Running high is a myth. Fight me.

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Happy Saturday! I have been on a long health journey of sorts and man do I suck at staying on track with anything. But, I’ve been doing the doctors and medications and programs and all that stuff. There has been quite a bit of success over a long period of time and I was pretty darn happy with it. Unfortunately, I’ve got a long way to go. One of the major things I struggle with is my weight. Swamp monsters tend to be a larger sort of frumpy folk. But, there has been some progress. Mancandy and I have been following the Couch to 5K program. He’s a former marine (you can’t say ex-marine or you will be forced to listen to a really long lecture…save yourself the torment). He ran every day for 8 years and was on the track team before that. He likes to exercise. And his motivational tactics are straight from the military, insulting and annoying. You can probably guess how well I respond to insulting and annoying people.

I, on the other hand, have not really followed any sort of exercise program since junior high. And I hated it then. Being a consistent sort when it comes to hatreds, I hate it now as well. And I’m a crap ton older, so I extra big big hate it. But, I’ve been doing it. He’s so dang happy I’m doing it, and I know he’s trying to help, but I hate his help. Every time he speaks to me while I’m sweating and sore and miserable I want to punch him in his nose. Hard.

The best part of our jogging crap are the bodyguards we’ve now peer pressured into jogging with us. Our two inside/outside cats, Neo and Tsuki, aren’t sure what’s going on but they feel duty-bound to go through it with us. They do not suffer in silence though. We jog to a chorus of meows. They puff up, dance around, fly past, trip you darting between feet, race ahead, run behind, and in general create a fuss. Anyone out walking or jogging ends up laughing at the ridiculous circus we make. We get questions from everyone. Usually, “Do you know there are two cats following you?”

I enjoy their enthusiasm, but I hate jogging. If Mancandy asks me if I “want” to run extra laps, he’s going to end up kicked in the noodle. Who “wants” to run at all? Not me said the flea. It just makes for extra laundry, extra sweat, extra showers, and extra sore everything. But here we are.

Also, no one told me jogging makes you have to pee immediately and desperately. I have to pee immediately before leaving my house and then by the time I get back (not even two miles at this point) I am desperately trying to strip out of wet clothes so I can avoid peeing on myself.

Also also, sports bras were made my a stupid, evil man who’s never worn a bra in his life. And they’re expensive torture instruments! I bought two because I knew I had one here someplace. Three to get through running three times a week. At least while I’m starting. But can I find the sports bra I already own? No. No, I can not. And nothing is quite as miserable as trying to rip a wet sports bra off of one’s person without damaging the stupid expensive torture device. So much worse than wet swimsuits. It’s revolting.

So. That’s the latest adventure. I’m sure there will be many more posts whining about it. You’re welcome.

 

I’m not cool enough for Apple…  

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I found myself in an Apple store waiting for my boss to have his phone looked at. This was after he’d cheerily announced we could walk down to the parking garage (the sun was approximately 8546816841 miles closer to the earth today and was singling out Nashville). I didn’t wear shoes meant for walking. These shoes are dress shoes. You’re meant to look like a dressy individual without very far to walk because you have extremely important meetings to attend. I attended zero meetings, important or otherwise. I also tromped down to the parking garage, maybe ¾ mile? I don’t do distances. It’s enough for me to break into a solid sweat. However far in kilameterwatts that is.

We then had to find someplace to park and the walk across a shorter distance to the Apple store. I have never been in one, but it was easy to pick it out. It was brightly lit with a wall of glass that had sectioned into multiple parts instead of just having a door. There was also a large screen opposite from the wall of glass partitions that had a trendy hipster-looking young lady doing some sort of seminar. She was extremely upbeat and happy. The closer we got, the more nervous I became.

We entered the non-door entranceway and immediately I was uncomfortable. The music was loud, there were a billion people all yelling at each other to be heard over the loud music. The seminar tutorial chick in the back was amplified from invisible speakers. A cute little boy was playing a game on one of the display phones which had the volume all the way up and he was shrieking in excitement. Everything was bright and loud and scary and very peopley.

We stood for an hour or more before a technician could check out the broken phone. In that time we moved around to avoid people at my behest multiple times. However, we are apparently people magnets. So I decided to just stare at everyone. So many types of hipsters. So many cool, hip, older folks. So many bad haircuts and facial piercings and tattoos and pants that I consider high waters but have apparently come back into vogue? We were so bored my boss actually approached a salesperson and invited him to do his song and dance about Apple watches.

