So I'm getting used to it here. I'm trying.
I'm not used to not having friends close by. Even though I love my house (so! bad!), I'm still not quite used to being in it all the time (since I now work exclusively from my little office on the first floor). I will never, ever be used to how befuddled so very many people seem to be by 4-way Stops (and they are plentiful in this little town). But I'm doing okay. I picked up maps at the grocery stores and I'm starting to not wander quite as aimlessly. I signed up for a 5k this month. I walk almost every day around my neighborhood and I know every street now. Every house. I'm starting to have routines and I like routines very much. They help.
I started reading the local paper too, particularly a column they have called "BYH". BYH, in case you are not Southern, stands for Bless Your Heart. Most of the heart blessings are in the most Southern sense of the words. Here's an example:
Bless your heart to administrative assistants (aka secretaries) who participate in leadership meetings. Your job is to take minutes and keep your mouths shut. Your worthless ideas and prejudiced opinions do not help an organization. Another bless your heart to the so-called leaders who allow this to happen.
No, I'm not kidding.
Bless your heart to co-workers who feel the need to repeat and gossip about everything others tell them, only to start trouble and cause confusion and problems amongst people. You obviously have no life and are a friend to none.
Right? I know.
Honest to God, I wish my life's work was to be the person that got to read these gems as they came in. I would just sit there and enjoy myself all day long. All. Day. Long.
I don't take the paper at home (and if you are not Southern that means, "I do not have the paper delivered") so when I went by my mom's house today I took the opportunity to read my favorite column.
I laughed my way through the first several heart blessings and then I read thirteen words that made my blood run cold:
Bless your heart to the young lady with the orange dog in Windsor.
Yeah. That's me. And my big orange dog. And Windsor? That's the neighborhood I live in.
And I've mentioned this a few times, but it probably bears repeating. I'm kind of a dick.
No, seriously. I kind of am. I get easily annoyed. I have to be nice to clients all day long and since I can't scream at them, even when they deserve it, sometimes I do things like shout out my car window at that hag that almost ran over my daughter in the school parking lot because she was going like 45mph and texting and totally not paying attention and almost swerved into a parked car because she was trying to avoid hitting my child who was attempting to get out of the car and go into her publicly funded version of Hell. Not that that chick doesn't completely deserve my wrath, but still. I scream at traffic. Sometimes I edit my emails like twelve times so they don't contain the words "and the horse you rode in on". I say unflattering things about people. I do not do what Jesus would do. People think I'm funny. I'm actually just mean and others think I'm kidding.
It took me several seconds before I could read on. Because I had no idea what my orange dog and I had done, but I was pretty sure it was something bad. Like when we first moved I walked the wrong way on the street because I didn't realize I was supposed to walk facing traffic. And my dog, my beloved, gets the dog version of runners diarrhea. She poops a lot. A lot. Always after we are walking. Not before we leave, in the yard where's she supposed to do her business. Instead, always right the very second that someone else is walking by and shouts a friendly, "Hello!" Something about people talking to her makes her feel the need to pop a squat right in the middle of the street. Because she's classy. Or nervous. Or maybe some of both. Who knows? She's a dog. I can't read her mind. If I could? It would be something about bacon.
Bless your heart to the young lady with the orange dog in Windsor. I was really upset when your dog made a mess in the street in front of my house and very pleased when you came back less than 10 minutes later and cleaned it up. Thank you for keeping our neighborhood clean.
I ran out of bags the other day (see aforementioned "runners diarrhea"). I had to leave her poops in the street twice and I felt horrible. I went back to my house, jumped in the car, and drove back to where she'd left her messes so I could clean it up. Because I'm an idiot and don't think things through, I also made the Ging come along on this cleaning mission. After I cleaned up I showed her the poop bags and said unkind things to her about what a nasty butthole she was. She, of course, wagged her tail joyously and I'm pretty sure if she could talk would have said things like, "YAY! YOU'RE TALKING TO ME! I LOVE YOU! I MADE POOPIE AND YOU PICKED IT UP! I'M MAGICAL!" So, you know. I'm sure she learned her lesson.
This moral of this story:
My heart was blessed because I picked up poop.
Someone felt it was necessary to congratulate me for this.
Bless their heart.
Today was the best day I've had since I moved here. Seriously.
(And "YOUNG" lady? HOLLAH!)