Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Smiley Face for the Win

The teenager was giving me a bit of lip this morning. Stressed and on deadline (these two go together like peanut butter and jelly, btw) and hopeful to get a bit of sympathy, I handed her a print-out of my latest from-the-client request. I followed up with "Integrate these insights with my original data and provide me with a comprehensive doc, maintaining everyone's original comments and have it to me by 5:00."
To which the teenager offered "I have absolutely no idea what you want, but instead, how about I draw you a big smiley face. Everyone loves smiley faces."


I'm sure everyone will appreciate that much more.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

It's my lawn, not your dog's.

The dog was in the process of defecating. On my lawn. And it's not my dog.

We've all had moments when our dogs have had to "go." And we've all cleaned it up and moved on. Quickly. But not this time. And not this family.

"Hi!" my husband says, as cheerily as possible, given that he's just pulled up into our driveway and wasn't expecting a family of four, with a defecating dog, on my lawn. "Could you not have your dog on my lawn?"

Note that he did not use the words "GET THE HELL OFF MY LAWN" or "YOU'LL BE CLEANING THAT UP!!" he just politely asked for them to remove their fur friend from my grass.

The mother (I'm guessing) turns and says, in an exasperated and incredulous tone, "He's a male dog."

I'm not following. Is there a rule that all male dogs get carte blanche on your neighbor's lawn? And what is this "get out of pee free" law called? "If you're a bitch, the world is not your urinal"?*

"I'm sorry?" I stutter. "Male dogs don't MARK,"** the unpleasant owner of the, er, bitch continued.

As if this makes it okay for some strange dog to urinate or defecate on my lawn. Because it won't leave a mark? I was still shocked that, instead of saying "oh, sorry" I was getting an "in-your-face" what-for from an arrogant woman, her two smirking daughters and her bemused significant other.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd move along," I say. "This is what the greenbelt areas are for." (I'm just trying to be helpful).

"What are YOU," she replies. "My TEACHER?"***

Her significant other, looks up, surveys my lawn, and adds "Well, and if you cut your grass..."

So now my gardening skills are taken to task? Long grass**** is the neighborhood morse code for "Take fantastic doggie craps over here--no need to pick up!!!"

That's news.

Here's more news: Do it again and I will use your doggie's doo doo to write "I don't pick up after my dog" on your front door.

I'm sure that it's the correct and proper thing to do.

Lesson over.

* Forget "My Life in Really Small Words," this is now the title for my currently unpenned, but sure-to-be-classic new tome.

** Note, had she allowed me to get a word in edgewise, I would have taken her on a tour of our backyard, where our MALE dog has complete and total domain, which has caused it to become a bespotted wasteland of urinary death circles.

*** Personal note: If I were your "teacher" I'd reinstate the "run around the gym until your guts explode" and the "hold-the-bowling-pins-out-to-your-sides-until-your-arms-want-to-fall-off" punishments for mouthy students, just like my elementary school gym teacher used to do.

**** Special thank-you to the lovely young man at Lowe's who pointed me in the direction of a lawn elixir that did, indeed, make my lawn exceptionally green and lush--so lush, in fact, that it requires two-a-week mows, the side effect of which is that it attracts nasty bitches (apologies to the pomeranian) who feel the need to pollute its gorgeous greenness with urinary death circles.

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