So, I have good news, and I have bad news. The bad news is
that, last night, our Christmas tree fell over. The good news is that, as I was
screaming, “MAN DOWN,” my batshit-crazy dog saw sticks everywhere and thought
she’d died and gone to Nirvana. On second thought, since only good girls go to
heaven, that bitch is going to Valhalla … but not for long; because, when she’s
in – she wants out, and when she’s out – she wants in.
Anyway, as we cleaned ornaments and water off the floor, I
thought about the note I leave for people who baby-sit her when we’re gone, and
I wondered what I would write to Vikings if they had to keep her for forever.
This is that letter (from her):
Dear Olaf, Olaf, Olaf, Erik, Olaf and Steve,
Thank you so, so, so much for taking care of me. I really
appreciate it and you. I also wanted to share some important information about
myself, so you will still love me at the end of this date. First, I’m a strong, independent, single female, who likes
to take slow bike rides in the morning, long walks in the woods at night, and
snuggle all weekend long. I have long, shiny, black hair and am shallow, so
feel free to tell me how pretty I am. We’ll get along better that way. What
else?
My turn-ons include shoes, bacon, belly-rubs, cat poop and tennis
balls. They are literally my favorite things EVER! Turn-offs include vacuum
cleaners, groomers and fuzzy socks. They genuinely terrify me and make me very,
very, very bitey. My doctor says that’s normal, but I don’t know if he can be
trusted. He’s knuckle-busted me with a thermometer more than once, the bastard.
Also worth mentioning, I’m SUPER flexible, so please don’t
feel like you need to wake up early on my account. I mean, you might, because I
snore and fart in my sleep, but – other than that – easy peasy lemon squeezy. Really, I’ll eat breakfast and dinner when you
do; and, while I love table food, please don’t let me have it – not even if I
beg, steal or demand it . . . all of which is quite likely to happen during our
time together.
About the whole Ragnarök thing, I say “Cry havoc, and let
slip the me of war”. . . on one condition: On the boat ride there and back,
I will need to keep my head out the window and into the wind the entire time. Seriously,
don’t fuck me on this. I need to smell EVERYTHING. I call it my canine
spidey-sense, and it’s how I have kept everyone around me alive for all of these
years. They’re welcome. And finally, I feel like I should warn you that . . . if
you die on the battlefield . . . I will stop, drop and roll in you. No offense.
It’s just my grieving process. I do, however,
promise not to eat you . . . unless you didn't feed me breakfast before we left the longhouse.
In said case, be glad you won't be alive to see what I do to your body. It will make Beowulf look like something out of Disney.
Sincerely,
Your new best friend, the Dawg
Alas, this post isn’t about my batshit-crazy beast.
It’s about Nathan Bransford’s Hooray for Heifer drive. mkromd has participated
every year, and this year is no exception. If you've never done it, here’s how
it works . . .
Each December,
http://blog.nathanbransford.com
sends this ripple of kindness across the blogosphere and challenges each of us
to raise money for a wonderful cause, Heifer International. It goes something
like this, if I link to his site and this cause, he will redirect people to my
site to keep it going. So we should totally do this! For each tweet or comment
you post below (until the first week of January 2016), I'll donate 50 cents on
your behalf, and for each person who “joins” my karma ran over my dogma, I'll
donate one dollar (up to $50 total). This is the sixth year we've done it, and
I'd like to keep this tradition going, including sharing the post below. As
dysfunctional as it is, it's become the mkromd equivalent to, "Twas the
Night before Christmas." Yes. Really.
*********
Just when I thought no one was paying attention to my blog,
someone sent me a note about Nathan Bransford, who is raising money for a
wonderful cause, Heifer International. Now, if you aren’t familiar with this
organization, they use donations (like this) to purchase sustainable items for
indigenous people around the world, many of whom I’ve personally offended at
one point in time or another and need to apologize to en masse. Hopefully this will
help me make amends (and improve my karma); and, for those of you who regularly
read my blog, you know I need all the help I can get. You even already know
that years ago, in college, when I studied in Sardinia, I was attacked by a
passive-aggressive hair stylist who shaved my head. But, what you don't know is
that, as tragic as that event may have been, it was far from the worst thing
that's ever happened to me abroad.
That probably happened in India, after I graduated from
college.
