authority Who Abuse It Because They Can

OK, I only have a few minutes. Her Majesty, my 2.5 year old, needs me. I started today at 2:30am (I'm a blogger by early morning hours and, perish the thought, a PR flak by day...how do you spell 'sleep deprivation...). But all I wanted today was to have some person on the west coast approve a news release and insert a quote. You'd think I asked her to have my children. This is one of those cases where a third party company is asked to approve the release from my client. What's the big whoop? It's a stupid news release, dude. No one is going to read it anyway.

I used to see this when I was a reporter. I started off in my 'journalism' career on the accident/police beat. My job called for me to phone the hospital to check with the head nurse on the condition of so and so who drove drunk into a bridge abutment. Dead or alive is basically all I needed to know. Would they tell me? Nope. Why-- because they could. There's no earthly reason not to tell some reporter the condition of an accident victim unless a family member isn't going to hear the news until well after tomorrow's editon in which case, the hospital has bigger problems. But I digress. I hate hospitals, by the way... but that's a post for another day. They smell. They dry out your skin. They have too many neon lights. Doctors are smarmy. Their hands are too small. They all talk like they're bored to tears. I always want to ask a doctor who his or her doctor is. I know years ago they were the ones that loved making me feel stupid in math class... ok, I'll stop that aspect of this story now.

Anyway, I got into the habit of telling the source (some head nurse) that I would quote them as saying the victim died, and I'd use their name. But PR people don't have that kind of leverage. Basically, we just bend over. BOHICA, as they say. If you don't know what that means, you don't want to know.

Thank God it's Friday. Meanwhile, how about that Amy who wants to drive over little old men in walkers in the road. Hey Aim-- want to get there ahead of the little old man... leave sooner! Ha ha.

Can you hear me now....?

Another irritant of mine.....(geez, i've had a lot this week, thank god it's the weekend!)

Cingular's cell phone service and their commercial that claims "Cingular has the least dropped calls." Well, Cingular....why don't you take a trip down to South Natick, MA and then tell me who has the least dropped calls! Everyday i'll either receive a phone call or try to make a call, and halfway through a sentence there will be silence and all of my service bars have disappeared. However, if I take one tiny step left, then move 2 inches ahead, hold my finger on my nose while balancing on one foot....then, and only then will I get enough service to make a 2 minute phone call. Hey Cingular! Put a tower down here, will ya?!?!

Out of my way....Jackass!

You know what really boils my blood? Slow drivers! I'm all for being cautious and obeying the law, but it always seems that when I am in a rush to get somewhere, there is a blue haired granny, or a drivers ed class packed inside of a old crappy sedan with yellow warning signs, or even worse... a school bus, right in front of me--and they are taking their sweet ass time to get where ever they are going, and slowing me down in the process.

Oh no, they don't have a care in the world. They drive the speed limit and sometimes under; stop at yellow lights; refuse to go around someone who is taking a left hand turn---even though there is obvioulsy room. They sip their lattes and bobb their heads happily to whatever crappy radio station they're tuned into; stopping at cross walks and letting little old men in walkers cross the street because it makes them feel good.

I'll admit it, I tend to acquire road rage now and again, but only when I need to get somewhere in a hurry. My focus and speed become superheroic, dodging in and out of lanes, avoiding speed traps, and accelerating through yellow (on their way to red) lights. I'm unstoppable, (perhaps I'm being a tad naive)....That is until someone who practices the characteristics of slow, distracted drivers as mentioned above, gets in my way.

It takes literally 2 seconds!

Let us discuss the age old mystery of people not putting a new roll of toilet paper back on to the roller when they use the last few squares. Women are know for being able to multi-task...for example, washing the dishes and talking on the phone or...driving a car and putting on makeup (okay, not such a good example). Men on the other hand are infamously known for their ability to give extreme focus to only one thing at a time. Women are able to use the bathroom while at the same time replacing the roll of TP. Men....well, they're just way to focused on...you know. For those of you (and not just talking to the men) who don't know how this miraculous phenomenon works, here are 3 easy steps that you can follow. Step one: notice that you have just unraveled the last bit of TP from the cardboard cylinder, Step two: reach either behind you, underneath the sink, or where ever it is, for a fresh new roll. Step three: take the spring loaded holder out from it's wall mount, insert new TP roll into holder and replace back into wall mount. Isn't that easy as pie? I know that with a little bit of courtesy and hard practice, you too will one day be able to say(with a wink and a nod) to your co-worker or family member next in line for the bathroom..."Hey, I left you a fresh new roll!"

You know what really gets me in a great mood on Monday mornings? My water heater not being up to par. It is such a delight to awake on Monday morning after a long restful weekend and be physically attacked by the shower head and the constant stream of luke warm/almost cold water coming out of it.