Then a small, less handsome but much more tattooed Paul Rudd appeared and started working on the broken phone. I was thrilled. My back was unhappy and my feet were on fire. Just standing still was making me curse softly and steadily under my breath. Another 30 minutes or so, and we were on our way. I was very much over the tattooed cool people. These were not my tribe. My tribe has comfy seating, snacks, and fewer people. It was like a college coffee bar in a movie. Or….New Orleans in a movie. It smelled slightly better than New Orleans, but the same hippy bohemian vibe was present.

I prefer stinky New Orleans.

PS. I will miss the annual Mac & Cheese Festival in New Orleans this year. I am so beyond devastated, it’s delicious and fun and in the best city ever and I’m ready for next year. If you haven’t been, go. Trust me.

PPS. Go see the tree of life while you’re there.

I got home eventually and hobbled my way through a shower and down to water the plants that are doing their best to die in our late September heatwave. My pup went outside with me, as did two cats. She immediately plodded over to try and dig up cat poop (kitty cookies) and eat it. Since she’s mostly deaf, I had to move fast to stop her. My feet screamed. They’re weenies. I redirected her with very stern hand gestures and facial expressions. I started watering plants. Then my pup, old sweet geriatric pup, saw absolutely nothing and decided this was her moment to shine. I saw her go still, bunch her old pitiful muscles up, and launch. There was nothing to launch at, but she started running pretty well for an old pup. I tore after her but I did not run pretty well for any sort of pup. I am, in fact, extremely slow. I was also wearing flip flops that are too big and fall off easily. I knew she’d pay for running, her back end is so weak and I couldn’t let her hurt herself. So I ran faster. If you’ve ever watched penguins run, that’s what I imagine I looked like. I had to do an exaggerated stepping motion in order to not lose the flip flops. I needed the flip flops to have any chance of getting through the rocks in the yard. She was making good time. It took me forever to get close enough to grab her, and I was pretty sure we were both going to end up rolling down the embankment behind my house and just staying where we landed. It wasn’t a graceful stop, but we got stopped. And then we had to get back to the house, and my feet were just all sorts of pissed.

So I grabbed a banana, called it dinner, and came upstairs (so slowly she beat me to the top) so I could get in bed and not move again until I die. I am never going back to an Apple store, and I will need to get something to tie the pupster up with when I need to water. I’m too old for these adventures.

Knitting, Football, and Rescue

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Random Stuff from the past week and a pinch (pronounced peench by Papa Poopster):

  1. Football season is here! I love football. I have a billion teams at this point and have someone to cheer for or against almost every game. It’s my fave time of the year. Also, it suddenly becomes socially acceptable to eat chicken wings 24/7. I’m into wings. You may remember that. Sidenote: long term relationships are great and all, but you get to realize all the things your significant other did that were odd or noticeable but not particularly troubling when the relationship started but now fill you a soul-searing and unbearable rage. Yay, love! So, Mancandy has this thing where he tears his fingers apart fidgeting. Not his fingernails, his actual flesh. Fun fact, Papa Poopster does this too. I’m quickly working up from “huh, that’s familiar” to “DEAR LORD STOP OR YOU DIE”. But I digress. Whilst watching football it’s hard to block out the sound of Mancandy tearing his fingers apart. I can HEAR it. So. To keep ourselves from killing eachother we’ve started knitting. Yup. We’re officially old. So now I’m super excited about knitting and have the tiny beginnings of a very knobby, unfortunate-looking scarf I’m extremely excited about. This is completely normal. I’m sure of it. Also, Dak looked so good this week and the Cowboys are on fire! Also also, the refs are killing my Saints. Seriously. Uncool.
  2. Hobby stores are mildly scary. I suckered Mancandy and Minicandy to go to a craft store with me. I wanted the softest scarf stuff I could find. They probably wanted to smother me with fabric. The individuals who inhabited the store, ourselves not excluded, were an odd bunch. The store was extremely hot and humid, so everyone was slightly sweaty. There was an odd smell. There was a man arguing about a sewing machine and an older lady glaring at everyone around her. We got the heck out of there, but I’m not going back there. It was the beginning of a Stephen King book.
  3. I am able to access the security cameras of my most beloved rescue. Watching dogs sleep isn’t creepy, right? Even creepier, you can talk to them. I don’t, I feel like it’s asking for them to have serious anxiety disorders, but the best thing is you can hear. So I’m constantly popping in at odd hours to see if I can catch ghost activity. Don’t judge, I live a boring life. Today, my arm was sore from holding the knitting needle up (I’m that out of shape). So. I popped into the shelter cams to see what was up. One room, sleeping dog. Next room, sleeping dogs. Next room, washer and dryer and… DEAR GOD SOMETHING MOVED. I almost threw my phone. As it happens, it was someone walking in to do laundry. But, for a minute there, my blood pressure and stress responses were tested unexpectedly.
  4. I’m going to be traveling for work quite a bit in the next couple months and there is a place in Knoxville that’s been recommended as “The” place to go for chicken wings. I am beyond excited. Big Kahunas in Knoxville has a chicken wing festival of some sort every year and everything. I’m pumped. If anyone has been please let me know if I should temper my enthusiasm or go ahead and get stupid excited. I’m sure there will be work and stuff I’m supposed to do, but right now all I see is chicken wings.
  5. I ate a massive cookie from Cumbl Cookie in Murfreesboro (highly highly highly recommend) and now I want to puke. So I’m going to lay here in misery and wonder why I can’t lose weight. Have a lovely week people!

