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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
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Time again for Braves baseball over at Bugs & Cranks:
I'll Gladly Pay You Friday... -- ... but only if Barry Bonds is still chasing a record by the weekend.
Now on to the drivel du jour.
As I was leaving for work this morning, I felt a rumble. A tummy rumble, and a fairly urgent one, at that. My stomach wasn't saying, 'Hey, how's it going up there?'
It was more like, 'Yo. You like these pants the color they are now? Then giddyup, Sparky.'
So giddyup I did, into our downstairs bathroom. The previous owners put the half-bath in, and called it 'cozy' in the ads.
(Apparently, 'cozy' is real estate weenie-speak for 'we crammed a toilet into a closet, so you need a second mortgage to afford this place'. The more you know.)
"Trust me, if I thought that an intruder or ghost or some sort of 'poopergeist' had taken our TP, I wouldn't be sitting here typing this."
Upon reaching the 'launching pad', I was miffed to find that we were very nearly out of toilet paper. There were a couple of squares -- but no squares to spare. And I didn't have any reinforcement rolls handy, should spare squares be required.
So I did what any responsible, loving, conscientious husband would do. I shimmied my rumbly ass to the bathroom upstairs.
(What? You didn't think I was going to restock the toilet paper, did you?
I said 'husband'. Not 'saint'. At least I left the lid down. Let's be realistic here.)
My bidness thus taken care of, I toddled off to work and thought nothing more about it. Until I got home this evening, an hour or so before my wife.
And found a completely empty toilet paper roll in the downstairs bathroom.
Dun. Dun. DUN!!
Now, before I over-spook you with this scenario, I should mention that there was someone in our house while I was gone.
(Trust me, if I thought that an intruder or ghost or some sort of 'poopergeist' had taken our TP, I wouldn't be sitting here typing this. I'd have run screaming from the house, and right now I'd be hiding under the covers in a motel somewhere, working out a real estate ad myself for a house with a 'cozy, only possibly haunted second bathroom'.)
The mystery guest I speak of is the dogwalker. Every Wednesday, this lady stops by to give our mutt a few minutes of butt-sniffing and territory-peeing. I assume she takes the dog outside for these things, but hey -- as long as the dog's happy and my couch doesn't squish when I sit on it, I don't care how she gets her furry freak on.
None of that explains where the toilet paper went, though. It's possible that the dogwalker had an emergency of her own, or maybe a spill of some kind to wipe up. No problem there. But seeing as how her role is to take the dog to use the bathroom, and it was toilet paper that was missing, I have to wonder:
Is this woman wiping our dog, too?
I'd call that going above and beyond the call of duty. Or maybe behind and underneath the call. Either way, it's sort of disturbing to think about. It's one thing if the lady needed to use our toilet. But if she's brandishing Charmin anywhere near our dog's ass, we aren't paying her nearly enough. That sort of job calls for hazard pay, yo.
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Ahhh, the tummy rumble. Everyone's felt it at some point in time.
Some comedian was talking about the tummy rumble saying (and I can't remember who, I just know I didn't think of it first):
"My stomach made THAT noise... you know that noise? The noise that says you didn't just shit yourself, but you've only got a good 90 seconds to work with..."