Random Thoughts about Dog Poop and Dementia

randomtuesdayKeely, over at Unmom, does this thing.

You post Random Thoughts on Tuesday. That’s it. Try it – it’s addicting. Then link back to Unmom and see what other people are randomly thinking.

~I have proclaimed today Official Domestic Goddess Day at my house. That means, I have the whole day off,  I’m home alone and I love it, y’all. I love the silence, I love padding around from room to room with a cup of coffee in hand, thinking about what I want to clean, organize, rearrange and redecorate.

I love writing all this down on a great big ole To Do Today list and then scratching things off. Today, so far, I have walked the dog, started a load of clothes and made a hair appointment. I feel so accomplished.

~I’m still trying to figure out this “how to get people to comment on your blog” thing. This really really puzzles me. I read on one of the authoritive-type “How To” blogs that in order to get people to visit and read your blog (and this, apparantly, is what has to happen before they actually leave a comment) you have to write something that is interesting, thought provoking and/or funny. In other words, quality stuff.

The other day I posted a rant story about how much I hate dog poop. It was funny, if not thought provoking, (at least I thought it was.) More importantly, it took me over an hour to write it. It got three comments.

Now to the three wonderful people who commented, (and y’all know who you are) I thank you. Profusely.

But on my other blog, Wilmington Daily Photo, I posted a picture of my shadow and I wrote two sentences. Two. Anyone wanna guess which post got the most comments? Well, I’ll tell ya. The Shadow post got fifteen! Obviously something is wrong here. Either the experts are all wrong, or I can’t write. Or maybe dog poop stinks isn’t as funny as I thought it was.

OK, I’m done whining now.

~Have y’all been listening to all the news about the alarming rise of dementia cases? This worries me, because I forget stuff all the time. Like what I was going to say. Then, when I pause for what might be long enough to write a short novel a nano second, my husband jumps in with his own version of what he thinks I was going to say, and it’s always something sexual stupid.

For instance, Me: “Sweetheart, I thought of something else we need to put on our shopping list…”

Long pause while I try to remember what I was just thinking of.

Jeff: hopefully, after waiting patiently “…..condoms?….lube?…..vibrator?”


I hope it’s just another sign that I’m getting older, like all the other things that keep pestering me. What other things, you might ask. Saggy knees, curly white hairs (so stupid considering all the brown ones dyed blond are straight) foot pain, tennis elbows although I don’t play tennis, hot flashes, crazy acne that has persisted way past puberty and really looks disconcerting on my wrinkly cheeks, and of course, hot flashes.

~Still, I’ll take all of those things if I can continue to enjoy the one thing getting older has given me: grandchildren. My God, it is wonderful to hold a baby again.

I have told y’all that I have another grandchild on the way, right? A boy! He’s due January 1st. I can’t wait.

~Yesterday was what we affectionately refer to as “Crappy Day.”Crappy Day is the day after our last 12 hour shift of night shift. My husband, Jeff, and I work together in a factory, the largest one of it’s kind in the world, that makes optical fiber. Optical fiber is that stuff that allows your computers to connect to the internet, just in case y’all didn’t know. And it’s made out of glass. Very hot glass, before it gets turned into fiber smaller than a human hair. I handle the hot glass. Jeff works on the equipment that measures the final product’s properties, before it is shipped out the door.

I know. Boring.

Anyways, we work 12 hour rotating shifts, or “swing shifts.” That means we work nights from 7 pm to 7 am, then we are off for three days and go back into work on day shift, which is 7 am to 7 pm. Then we are off for one day, and we go back on nights. Then we are off for three more days and then we go back in for four days and then we get a seven day break, except we have to work forced overtime for a day or two, and/or maybe a night during that week off.

Confused yet? Welcome to my world.

My doctor tells me that it is a proven fact that folks who work this kind of schedule are 90% more likely than someone who works a regular 9 to 5 job to develope stomach ulcers (right after she diagnised me with one). Apparantly the body does not respond well to the stress of constantly figuring out whether it is supposed to be awake or asleep. Go figure.

Maybe this accounts for my memory loss and my whiny attitude. Maybe shift work causes dementia. I know it causes whining. Just ask Jeff if you don’t believe me, y’all.

I Hate Dog Doo Doo

spincyclesmallThis week’s Spin Cycle topic is about hate.

Y’all go on over to Spriteskeeper and check out what kind of stuff (or people) everybody is professing to hate these days. It’s pretty interesting.

Me, I’m not real complicated. I just wish folks would have a little common courtesy. You know, like we were all taught back in Sunday School.


I don’t know when we all got so politically correct, but it seems everybody these days tries to steer clear of certain words. “Hate” is one of them. Nobody wants to admit to feelin’ hate anymore, and yet we all do. Even God hates stuff, y’all.