Fancy Pants That Fight Back

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Today is Thursday. It’s a workday. And Monday through Thursday I’m forced to dress like a girl. A professional business gal if you will. I decided I didn’t want to wear any of the clothes I had available, so I started digging into the back of the closet for the things I forget I own. I found a pair of grey pants. I don’t even remember getting them. They’re wide-legged with a wide waistband. That’s supposed to compliment a tall, not-skinny woman such as myself. They looked nice when I put them on and I got a bit excited. I checked them out combined with a blouse and vest. I looked like a professional! Hair in a bun and we’re ready to go rule the world of government.

I was proud of myself for finding a “new” pair of pants to wear. I was stupidly excited my pants match the rest of my outfit. I felt like an adult. And as I sat down in the car to leave, I suddenly felt like I’d made a mistake.

I’d forgotten why I’d shoved those pants in the back of the closet but it all came rushing back when I was in the car with no time left to go change and not much in the way of clean pants to change into. If you have any stomach that isn’t super flat or better yet, concave in toward your spine, when you sit you get a roll. I do not possess a super flat nor concave stomach. My roll exists and we grudgingly coexist. However, in these pants, my roll was restrained from becoming a roll by the wide and not at all flexible waistband.

I made a wheezy sound when the ability to breathe was taken from me. I squirmed and wiggled and adjusted until I finally ended up yanking the pants up to support my bra’s function and scrooching down in the seat so my roll ended up in the crotch of the pants (which, unlike the waistband, was generously oversized and proves clothes are made to fit something other than human bodies). I drove into work concerned about how the day would go.

I work in an office building. I sit in a cubicle. I get up and down a lot to print, scan, go to meetings, etc. Every single time I sat down I had to try to casually pull my pants up to my bra and relax my roll into my pants oversized crotch. It was an odd slumpy position to be forced into for a long period of time. And when I stood up the waistband of my pants was still doubling as a bra so I ended up with the crotch up at my belly button and the mother of all wedgies. I’d have to try and not in any obvious way pull them down from my ears and back into a normal pants position.

This occurred no less than 2039802937230948.0332 times. My stomach is angry. The pants are angry. I have no idea how to make those pants work. I also feel like my roll has PTSD.

I ended up laying back in my chair groaning and rubbing my stomach by the end of the day. I’m a classy, delicate flower.

As an aside, there is a mystery in the women’s restroom at work. There’s a little credenza type thing at work. I’m super angry that I didn’t take a picture when the oddity began. Someone placed several books on the bottom shelf of the credenza. I wasn’t sure why a library randomly appeared in the women’s restroom for an office building, but I didn’t pay really close attention for a bit. Then one caught my eye because the picture on the front was a stylized drawing of two individuals looking rather intimate for a drawing. It was not written in English, so I can’t know for sure, but I believe it was a rather bawdy romance novel. So, was someone leaving a library for their future bathroom breaks of longer duration? Was it meant as a “free to a good home” situation? It was perplexing. And now they’ve disappeared as suddenly as they appeared. So we’ll never know.

