Does Not Love Dogs

When it comes to our furry canine friends, I can usually take them or leave them. However, at the moment, I have two grown labrador retrievers as roommates. When I say roommates, I mean in the sense that I occasionally must take them for walks, pick their steaming, smelly poo up off the sidewalks, and endure their earnest stares and colossal thumping tails as I eat my meals. Good news: such maintenance only falls to me every so often. Bad news, in case you missed it: I'm picking up steaming, smelly dog poo. Let's examine this aspect further.

One, I've never been a stellar primary care provider for canines. In high school, my mother actually took two of my dogs to the pound as I continually forgot to feed them. Before you call the SPCA on me, this was a long time ago, and both of them are in a better place now, I'm sure. Two, even when these two were in my questionable care, they lived outdoors and could poop wherever they damn well pleased. If you stepped in it, well tough titty, go find some pavement on which to vigorously scrape your shoe and move on. Yet in large cities, it is mandated that one eradicate all evidence of canine defecation and disseminate plastic, feces-filled baggies in sporadic city trash cans.

Enter me: not above getting my hands dirty by any means, but I used to have standards. Yet last week I found myself staring at several greenish-brown turds of hazardous bio-waste lying next to a spindly tree growing out of the sidewalk. After using their hind legs to kick dirt in a direction that was nowhere near the crime scene, my "roommates" mingled around, pulling on the leashes like there was nothing left to see.  Turning a plastic bag inside out, I placed my hand in one end, held my breath, and approached. For those of you who have never had this experience, imagine microwaving Play-Doh, rolling it in vomit, and tossing it in a bag of fart smell, and you'll have some idea of what this stuff feels like when there's nothing separating you from it than the thinnest of plastic. After procuring all of the pieces, I tied a knot in the bag but not before catching a whiff and almost tossing my cookies all over the sidewalk. Boomer looked at me, tail wagging and tongue lolling. "Don't even..." I wanted to say. "You did this. We're not friends." I don't think they speak English though, because they both still shadow me in the kitchen. They can be lying on their sides, seemingly oblivious to the world, and one click of fork on plate and heads are up, tails are thumping, and puppy dog eyes are in full effect. I'm immune to such tactics. They may occasionally receive a head scratch, but with the smell of their poo still lingering in my nostrils, there ain't a whole lot of room left for sympathy.

Dear St. Valentine

I'd like to thank you for existing because now, every February 14th, I get a heart shape box of chocolates that never fails to delightfully surprise/disappoint me based on whatever it is into which I bite. (Heaven forbid I leave a dangling preposition there, hence the odd wording. Thank you as well to Mrs. French for schooling me in 10th grade grammar.) The world becomes a wonderland of pink and red construction paper, silvery glitter, paper lace, and boxes and boxes of el-cheapo Valentines for the kiddie boos to hand out to their classmates. My friend Brooke said those boxes always made her nervous because she was afraid she wouldn't have any sitting in her desk, and I thought to myself, what kind of punk kid doesn't give a Valentine to all of his classmates? What a jerk face. Parents, please teach your children that it's the unpopular school kids that need these cheap Valentines the most. These tiny little incidents can be the defining moments in our lives, making or breaking us in preparation for the cruelty to come that is higher grade school. So dang it, I know that nerdy girl in the glasses looks funny and wears mustard yellow all the time, but is it gonna kill you to write her name on a flimsy piece of colorful cardboard? I think not. Take one for the team.

My apologies, St. Valentine, for my preceding rant. I now return to the task at hand. Thank you again for the multifarious chocolates and the abnormal number of people populating Wal-Mart on the day itself thereby proving themselves lazy, inconsiderate bums for not buying a card before the fact; however, it is these very people that create the demand for the burgeoning enterprises that sprout up along highways selling oversized stuffed bears, ridiculous swirly lollipops (guys, we NEVER want these), and flowers that looked like they were reaped from the Sahara. Three cheers for capitalism and taking advantage of people's horrible propensity to procrastinate. Here here!

Sincerely,
Me

German Tales: Hamburger Haffen

By the banks of the river Elbe, Hamburg was colder than a snow cloud. The sky was gray, the seagulls more numerous than the boats, and the smell of fish and brackish water held fast even in the cold. I had boarded my first submarine a few hours previous, the U-434; a rather young Russian submarine that the Germans converted into a museum. It was still partly submerged, and it was like crawling through an entirely metal McDonald's playground except there was a torpedo room, a gajillion controls, pipes, and the creepiest looking mannequins dressed in sailor uniforms I've ever seen. One was lying on a bunk looking like a dead body save for its painted-on features. I suppose they were simply trying to show how small everything was in comparison to a human, but as I am human and was standing right there, I think I got the picture without the eternally grinning Ensign beckoning me into his chamber. Creeptastic. Walking through a submersible, sneaky, Cold War weapon? Very cool.

Afterwards, since we were on the docks, it seemed only fitting that we would try Fischbrotchen, which directly translates to "fish bread." Envisioning a Captain D's style fried fish sandwich, my stomach thought that a grand idea. I ordered, set my things down with the guys, and went to use the toilet. When I came back, the side piece of what looked to have been caught two minutes before was sitting on my plate (no seriously, I swear the fisherman came in and emptied his net on the counter while the waitress grabbed a specimen, sliced off its flanks, plopped it on a bun with a whole mess of raw onions, then served me my sandwich). The guys looked at me expectantly between snickers. "You'll be awesome if you eat that," JC smirked. To which I replied, "I don't have to eat that to be awesome." Nevertheless, the challenge had been issued, and since usually I am of the 'when in Rome' mentality and was so close to the salty river I could have rollerbladed out the door and been submerged in two seconds, I put on my game face, cut off the scaly flank hanging over the edge of my bun, and bit in. My first thought - raw fish, Raw Fish, RAW FISH. Second thought - hmm, a bit sour. Third thought - without these onions, I'd be throwing up right now. Fourth thought - I may be able to do this.

In the midst of my mastications, I watched JC gag a little, but I kept charging through. Round about bite five, I'd had enough. As much as I wanted to reign triumphant over my Fischbrotchen, my mouth no longer wanted to set the taste of raw flesh from the sea and creamy, sugary latte at war. I tossed the entire mess back on my plate and ceded my defeat. JC still looked slightly green, but gave me props nonetheless, and really, what more can you ask for? Further evidence that women are still ruling the world, one chunk of raw fish at a time.