Feeling fuzzy

Our stupid smaller dog Jack has been chasing me around this morning trying to mate with my leg.  Either leg, he doesn’t care.  Every time I sit down at the computer, he runs over and snuggles up at my feet.  He is so damned cute, so I reach down to pet him, and he starts rolling onto his back and rubbing himself joyously on the carpet.  And then the next thing I know, all of that joy turns to sex, and he’s humping my leg.  The crazed look in his neutered but determined eyes as he pumps away is less than adorable.  Stupid dog.

What’s up with that?  I thought the whole “balls chopped off” thing kept this stuff from happening.

Nothing like the unwanted sexual advances of a small adamant dog first thing in the morning.

I am feeling fuzzy this morning . . . maybe I am sending out signals I don’t mean to send.

I have mentioned before that I am not a shower person . . . the only reason I can see to take a shower is something Silkwood related. “Silkwood” was the true-life story of Karen Silkwood (as played by Meryl Streep), who worked to expose the dangerous working conditions at the nuclear power plant at which she was employeed.  Did you see that movie?  There was a great scene in which the whistle-blower heroine is “accidentally” exposed to radiation, and they make her take a skin-peeling boiling-hot shower in order to cleanse her of radioactivity.  That is an instance in which a shower is warranted.

Even if I was a shower person, I would not be able to shave in the shower.  I just know that I would slip and fall and somehow slice open an artery with my Gillette Venus razor.  There would be blood everywhere, because no one would respond to my cries or help me staunch the bleeding.  Why?  Because Mark would be downstairs watching his newly discovered Palladia concert channel at top volume, that’s why.  And because the girls, who are accustomed to hearing me scream, would ignore my pleas for help, thinking that it was a trick to get them to help fold laundry.

I would have to drag my smooth bloody stump of a leg past the curious dogs and call 911 myself as blood pooled around me.  The dogs would then track blood all over the house, but this too would be ignored by the other members of my family.  Why?  Because to notice a dog mess means you have to clean up the dog mess, that’s why.

So with eyes upward-averted, the girls would get some chips out of the kitchen cupboard and head downstairs to convince Mark to switch over to their latest favorite television show.  They would offer to get him a beer to sweeten the deal, and he would accept.  Someone would turn the lights down to make it more cozy (and to obscure the mess that the dogs seem to be making all over the place).  The bloody-footed dogs would settle in to beg for chips as Miranda Cosgrove danced through the opening credits of iCarly.

A lovely little tableau of familial love and contentment as I bleed out two floors above.

If they thought of me at all, it would be to pat themselves on the back for giving me some “alone-time.”  And then the opening credits would end, Carly would say something hilarious, and no one would think of me at all.

The paramedics would arrive, tourniquets and transfusions would be required, and I would start to lose consciousness as visions of my new one-legged life swam before my eyes.

As I surrendered  myself  to the very excellent drugs I imagine would be required, I would hear the strains of the iCarly theme song over the confused chatter on the paramedics’ walkie talkies:  “Leave it all to me.  Just leave it all to me.”

Not all of my premonitions come true, but enough of them do that I figure it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Which means that I shave in the tub.  Which is a little gross, what with the little bits of hair and soap scum floating in the water as you go.  But it’s better than losing a leg and realizing that it’s all been left to me  . . . again.

Warning:  Not that you don’t already know waaaaay too much about me, but possible TMI to follow . . .

I haven’t shaved since we moved.  It’s not a political statement or anything, I have just been busy with other things.  Things like not paying that much attention to personal grooming.

I know, I know . . . Mark is a lucky lucky man.

The truth?  I just can’t stand the thought of having to clean out the tub afterward.  I have let it go so long that I imagine it will be a pretty hideous mess.  I would rather walk around with the extra hair than have to scrub it out of the tub and drain.

That’s normal, right?

But now that my furry legs have made me an object of canine carnal desire . . .

Well, I guess I should take steps.