I’m so glad tomorrow is Friday. I’m going to allow my stomach free reign and not care a bit that it’s not flat. At least I won’t suffocate.

Reasons I Should Probably Not be Left Alone…

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Sidenote: I wrote this a long while ago, but it amused me at the time and amuses me still. This is a prequel if you will, a time long before I met ManCandy. It’s bittersweet to remember so vividly a time before Dad was gone, but the event was funny nonetheless.  Ironically enough, I’m wearing the same yoga pants and glasses tonight. Enjoy!

I attempt to do stuff.  It’s a disaster.  I am surprised.  The cycle continues.

Allow me to explain.  I moved into a new place a couple months ago.  There was no slinky looking vent thingy for the back of the dryer.  Apparently, the moving monsters take mine every time I move.

So.  The padre and I get one from Lowe’s and have a long discussion about the particulars of attaching it.  We got a super long one.  Heavy-duty ass-kicking shiny slinky vent thingy.  We were proud of it.

Got back.  Now, just in case you are one of the fortunate who hasn’t had to actually visually see me….I’m not a small person.  Nothing pixie about me. Clumsy + fluffy = small space disasters.  BUT.  The dryer is in a corner IN a closet with a shelf right above it (say shoulder level on me) with the water heater tank on that.  And so I crawl back in there (not gracefully….more like a planned fall into a crevice) and Dad walks me through how to get the heavy-duty ass-kicking shiny slinky thingy on.  This involves a lot of him standing around saying “Put the thing on the other thing with the thing and turn the thing so it stays on dammit!!  This isn’t difficult!  What are you DOING!?”

I eventually differentiated between the “things” he was speaking of and got the damn thing on while contorted so that my fat ass didn’t knock the plug out of the wall and simultaneously tightening the “thingy” around the other “thingy” and attempting to live without air.  So, long story short, I get done, flop out like a fish on the bank of a pond, and listen to a lecture about needing to lose weight while I gasp for air and try not to kill people.

Fast forward to this week.  I notice my dryer isn’t really drying anything.  It’s more of a tumbler.  Which doesn’t really help anything.  So I have a flashback to Padre’s comments about the slinky thingy not needing to be too doubled back on itself or the air couldn’t get through right or…something.  And I have this flashback while I’m looking at the slinky thing that is doubled back on itself 987981623 times because we got the long one.

Sigh.

So.  I get the bright idea to cut the slinky thingy to a shorter length so that it wouldn’t bend.  It would just be a gentle curve.  Plus I’d be able to check for blockages better that way.  Right?  Genius.  So I get my girlie toolbox out (the padre apparently felt color coordination might improve my odds of not making a mess of things….silly darling little man) and keep my cell phone in case of an emergency.  I flop around till I land in the crevice again, and I hack the shit out of the shiny slinky thing.

I enjoy this part.  I also don’t remember slicing fingers up hurts.  So.  I did that some.  But, whatever, I got the hose cut to exactly the length I wanted.

And then it hit me.

The dryer had to come back farther to reach the new and improved short slinky thing.

I had nowhere to go.  I had a moment of total shock.  Then I tried out multiple combinations of curse words.  I started to haul the dryer back and tried out some more curse combinations.

I am now pressed between the dryer, the wall, and am basically standing on my head to reach the vent.  Might I also point out I’m not particularly flexible?  I fall over trying to do yoga…so it’s not my friend.  But I digress.

The “thingy” that sticks out of the dryer is supposed to fit inside the slinky thing.  Well.  When I hacked at the slinky thing it stopped being a perfect circle.  I had to hammer and wedge and beg and pray and scream in frustration for a good 10 minutes before I got the slinky thing on the dryer thing.

SUCCESS!!!  Oh I was excited.  It worked!!  Who cares if I can’t breathe!  I don’t need any help!

But then the next conundrum hit me.

How was I going to get out?

Remember.  I’m in a closet in the corner and the dryer is less than a foot from the wall and all of my Amazonian self is stuck back behind it.  And there’s a shelf RIGHT above me.  And a washer beside me.  And no Dad to help haul me out.  I was starting to take back the not needing help thought.

Now I’m going to paint you a picture.  I’m wearing loose yoga pants and still have my glasses on that don’t fit (I sat on them…several times….don’t judge me).