Today's Wicked Irritant: Google Blogger

When you get up at 3am to post, finish one, hit upload, the Google pinwheel goes round and round and round and round and never publishes. That's tons of fun.

Pent-Up Irritants

I'm irritated. I've got a lifetime's worth of pent up irritants I just have to get off my chest.

1. Dirty gas station squeegie buckets. If you insist on washing my windsheld (who asked you, anyway) then slosh something on my windshield with something in it (like detergent) other than the dirt from the last 1,000 guys' windshields. And, by the way, that bird turd you just left smeared on the glass, do you not see that? At least before your handiwork it was a white and black dot the size of a quarter. Now it looks like someone dragged a giant boil across the glass.

2. People who go up highway on-ramps at 120mph and then slow and hug the breakdown lane. Man... go or don't go, but don't go, go, go and them hit the no, no, no wimp pedal. That's as bad as people who stand in doorways or just inside revolving doors.

3. People who can't manage their car alarms. First of all, car alarms deter nobody. My theory is car alarms were invented so that the rest of us could quickly identify the idiots among us. So far, I'm batting 1000.

4. Orange mulch. This time of year in New England Joe Homeowners everywhere are laying down mulch. Mulch is worthless, but it makes us feel good. But what's with this organge colored stuff. It looks like mulch from Mars. I have two theories: they're giving it away; or, it's some guys' way of screaming, 'Hey look... I mulched.' It makes a house looklike a cheap theme park where undesirables hang. On my way to work I drive through Dover where the average home costs $14,567,876,876,542. No orange mulch. Clue? If I had a trunk full of one-legged pink flamingos and crystal balls on pedastals, I'd install the pair of them on every lawn with orange mulch. Organe is not a color that exists naturally in the world of mulch. And, while I'm at it, mulch is a stupid word.

5. Siblings who can't shut up. If, in the presence of my sister, I manage to get out even a parenthetical phrase, she's got a story. If I climbed Mt. Everest, she walked to the moon. Maybe in your case it's not a sibling, but come on, everyone has one of these in their life, right?

You Wanna Try a Combo?

My shrink says I need to examine with whom I am really angry when I get mad. He's a jerk. But what he means is that sometimes when I'm expressing my irritation at something, I need to stop and ask myself, "Who are you really mad at?"

I get mad when, every morning, the Dunkin Donuts woman who handles the drive-thru asks me, 'Wanna try a combo?' Now, Docton Coconut Crueller, who am I mad at?

1. I'm mad at the little genius research consultant munchkin at Dunkin Donuts world headquarters in Donuthole, Ohio, who figured out the franchise would sell 7% more whatevers if every poor immigrant working their shops were trained to mouth these words corrupted by 72 different dialects trying to manage English. Never mind it pisses off 100% of the rest of us. It comes out sounding like everything from ' Yew wernta tree a cambou,' to 'Yer wernata eh a carmber.' But I know what their asking me... it's usually the same number of syllables in any language. Just like my response, "No thanks." But some days I really want to respond with, "Why?" They might as well as ask me, "Want another wicked dimple in your behind?" And that leads to irritational point #2.

2. Of course I want a combo... I want one of everything you got. I'm starving. So I'm mad at me because I'm a pig. I'm on this screwed up Atkins diet and it's been seven days since I ate a carb. To hell with the combo, I want a carbo. Big time. This is why people who go off Atkins balloon to twice their normal pre-diet size. I've been on and off it six times and I now weigh 600 pounds.

'Sterling, you have a self-image issue too but I see, oh well... we're out of time for today's session...'

3. Do they think I'm blind? I'm driving for crying out loud. I can see the menu. If I wanted a combo, I'd ask for one.

Don't get me wrong. It can't be easy being the drive-throu order taker at a D&D. I see these monosyllabic mouth-breather people in cars in front of me sometimes. First of all, they're consumed by something on their laps -- don't ask me. Two, their window is down about two inches, their radios are on, and when they order they talk to their windshields. Turns out, my own research proves that 98% of these people order an entree... breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Lastly, for the record, I love Dunkin Donuts coffee. I was in Starbucks in Wellesley last weekend... we went in so my three year old could use the potty... so Starbucks is good for something except they have only one toi-toi and Wellesley co-eds have no clue about what a line means, but that's a theme for another post. Anyway, while sitting there waiting for Her Majesty to emerge from the bathroom, I listened to the coffee chef yell out the orders... you know, the double-double half-caff, half lap yourself with mocha moochoo mango etc. Man, you have to really want to be cool real bad to drink that stuff and pay $8 a cup for the priviledge.

I think on my next visit to the shrink I'm going to bring him a combo.

4. Do you suppose they mean something entirely different? Should I respond with, "A combo? Are you cute?" Just kidding.