Snickerfodder

Chowin’ and Plowin’

Posted on: December 11, 2009

 

 

  

The week or so before a holiday is a hectic and dangerous time.

  

  

  

There are a lot of IDIOTS on the road.  

 

 

 

 

I don’t know what happens to folks as the holidays approach, but they all seem to kick into panic mode, as if there will be a frozen Butterball or themed tablecloth shortage or something.  This panic affects their driving skills. 

 

In just the last few weeks alone, I have had several ‘near-misses’ with other drivers pulling incredibly STUPID stunts. 

 

It really burns me when others take MY life into THEIR incompetent hands.  IDIOTS.

 

Fine; you wanna fishtail out’a the high-school parking lot in your piece o’ primer truck, you go right on ahead; just don’t slam into me on your way, pal.  

 

What, Grandma?  You don’t have time to wait for me to cross the slushy crosswalk, escorting my beautiful little girls, all gussied-up in their Christmas duds for a visit with Santa, — which just MAY be the LAST year they BELIEVE?  Where the hell ya gotta go?   Senior discounts are on TUESDAY!  Chillax, ya old bat!

 

Our entire family almost became so much roadkill the other night when some MORON pulled out right in front of us.  El Guapo swerved a hard left and we missed a collision by mere millimeters.  The idiot tore away without a care.  Thank God I’d emptied my bladder before we left the house.

 

My folks are always making fun of me, asking me about how many ‘IDIOTS‘ I’d encountered on the road that day.  But it’s TRUE!  (Just ask Fluffy/Bowzer!) 

 

 

 

One of my biggest pet peeves is people who run red lights. 

 

 

 

Po-Po should have the authority to shoot those sumbitches on sight.

 

 

 

 

Look, I know I don’t have ONE, SINGLE OUNCE of common sense, but at least I am extra careful when it comes to getting behind the wheel.   I save up every smidge of sense I possess for when I’m driving. 

 

And I AM a good, careful driver.  I obey all traffic laws and signals.  I refuse to go more than 5 m.p.h. over the speed limit (unless I am late for church).

 

I actually SLOW DOWN for the yellow.  I come to COMPLETE stops.  If the sign says I may not turn right from 2:30 – 4 pm, and it’s 2:31; I don’t freakin’ turn right.   You can honk and flip me off all ya want, honey, but I promise ya:  I ain’ goin’.

 

I ALWAYS give the road my full attention and care – even when I am suckin’ down a ciggie while belting out Paradise by the Dashboard Light or chair-dancin’ to I Wanna Be SedatedTHIS girl can multitask.

 

 

 

 

But you throw one

 35-lb. Cocker Spaniel

 into the mix, and

it’s all over, folks.

 

 

 

 

Toby is a sweetheart of a dog.  He’s smart and loving and playful.  At 1½ years old, he’s still a pup.  He is never without his ball or his ‘squeaky’.  He learned to fetch the morning paper!  He’s such a good boy!

  

 

 

But as a traveler,

he’s an absolute

 NIGHTMARE.

 

 

 

Toby gets car-sick.

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t matter how many Dramamine I disguise inside treats, he’ll puke’em up.   He starts retchin’ and chuffin’ an’ chukkin’ before we make it to the end of our street.

 

 

Last year, we decided to take him on a 3 ½ hr. drive for a visit with the grandfolk.

 

 

 

 

BIG MISTAKE.

 

 

 

 

 

We hadn’t even gone 50 miles and he’d already yakked 7 times and taken a healthy, steamin’ liquid crap all over the M & Ms in the backseat.  We had to pull over because we couldn’t breathe and our eyes were burning.  We couldn’t turn around and take the mutt back; who would care for him on such short notice?

 

Poor little M2; she slept through the dog shittin’ all over her.  She woke up as were were wiping her off, gagging and retching ourselves.  She got a good whiff of the stench, and then SHE puked.

 

I used every single precious paper towel I brought in the clean-up and had to buy more.  We also bought some Hefty bags, ripped’em open and layer-lined the entire car.   That way, we could just peel off a layer of plastic with each subsequent puke.   

