Tag Archives: drawing

When dogs meet laundry

1 Jul

The wind was howling.  Some of my clothes were no longer on the clothesline, but sitting in a crumpled heap in the grass.  There goes my new plan of hanging them on hangers so they dry relatively crease-free, saving me tons of ironing.  Yeah, ironing is something that just isn’t getting done anymore.  I used to do it every week.  But then I got hugely pregnant.  I don’t particularly want to stand around for an hour ironing shirts while my feet swell and my ankles turn into cankles.  Plus ironing sucks anyway.

I’ve had the same basket of ironing sitting around my room for over a month, waiting for me to iron it.  Well, I ironed Aaron’s stuff out of it, but my stuff is still waiting.  Sigh.  Maybe I should just wash it again and then hang it on hangers on the line so it can dry reasonable crease free and then I can put it straight in the closet.  Skip the sitting around a clothes basket getting super wrinkled part.

Anyway….  I went outside to rescue my the rest of my laundry from certain crinkle death.  I put all the socks and things that were pegged out normally in the basket and gathered all the hangered items.  I was almost done.  Everything was going just fine.  Minus the 1 shirt that lay on the grass in a heap of course.

Zoe, YaYa’s dog, started sniffing around.  No worries, dogs like to sniff.  They sniff everything.  That doesn’t mean anything right?  She sniffed the laundry basket.  Moved on.  Sniffed some hangers.  Moved on.

She went over to the crumpled heap on the grass shirt.  Sniff sniff.

I watched her.  Surely she wouldn’t….

She lifted her leg.  Yes her leg.  But she is a girl, so she also squatted a little.

It seemed to happen so fast, yet also in slow motion.  I still kinda thought she wouldn’t actually do it.

But she did.

“ZOE NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”  I yelled.  But I couldn’t get there fast enough.  I can’t even walk without waddling these days.  I can’t see my own feet, there was no way I could get to the shirt in time.

My poor near new, freshly washed shirt was now full of pee.  Dog pee.  Ick.  I don’t even own a dog.  YaYa was laughing hysterically.  “You’ll have to soak that in nappy san,” she told me.

Nope, sorry, I wasn’t touching it.  I left it there in a crumpled, peed on heap.

Ok, so it was kinda funny.  But it still sucked.

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Flashback Friday: Who’s laughing now?

13 May

I was about 11 years old. My friend, let’s just call her P (to save her from total embarrassment), was about 9.

We had just eaten lunch. Or dinner. Maybe a snack. I’m not sure, it was a long time ago!

One of us didn’t eat our chicken. Most likely me, since at that stage, I was probably the fussiest, pickiest, most annoying eater on the face of the planet, surviving pretty much only on turkey hot dogs (preferably cold), cheese pizza, macaroni and cheese, breakfast stuff (i.e. pancakes…), and of course, my personal favourite, deserts.  I certainly didn’t eat chicken, unless it was all mushed up and stuffed inside a deep fried nugget and branded by McDonalds.  That kind of “chicken,” I loved.

We went out to the balcony at the back of the house.  No sense in wasting the chicken, might as well give it to the dog.  One of us threw it over the railing.


It somehow managed to land in the only bucket full of water in the entire vicinity of the balcony.  It’s not like we were looking where we were throwing, we just threw things and called it good.  Just a little toss off the side and the dog would come a runnin’.

We didn’t even know there was a bucket of water beneath the balcony.  We were not expecting that noise!

Being easily entertained juveniles, we thought the chicken plop noise in the bucket was the funniest thing ever.  We looked at each other in unison, breaking out into uncontrollable laughter while trying to peek over the railing to see the bucketed chicken.

We couldn’t stop laughing.  We stood on the balcony in hysterics for quite a while.

But then P stopped laughing.  She had this look on her face.  This oh-my-gosh-what-just-happened, no-way-I-did-not-just-do-that, horrified sort of look.

I looked down.  She was in a puddle.  Her not-so-awesome-but-were-very-in-style-at-that-time stretch pants now sported a giant wet patch.

I laughed harder.  The fact the chicken going plop in a bucket of water made P laugh so hard she peed her pants was absolutely hysterical to me.

Until I realised that those weren’t her pants at all.  No, she was wearing my pants.  She peed my pants.

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