I have so much to tell you! And this is awkward because normally I would let you talk first like a good little hostess, but the astonishing thing about a blog is that only I can talk. It's both incredibly self-centered and fantastic all at the same time. So, I'll go first.
You know we got that dog, right? You remember the dog? Yes, that one. Oh you noticed! Our door is fixed. We moved the horse-dog to a horse-dog coral in the back. It's fabulous. I love it. I can forget about his existence for hours at a time.
It has many uses. I don't forget the existence of the children in there for hours at a time. Often.
The other night Matt came in and he asked me for a new towel for the dog. I have two dog-allotted muddy-foot-wiping towels and I don't like to switch them out. It's a bitch to wash them. I have to first beat them against a rock to try and get all the mud off of them because I imagine that pounds of mud are not good for my washing machine and then I have to wash them. I KNOW. Do I look like a pioneer woman to you? Aside from the fact that I live in the unsettled west hinterlands and I have to carry wood to the wood stove to keep our house warm and now I have livestock in a livestock pen in the back, I mean? DO I? It's like living in primitive times. Before ipads. When Safeway had the only bakery.
"What's wrong with the old towel?"
"You need to wash it," he told me.
"Why?"
"I wiped the dog with it."
"I know but, it's only mud. You're going to need to wipe him again. Shake it off outside."
"No. I wiped him with it."
We stared at each other in mutual disbelief. My husband in his work boots and Carhart jacket, looking like he recently pulled a calf from a cow's vagina or something equally disgusting. Which he didn't. Although, I assure you that if he had, he would absolutely wipe that shit on my towels too.
"You wiped the dog's ass on my towel?" I'm pretty sure that there's exactly one positive to dog ownership over having another child and it is that you do not have to wipe animals' asses for them.
"He had a hanger."
More staring.
"I didn't think that you'd want him in the house like that." He shrugged. He'd won and he knew it because the only thing worse than my husband wiping the dog's ass with my towel would be the dog wiping his own ass on my rug. "I can see you mentally blogging this."
Maybe. Matt has this look when he talks about this blog. It's condescendingly annoyed amusement. Here I captured it for you.
This is where I get defensive and talk about how much I like writing and thinking and feeling like I'm a part of the greater world. He laughs and says that he understands, after all lots of people spend a significant amount of time on something that involves writing and thinking and being a part of the greater world AND THEY CALL IT A PART TIME JOB. And then I hit him in the face with an ass towel.
(Oh! Guess what? While we're having an aside about my part-time blog that doesn't pay anything and that doesn't even count as writing practice when I write this stream of consciousness drivel - I am moving to Wordpress. I'm beyond excited because Cat is handling the difficult computery side of the whole thing and I'm handling exactly nothing except the part where I ooooohhhh ahhhhh over how pretty it is in draft. If you are thinking of redesigning or moving to Wordpress - talk to Cat. She's incredible.)
The ass towel in question remains on the floor where I occasionally prod it with my foot, muttering ineffectively. I need to wash it but I am paralyzed by the idea of putting the equivalent of dog toilet paper in my washing washing machine. But don't worry! I can do a load of dog toilet paper and contagious fungus towels, because, while we're chatting about things that are horrifyingly disgusting, there's also Quinn.
...
To be continued tomorrow. Because this was, truly, the longest post about ass-wiping and fungus ever written. Possibly the only post about ass-wiping and fungus ever written, but sadly, I doubt it.
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