You see, every year my large co-dependent family vacations
together in a place we've never been before. It's true, we pick some
unfortunate destination and descend en-masse, and one year we decided to go to
Asia. At any rate, there we were, visiting a mosque in India, when someone
suggested that we see the, “lesser known Poor Man’s Taj Mahal.” If you've never
heard of it, don't be alarmed. It’s more like a roadside attraction than it is
a mosque, but the rules still apply: men can go inside, women cannot, and
everyone has to take off their shoes regardless.
So there I was . . . walking around . . . outside . . . in
India . . . without shoes on . . . when I stepped in bird poop.
If you know nothing about me, please know this - I’m a
complete germ-a-phobe; however, luckily for me, there was a big pool of water
right there. And, as a recently-graduated, culturally-sensitive Anthropologist,
I hopped over to it and stuck my bird poop covered foot right in. No kidding,
about twenty-five men immediately ripped their hands out of there the second
I'd touched it. Being the polite idiot that I am, I was loudly
apologizing/explaining and showing them my foot while saying, “Sorry, I stepped
in crap and I need to get it off.”
Now, if you know anything about mosques, then you probably
know the following:
1. That’s holy water and it’s used for men to clean
themselves before they pray. Women don’t use it . . . ever.
2. In many Asian cultures, showing someone the bottom of
your feet is like giving them the finger.
3. Either one of these things can be offensive. Done
together, there’s no question. It’s just plain rude.
I now know that too.
That said, as I’m writing this, it dawns on me that the poop
"incident" wasn't actually the worst one. The worst was definitely
when I was living and working in London because of an international assignment.
I tried to warn my boss this was a bad idea, but it wasn’t until I lost my
knickers on High Street that he agreed.
However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I
have to tell you this part first.
You see, one morning, I’d gotten up and headed into the
office to prep for a big meeting with my manager and his peers, all of whom are
men. However, because God hates me, I didn't get to work early at all. In fact,
I got there late because of traffic on the M25. Already tardy and frustrated, I
quickly grabbed my stuff from the car and accidentally slammed the door on
myself, which naturally resulted in a massive tear in my nylons. As I looked at
my watch, I realized that I could pull it off (no pun intended) and literally
jaunted (in heels) to Woolworths on High Street for a new pair.
Though I was able to successfully repress most of what
happened next, I still remember running into the store, grabbing a pair of
pantyhose off the rack, looking at the back of the package, and realizing that
this wasn’t going to end well for me. You see, the problem with buying clothes
in England is that the height and weight charts are metric.
Do you know how many stones you weigh or how many meters
tall you are? Wow, me neither!
But I grabbed a pair anyway and hauled back to the office
where I went into the bathroom, pulled off my nylons, pitched the torn ones
into the garbage and opened the new pack. Clearly God hates me, because when I
opened them, they were thigh-highs . . . for an Amazon. I’m five foot two, and
in no parallel universe would those have worked, even if I'd had a garter-belt,
which I didn't.
So there I was, eyeballing the torn ones in the trash and
running the numbers in my head, when I realized that it would require a
lifetime of therapy if I went dumpster diving for my own used clothes. Instead,
I tried to make my B Plan work.
I literally PULLED MY NYLONS THROUGH THE TOP OF MY UNDERWEAR
AND TIED THEM TOGETHER IN THE BACK.
After fifteen minutes of sheer hell (no pun intended), I
walked over to my boss’s office, shut his door and said, “We have a problem.”
It was (quite literally) five minutes before one of the biggest presentations
of my life, so he was clearly upset by this declaration and asked why. That's
when I stamped my right foot three times, and my thigh-high fell to the floor .
. . engulfing my shoe. As we stood there, staring at each other, not sure what
to say, the left thigh-high fell to the floor, too. And no, I hadn’t shaved.
That’s when my boss said, “Take the damn things off and tell them you’re
French. Let’s go.”
To think I was scared of what could happen on our last
family vacation to Peru. No kidding, I was genuinely terrified that I’d hear a
blow dart and wake up days later in some South American jungle hut without a
kidney. Since that didn’t happen, I clearly still have amends to make before my
karma can improve, so PLEASE help me out. Give to Heifer International. Or,
post a comment and I will make a donation on your behalf (up to $50 total from
mkromd).
Have a great holiday! Talk to you later.