I decide to just go head first and kinda….dive out.  But when I “landed” I’m kind of beached across both machines.  My feet are tangled in the electric chord.  The back of the washer and dryer has the tall part for the knobs.  The dryers tall part is jabbing my crotch and rendering me unable to have children.  The corner of the washer is doing its best to remove my right boob.  But my feet are tangled, so I can’t get away.  No matter how I moved I was being molested/assaulted by machinery.

I manage to kick out of the cord and start to slide off the front of the machines.  ALMOST FREE!!  Until I caught one foot on the damn cord again trying to kick my way forward.  I’m now stuck from my shoulders and up hanging off the front of the machines, one foot flailing wildly, and one caught.

My glasses fell off.

I try out curses in other languages.

I notice the cell phone was flung across the room in my flailing about.

I just hang there for a bit contemplating my life.

I manage to get one arm back far enough to let me lift up a bit (muscles!!  I have muscles!! Whoda thunk!) and move over enough to get the trapped leg out.  I’m dizzy, and my pants are trying to fall down (while I’m upside down no less…quite an accomplishment in epic failuredom).  I can’t see anything, including my glasses.

I eventually just fall over.  Onto my face.  And lay there trying to avoid dog kisses.

I landed on my glasses.

Eff it.

 

 

Swollen Face Holes

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Summer lasts much too long. I’ve always thought that. But now that I’m randomly started to break down in my thirties, I’m sure of it. After a random conversation with my mother (who is the only person on the planet patient enough to listen to my whining about this for well over a year now) about my randomly swollen and super freaking itchy bottom lip (everyone likes to look like they’ve been punched) and left ring finger (just…why!?) I figured I should share all my lessons with the world.

Random Things I’ve learned:

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  1. Certain body parts are hard to itch. I’m not one of those people that can ignore an itch. And there is no itch quite like eczema. I routinely tear my skin to shreds. It’s my superpower. However, just because you’ve never had an itch to end all itches on your eyelid or lower lip or fingertip, doesn’t mean they can’t itch. They can. With the power of all the fire ants in the world. And there is literally NO good way to itch these places. When they aren’t itching I know you probably shouldn’t itch them anyway, but when things get really bad I don’t care about should and shouldn’t. I care about tearing off the itchy parts so I can sleep. Go ahead and think of all the really sensitive or oddly shaped parts of your body. Imagine all the mosquitos and fire ants had a convention on that part. And try to figure out how you’d scratch it. Then teach me.

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  1. Doctors get brutal. I have a lovely endocrinologist, sincerely. She’s wicked smart and funny. She’s an exercise nut and looks great. She has been instrumental in helping me feel like I’m finally getting on the right track with my health. I’ve been on several medications that have made me feel SO much better. However, part of what I want, and what she wants, is weight loss. This last appointment she walked in, looked at my chart, and asked how things were. I went on about how much better I felt, that my symptoms were starting to ease off a bit, that I felt like I had some control for the first time in a very long time. She nodded. Looked me dead in the eyes after I just professed my thanks to her for helping me so much. And said, “Yeah, but you haven’t lost any weight at all.” First off, rude. Second off, I was thanking you! I was right in the middle of “you’re the best!” Now, what am I supposed to do? Take that back? “You were the best until you said that, now you’re a butthole.”
  2. No one wants to hear you whine. I mean, no one wanted to when you were a kid either. But you were too stupid to notice your parents were just tuning you out. I want to whine constantly. I want someone to put a cool washcloth on my forehead and “there there” me sometimes. Instead, now that I’m an adult, everyone wants me to use coconut oil or essential oils to cure everything. Foot hurts? Oil up that bad boy! Hair falling out? Essential oils mixed in coconut oil and left on the scalp for 352.3 hours every night will fix you right up! Entire body itching like a demon-possessed mange victim? Peppermint and eucalyptus essential oil mixed into extra virgin NON PRESSED coconut oil, mixed in a quartz bowl that has been charged by a full moon, waller around in your tub until you’re slicked up like a porpoise and frolic around without a care in the world. 1. Coconut oil doesn’t cure much of anything. At all. Sorry. 2. Essential oils stink. Again, I’m sorry, but it needed to be said. 3. Applying stinky oil to my skin does nothing but make me angry, stinky, and itchy. And also prone to slipping and breaking. I’m falling apart. The hips are going next. I just want to whine about the fact it’s impossible to adequately scratch yourself without people on the bus thinking you have a disease. Which you do. But still. You know what I’m saying here.