Proverbs 6:16 plainly tells us that God hates six things. A proud look, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that plots evil plans, feet hurrying to run to mischief, a flase witness who breathes lies, and he who causes strife among brothers.


I was gonna write about these two women that I work with, because they both fall into the running to mischief, breathing lies and plotting evil category, but then I remembered something I hate even more than them – DOG POOP!

What in the world is wrong with people who let their dogs out to poop and then never investigate to find out where said poop might have fallen? We have these neighbors, y’all. They have this black lab named Sam. Sam is a perfectly nice dog, I don’t harbor any evil feelings toward the poor fellow, but his owners make me want to rent a billboard and post their picture on it with the caption: “North Carolina’s Crappiest Neighbors!”

See, picking up dog poop out of my yard is not my favorite activity. It’s bad enough that we have to pick up Hannah’s poop. It’s kinda like changing a baby’s diaper. Somehow, changing your baby is bad enough, but doable. Changing someone else’s baby can be a gut heaving, nose holding, on the verge of vomit type of experience.

And, trust me, dog poop is worse than baby poop.

These neighbors obviously must think Sam is some sort of strange mutant dog that never poops. He has some sort of collar devise that allows them to “warn” him to come back if he strays out of their yard too far. So every day, instead of taking the time to walk this poor exercise deprived creature, they open their back door, and let him out to do his business. Staightaway he runs right over to our back yard (our houses are real close, y’all) and hunches over to take a power dookie and leave us one of his smelly presents.

I say “power dookie” because he has to be speedy. He knows exactly how much time he has before the collar starts to beep, and it ain’t much. Miraculously, it is just enough time for him to finish and scamper back into his own yard, before the warning beep escalates to the next level.  I really do wonder what these folks think he does out there in their back yard, since he never leaves any evidence for them to pick up.

Maybe they think his poop is invisible?

I don’t know, they seem like intelligent people. I mean, they drive a BMW, they put their darling, spoiled rotten, precocious daughter in only the best hoity toity private school and they are on the building committee for our neighborhood. That means that they get to help decide who is worthy to put up a privacy fence, or add on a room.

Have I mentioned our plans to add a sun room onto our house sometime this year?

No? Well, that might be a teensy bit of the reason why we just proceeded to quietly pick up Sam’s little presents every single freaking day for six months without saying a single word.

Then, one day, the mess (no pun intended) hit the fan.

I was standing at the kitchen sink, looking out the window that overlooks my back yard and I saw another dog taking liberties on our lawn. It was Crappy Neighbor’s father’s dog, of all things, a little sheltie. Standing nearby, on the sidewalk that borders our yard, was Crappy Neighbor’s father. He was actually standing there, watching his dog poop!

That’s when I snapped.

I opened the window and I screamed, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?”

I went into the garage and I grabbed the shovel. I was so mad I was shaking. Hannah came running into the kitchen, slipping around on the floor and falling down, to see what all the comotion was about. I stepped over her and threw open the back door, shovel in hand, determined to rid my lawn of the offending stinky piles once and for all!

I guess Crappy Neighbor’s father heard me, because he and his precious doggy had disappeared. As I was furiously shoveling the pile up, planning to walk over to the neighbors and have the Confrontation of the Century, Crappy Neighbor’s Father arrives with a shaken look on his face and a cute little red pooper scooper in hand.

A pooper scooper! Who knew? I was momentarily distracted from my furor as I considered this suprising new discovery. These people actually own a pooper scooper? It was brand new and shiny, too. I wondered when they ever planned on using it. Since, you know, Sam has invisible poops.

I held out the shovel full of sheltie’s present, turned to father in fury, and growled, “Where do you want it?”

He blinked. I could see the fear in his eyes. He held out the shiny red pooper scooper and said, timidly, “Right here?”

I slammed my shovel down into his fancy pooper scooper so hard I’m suprised it didn’t break something, y’all. Then I yelled, “You know, picking up after our OWN dog is bad enough, but picking up after your PRECIOUS DAUGHTER’S DOG for SIX MONTHS, EVERY SINGLE DAY, and now YOUR DOG on top of that…well…it gets REAL OLD!”

There! I guess I told him!

He just stood there and looked at me. He never said a word. Finally I turned in disgust and slammed back into the house.

It’s been a few months since that happened. We still get presents every now and then from Sam. Not every day, so I guess that’s an improvement. But, still.

We do try to document the doo doo, by taking pictures like the one you see above. Sam doesn’t seem to mind, and I figure if our sun room project gets denied because of the pooper scooper incident, then, well, we’ll have some sort of documented proof to use as our defense.

Ain’t it all just a big mess?