 

  

 

 

Good Times.

  

 

 

  

 

That was the LAST time Toby was in the car for longer than 10 minutes.

 

My vet, Dr. Bruce, keeps encouraging me to take Toby out for short jaunts, and increase the length of the ride in small increments to strengthen his intestinal fortitude. 

 

 

 

I gotta say, it’s not a task that’s high on my to-do list.

 

  

   To Do:

  

  • Sleep
  • Smoke
  • Write
  • Smoke
  • Curse
  • Smoke
  • Eat Smoke
  • Take Toby for ride in ‘car-car’ (11 minutes)
  • Scrape contents of Toby’s stomach (partially digested IAMS Minichunks, rubber ball remnants, assorted hair ribbons, coffee grounds and cucumber peelings) from car’s interior and windshield (1 hour)
  • Smoke
  • Use commercial-grade carpet extractor to cleanse and sanitize  (Smoke) car interior  (2 hours)
  • Kick fuckin’ dog
  • Smoke

 

 

On the way to Toby’s last visit to see Dr. B., he did a great job of keepin’ the chuck down***.

 

 

*** El Guapo told me the secret was to keep Toby in the front passenger seat so that he can see out the window (apparently, this is key in avoiding car-sickness).   The only thing is:  ya gotta hold on to his collar to keep him from climbing all over you.

 

 

When we saw Dr. B., he asked how Toby had done on the ride to the clinic.

 

 

I told him it was super, and he reminded me to keep increasing car-car-time, little by little.

 

 

Just to be on the safe side, though, after Toby got his shots, Dr. B. gave me treats to hold onto — until we got back home.

 

 

When we left the vet’s office it was raining cats and dogs (sorry; couldn’t resist).   Truly, the floodgates had opened up on us.   I was glad we didn’t have far to go in the downpour.   I prayed that my pooch-puke-luck could hold out just a little longer.

 

 

I helped my soggy doggy into front seat of the Suzie.  Toby was was actually enjoying looking out the window, and he wasn’t even attempting to move from the seat.  I had a firm grip on his collar, though.

 

 

I kept reminding him of what a ‘good boy’ he was being, and how ‘priddy’ he was.   He was lookin’ so proud, lappin’ up all the praise.

 

 

I was feeling so positive about Toby’s puke-progress that I decided to give him just a wee-bit more ride time on the way home. 

 

 

 

 

He was being SUCH a good boy!  

 

 

 

 

 

Instead of turning into the main entrance of our subdivision, I decided to add a mere .2 of a mile to the ride and use the side entrance which leads through the adjoining subdivision.

 

I made a nice, slow, easy right; my right hand still gripping Toby’s collar.   I  made sure to stabilize the dog with my right elbow so he wouldn’t lose his balance. 

 

 

 

Good Boy!

 

 

  

 

Before I could straighten out the Trooper’s wheels, Toby stood to all fours, and started doing that full-body-lurching and retching.

 

 

Before I could blink, he leapt at me.

 

 

 

 

I saw nothing

but honey-colored fur –

 and a mass of warm, wet, brown

dog-chow upchuck –

 

 

 

which hit me about mid-chest and slid down to rest and fester on my thighs.

 

 

 

 

Toby morphed

 into a 35-lb. friggin’

Lipizzaner  stallion

prancin’ an’ dancin’

on the 2 goddam pounds

 of puke on my lap –

and spewin’ more by the millisecond.

 

 

 

  

  

I couldn’t SEE.

  

 

 

I didn’t THINK.

 

 

  

Instinct took over.

 

 

  

  

My right hand still wrapped around the mutt’s collar, I jerked/shoved him back over to ‘his’ seat.

  

  

Did you know that at a certain point in every infant’s development, there is a period of time when, while lying on his back, if you stretch his little right arm out to the right, his little LEFT arm will follow, crossing over his chest? 

It works the same in the opposite direction.  It’s funny, it’s cute, but it’s a stage that doesn’t last long.

