Help Me Out

My new neighbors (okay, they aren't really new, but they are newer) leave their backdoor open all day. In the summer. As in, right now, as I write this, their door is open.

What the what?

I get this in the Midwest. I do. Nice summer day, gentle breeze.

But here? It's currently hovering around 108. No breeze.

The house has AC, so either they have it turned off or they have the world's most gigantic electicity bill.

Why would anyone do this?

It's Just a Small Gift, Really. But Still...You are Welcome, Neighbors.

The worst thing about the stupid cast thing is taking it on and off.

Seriously, I would like to burn it. When it's not, you know, attached to my foot.

Seriously, the level of lazy that I am reaching here is astounding. I blame it on the fact that I can't do freaking anything.

As I am required to take it off to drive, and then immediately put it back on upon arrival at my destination, it gets old. Fast. I can't really do anything about it at work. But at home? The thought of taking the boot/cast off to drive home, put it back on to walk into the house, take it off two minutes later when I get into my cozies (Everyone wears cozies around the house, right?), and then put it on after said cozies are on is enough to kill me. So I have figured out that I can save minutes, actual minutes, by getting out of my car, taking off my pants, putting the cast/boot back on, and walking into the house in my undies.

Then when I get upstairs, I can just throw on my cozy pants OVER the boot. Because those pants STRETCH.

Where's the gift, you might ask?

I close the garage door first. You are welcome.

Because my neighbors know that I am not above walking around in my undies. 

Dear neighbors, I deeply apologize for the fact that the image of me walking around the backyard in a tank top, bright green panties, and Jeremiah's old grey converse searching for granules in piles of dog barf is forever burned in your retinas.

Believe me, everyone. If time had permitted me to put on pants, I would have.

The title for this one practically wrote itself. Alternates I was considering:

• What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger...one dog's true story.
• I feel like a million bucks...or at least $39.99 and the cost of some hydrogen peroxide.
• Do you know the number for the poison control line for pets? No? Because I do.

Here's the story.

Yesterday was a self-proclaimed "Day of Fun". More details on that later. Or never. Who knows. Anyway, to have the day of fun,  Jeremiah got up around 4:30, I think. I slept in until 5:55. This has little to do with the story, other than I am appalled that I consider 5:55 sleeping in late. That just makes me sad.

At one point (the point where I was dressed only half way) I could hear scraping noises outside. I asked Jeremiah to check on the dogs. It was then that he discovered that Spike had gotten into the ant poisoning that we put outside. It was in a container, covered and surrounded by bricks, but he got in.

And then he ate the poison.

I have to say one thing. If there is ever an emergency, I will need to duplicate myself. Jeremiah was little help (sorry Jeremiah, but it's the truth), except when he whipped out his credit card. He made the phone calls, but basic information was relayed from me to him to the person on the phone. Age of the dogs? No clue. Weight? No clue.  EPA number on the side of the poison? Couldn't find it.

So Spike eats the poison. Atticus is flitting around the backyard, and I am actually concerned that he might have gotten some.

The first person (actually the second person. Our vet was closed, so we called the emergency number they listed.) suggested that both dogs be given a tablespoon of hydrogen peroxide, which is safe for the dogs and would make them barf. I pulled out the dropper/measuring thing that I use with the dogs (pet owners - you should ALWAYS have one of these on hands. You never know when you will need it.) and fed Atters a bit less then a tablespoon. Spike willingly drank about half of his and then I had to squirt the rest in with the dropper.

Atticus went outside. Promptly sat down, grinned at me, and horked up a tiny pile of dog food. I used my foot to smoosh through it. No poison. Thank god.

Spike didn't barf. The dog has an iron stomach. He's also ingested transmission fluid, primer, and a bunch of other random things. He walked around gaily, wagging his tail, smelling things.

Jeremiah calls a third person, recommended by the previous caller, which will cost $39.99, but will tell us if the ingredients are toxic. Jeremiah calls, I provide him with his information (time to learn your new phone number, Jeremiah) and the EPA number listed on the side of the container and we discover that it should not be a problem. Spike's stomach will be upset and he shouldn't have any water or food for awhile, but he will be fine.

After Jeremiah got off the phone he sat patiently and reassured me that I would not end up on a list of people who were banned from buying/rescuing shelter animals. I still do not believe him. I probably will not ever be able to adopt any animal again. I probably am not even allowed to volunteer (Actually, Jeremiah and several friends have forbade me from volunteering with animals as they fear that I will bring them all home.)

Then - Spike barfed.

He barfed up a pile of ant poison pellets.

And now he's fine.

"Cross ant poison off my bucket list!"

I Freaking Apologized Once - That's a Big Deal for Me. Take What You Can Get, Idiot.