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Now what does any of this have to do with summer? Which was my first whine of this thing? Summer = sweat and sun. I sweat like a man. It’s super attractive I’m sure, but I break a sweat real freaking quick. And fun fact, sun exposure and sweat make an itchy soul itch that much worse. I’m basically hiding inside trying to avoid sweating at all costs. In Nashville. In August. It’s impossible! Here’s to aging. It’s a blast so far.

The Mondayest Monday to ever Monday. And a Toilet Squirrel.

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I am having one of those days that absolutely everything pisses me off. And I do mean everything. There’s a spider over the sink. I was pissed that he decided to occupy a spot in my house. Then I wondered if I could catch him before Mancandy or Mini candy decided to kill him. Instantaneously I was livid that they would consider killing Fred (he was now named and had a back story without any actual thought on my part). Fun fact, I could not catch Fred as he hasn’t realized I’m a friend. Which, yes, just made me angrier.

The little owl soap dispenser in my bathroom (clearance find at Walmart) keeps oozing soap onto the owls head and turning into greenish-yellow sappy goop. This caused great angst. As did the spots on the mirror I forgot to clean yesterday.

My dog slurping up food, neighbors mowing, people at work existing, the bus driver being snarky, traffic (this one is a legit gripe), student loan debt, being fat, everyone who’s skinny, the fuzzy bathmats I forgot in the dryer, the lamps we have on the tables beside our bed (they’re little lantern style lamps but the glass top instead of shade means they burn your eyes out), the desire to write when I’m angry, being angry, other people for not being angry, anyone else who’s angry, people who want primates as pets, plastic straws in turtle noses, pansies for not lasting all summer, etc.

This day was full of misinformation, sassy people, sweat, and anger. So much anger. I dislike these moods, anger is not my default setting. But, after writing and erasing a bunch, I think it’s my self-defense mechanism. I’ve been easing back into using facebook because I want to ease back into being more involved with rescue. Not on anything near the level I was, I’m not ready for that, but something. I’m excited about a potential opportunity to give back more. I’m excited about programs at work that encourage volunteering and giving back. I was gearing myself up to the uphill battle for progress at work and the fruition of all the plans and patience. I’m ready to try and do more than just exist.

But, being on facebook means the onslaught of suffering and sadness that made me leave. It means the ugliness surrounding the gun debate. All the hate and nastiness people dump into the internet. Along with the pictures of what people can do to animals and each other and pleas for help I can’t give. That old hopeless, dull ache came right back. I don’t think I’m actually angry. I think I’m sad. And it took years to stop being sad all the time. I don’t want to go back to it.

So I’m not sure how to do it. Being sad isn’t funny. The anger is ridiculous and can be amusing, but the sad, hopeless undercurrent isn’t. That’s just where I’m at. But, I’ll borrow some funny from my boss (his antics are the things of legend and we’ve talked about doing a podcast before and I so wish he would because the world needs to know of his ridiculousness.)

He recently moved into a home that has areas needing renovation. One area is the bathroom that was added onto the master suite. The room needs major work on the roof and is basically barricaded off until they have a chance to deal with it.

One day Boss and Lady Boss are in their room. They notice noises coming from the bathroom. The bathroom that is sealed. So. Being the type of guy who investigates weird and or creepy noises, Boss slowly opens the bathroom door. At first, nothing seems amiss. And then, from the toilet, there’s movement. A squirrel slowly pokes his head up over the rim of the toilet and looks at Boss. Boss blinks and looks back. Boss slowly closes the door and tells Lady Boss they have a toilet squirrel.

It was decided that the toilet squirrel couldn’t remain a guest in their bathroom. The Kid Bosses, Lady Boss, and Boss all geared up with gloves, a fishing net, (I’m imagining little kids running around with tennis rackets yelling about toilet squirrels), etc. However, squirrels are fast and humans are less so. It was an enclosed space with little room to maneuver. Unless you are a squirrel. It took a long while with a lot of effort (and bruising I imagine) from the humans. The squirrel was caught. And placed outside. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it likely ran right back into the house and cowered in its toilet. But imagining him with a net in a small space trying to avoid the germ-carrying toilet squirrel brings me much joy. I hope it does the same for you.

Next episode of stories I stole from my boss: the poop snake.