  

 

Except for The Viv – a virtual Darwinian mystery – unfortunately, she still possesses this infantile reflex. 

 

 

 

UNFORTUNATELY, my LEFT hand, firmly gripping the Trooper’s steering wheel,  INSTINCTIVELY followed my right hand in throwing off my chow-chukkin’ chum.

 

 

(***the only thing her left hand is capable of doing of its own volition: 

 flippin’ off the aforementioned IDIOT DRIVERS)

 

 

 

 

As Toby heaved the chow,

I hopped the curb and  

PLOWED

right into some poor schlep’s

green, plastic MAILBOX.

 

Now, granted, being the careful driver I claim to be, I was doing 10 mph – at most.

 

So, truly, I was going about as fast as a PLOW; instead of some corn crop,

 

 

 

I mowed down a MAILBOX.

 

 

 

 

Though it happened in an instant, it played in SLOW-MO.

 

I felt the impact – a dull THUD – accompanied by the grating crunch of plastic being bulldozed down sidewalk cement.

 

I slammed on my brakes, launching the damn dog from the catbird seat down into the footwell. 

 

At least I had the sense to flick on my hazards and open the windows a crack  — God Forbid the dog suffocate – while I got out into the pouring rain to survey the damage.

 

 

 

 

What a mess.

 

 

(Have I mentioned I have a propensity for getting myself into messes?)

  

 

 

 

The Trooper’s right tires were up on the sidewalk, the poor homeowners’ letters were littered all over their front lawn, getting soaked in the torrential downpour.

 

At least 10 feet of sopping sod separated the mail box itself from its plastic-encased 4×4 wooden post.

 

 

 

 

Confession Session:

 

 

 

I squelched a nearly overwhelming urge to jump up and down

like I’d just won on Jeopardy, screaming,

 

 

 

 

Yea, BABY

I mowed that muthafucka DOWN

Boo-ya!”

 

 

 

 

 

With shaky hands, I dragged the splintered post back to its general original position, and I gathered up the soggy envelopes, stuffed’em back into the box, and trudged up to the house’s front door.

 

 

 

 

What the hell do ya say?

 

 

 

 

Hi, I’m totally sober,

but my DOG made me hit your mailbox. 

I’m really sorry.

 

 

  

 

  

Lucky me, nobody answered the door.

 

 

 

 

I wrote a brief apology (minus the doggy defense) and my contact information on the back of the paper that claimed my mutt had just received his rabies vaccination.  

 

I stuffed the sopping paper into their decapitated mailbox which I’d positioned next to the door as a nice greeting for its owners when they got home.

 

I called El Guapo and told him what I’d done, and for ONCE, he was in town when I really needed him. 

 

He drove over directly and helped me with damage control.

 

I was able to leave my info. with the next-door neighbor.  She looked at me like maybe I was gonna drive my truck into HER house, to boot. 

 

In the end, El Guapo went back to talk to the folks.  He humbly apologized for his dipshit wife takin’ out their mailbox and offered to buy and install a brand new one.  (God Bless El Guapo; he remained my hero for several more hours after that — a record.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turns out, this is the 7th mailbox

those poor folks have lost to

 

 IDIOT DRIVERS.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Viv is now the

BIGGEST IDIOT DRIVER

on the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She has been court-ordered

to flip herself off

before driving.

 

 

 

 

 

 

With Christmas fast approaching,

she’s not to be trusted behind the wheel of a car,

dog or no dog.

 

 

 

 

 

If you see her plowin’ down your street,

PLEASE move away from your mailbox.

 

 

 

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2 Responses to "Chowin’ and Plowin’"

Viv, you are blessed with unbounding patience! And it provides great fodder for your blog. Fa La La La La…. can’t wait to hear the Christmas stories.

Howdy, SNL2!

Unbounding patience?

Oh, God love ya, honey; that ain’t patience.

It’s NUMBNESS.

True, my bizarre life is a never-ending source of fodder!

Yuletide updates are in the works.

Love & Smoochies to ya!
xoxoxo

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