Sunday was the first day of swim season for me. Mostly because it was 103 degrees on Sunday, but also because normally we start swimming the first week of April and I simply could not wait a second longer.

As I was lounging around afterward, with my puppies flying around the yard, I tipped my face up so it could kiss the sun. As my face and the sun were engaged in some serious snogging, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

Oh, yeah. It was my neighbor. Peeking over the fence. The new neighbor, that we love so much we can hardly stand it.

I waited until I caught his eye and then gave him my "What the hell do you want and why are you staring into my backyard?" smile. It's quite the smile. The following conversation truly did happen:

Neighbor: M'am?
Me: Holy shit. This idiot did NOT just call me m'am. I don't think m'ams use noodles and floaties in the pool. Yes, SIR?
N: Yer gettin' water in my yard.
Me: Oh, yeah. The filter needs a small replacement part. I'm sorry about that. We shut it off. It should not be leaking anymore.
N: There's water in my yard.
Me: Again, we turned it off. We'll get it fixed before we turn it back on. It was an accident.
N:It's right where my dog stands.
Me: Oh my gosh! I will be right over with paper towels and a blow dryer! We'll fix this mess! Oh, wait. It's THE GROUND. It is also the freaking DESERT. I think it will dry. As will your dog, unless it melted because it is pure barking evil.

Because seriously? At this point, what do I say? I have said everything possible regarding the situation.

I don't get being all butt hurt about this. I truly don't. Every day our neighbor waters their lawn with sprinklers and our fence/surrounding wall/ground gets wet. Not once in all these years did it occur to me to complain. We also had a neighbor with a pool and every time they back-washed the pool our yard flooded a bit. Never thought about complaining.

Maybe he is butt hurt because I left an anonymous note taped to his house about common courtesy regarding barking dogs all night long. I did it under the cover darkness and the cover of some shorts and a t-shirt, but no underwear. Which is weird, running around outside feeling naked but not actually being naked. It's the self-conscious girl's version of streaking.

Or maybe he is grumpy because in addition to my kind note, someone had called animal control and I saw that note taped to the door. So maybe he isn't feeling the love.

So neighbor? This is for you.

Dear Neighbor,
 I wanted to take a moment to have a heart-to-heart with you. To be completely honest, Jeremiah and I had high hopes that you and your wife would be semi-normal people. Sadly, our hopes were dashed with the F*CK SCOTTSDALE t-shirt that you so proudly wore the day you moved in next door. If possible, Jeremiah's hopes were dashed even more upon sight of the cases of Bud Light. While we gave up on friendship, we thought perhaps we could all be decent neighbors. No such luck. Your barking/baying dog all hours of the day and night ruined that pipe dream. And then? Then you get weird and pissy about your "lawn". And it wasn't even concern for us (Once before the previous renter had asked if everything was okay with our pool after we backwashed. She wasn't sure if it was supposed to have water go everywhere.), SIR, it was about your precious beast of a dog. Who happened to be standing on wet ground. Oh, the horrors. In addition, please know that I am keeping tabs on you. I know that there are multiple people coming and going from your house. Sometimes there are kids, sometimes no. I do know that no one ever seems to leave the house to go to a job, which is interesting because you have a newer model vehicle. I have also noted that you keep your trash in the garage, which is fascinating to me. People don't do that here. The garages are way too small. What are you trying to hide?
Sincerely,
Anonymous Neighbor

P.S. I am watching you.
P.P.S. I realize that this may not intimidate you, as you have already been caught peeking over our fence and spying on ME.
P.P.S. When I came inside on Sunday, I cursed you and the day you were born.

Dear Neighbor,

Dear Neighbor,
I moved out of an apartment because I did not like listening to horrible music through a connecting wall. And yet, years later, here I am.

Listening to your shitty music. No wall connecting us. In fact, three walls separating us. So loud that I CAN HEAR THE WORDS, the booming bass, everything. For HOURS. On Sunday afternoon. A day of rest.

It is such a joy to have you next door. I especially love it when I am on vacation and spend my mornings exercising, listening to my music on the ipod and your music which I can hear OVER my ipod. Or when I try to enjoy the silence with a good book and some tea and I get to listen to your crap instead. That is awesome, too.

A couple questions I have for you:
1. Do you work?
2. Do you go to school?
3. Do your mom and dad know that you are an asshat?

I'm going to go out on a limb and answer  "no" to all of these.  Because you are always there. Because you are like a horrible Visa card. Everywhere I want to be.

Sincerely,
Your Ticked-Off Neighbor

p.s. We really like your dad, so he can stay, but we'd appreciate it if you would leave. Thanks.
p.p.s. I'm not against a blaring stereo for a song or two. Honestly, sometimes you just have to listen to something loudly. But now it is getting scary and my anger bubbles inside like the time I ate potato chips and burped sour cream and onion burps all night. This? This is seriously not good.