Jacked about America...

Courtesy of the great Tony Beyond:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/tonyjcase/5429267385/

Today was the second day of a new job.  Another new job.  Another too-abrupt too-soon departure from an old job, another group of colleagues and new friends left behind. I like to tell people that there is benefit in these hops; once I leave, everything comes together. I have that stank about me, I suppose. So, even though I judge my performance and these career stops as harshly as you might think, when I depart, it seems like the groups I leave behind do pretty well and stay pretty together.

This new gig: I returned to a company I worked for from 2002 to 2005, and a few of my old colleagues who had left, they're also back.  I feel a little like Norma Desmond (which is the gayest thing I'll say all day, tip of the hat); people are hollering from the rafters, figuratively of course: "You're back! Gasp! How exciting!That sort of thing!" Some of it is half-hearted, I can clearly see, but there is some of it that seems genuine, and I do feel appreciated because of it.  It's another jarring left-turn in my life, and I apologize to people who are among the unlucky ones in this world that have had to deal with me. I make jokes to folks that there is a John Bernhard support group. If you've been tortured by me, there is a group that gathers to discuss and work through the trauma. I need to stop bouncing around, and I need to stop making jokes. This is no laughing matter.

Speaking of laughing matters: When I got home tonight, I was excited to see how the dog I am dog-sitting would fare.  Yesterday, she stayed in my place outside of her crate all day and didn't have any sort of weird reaction. Nothing torn up, no piles of dog crap, etc.  Well, tonight, when I got home, I was hoping to see a restless but completely-restrained-and-refined-ne-elegante-dog-je-vivre! The Dog of Life, the Dog of all Dogs, a happy, bouncy, excited, tail-wagging canine festivus! I had visions of pulling out chicken jerky and feeding a delighted, smiling 50-lb dog as it grinned and chowed down.  Shockingly, none of this occurred when I got home.   Instead, this dog, who is a mere 24 hours from seeing her owner again, and for 12 days has been a model citizen, an excellent houseguest.  Tonight, when I walked in, she left a dozen dinner-plate-sized puddles of diarrhea and/or vomit and/or urine all over my place. Twelve spots.  Twelve different carpet-soaked-oh-please-Jesus-may-the-stain-not-be-too-rich types of stains.  Each one requiring cleanup on aisle twelve.  The poor animal!  Anyway, I showed an enormous amount of empathy and care by proceeding to yell at it for the next three hours as I cleaned up all the crap and soaked and scrubbed and soaked again and got the Dyson out and scrubbed and soaked and scrubbed and emptied three bottles of carpet stain remover. [At 11:30, I am getting ready to go find some baking soda at the store to ensure that the residue beneath the carpet doesn't result in some sort of foul stank.  To think, just 24 hours until she was outta here!


Aggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  a;lkdfja;ldfjal;kjdf;aldfjal;jdfal;kjsdf.  That's the level of frustration; that's the headache. That's how much I can't wait for this thing to be outta' my hair.  And its hair outta my life.  Harsh, I know, and I will still rub her belly affectionately when I see her; just not here, not at my house.  


It is likely my fault, all this panicky excrement all over my place.  I left her out of her crate; stupid move, even though she seemed to handle herself well yesterday in an identical situation.  But today, for some reason, I opened the blinds and opened the windows; every car that drove by she probably thought was me or someone to take care of her. I suppose I am lucky my couch isn't torn to shreds, or the pillows on my bed arranged into an effigy of me with her gnawing and ripping at my neck section between the smaller couch pillow and a larger bed pillow that is supposed to be my torso.  She didn't go that far; it surprises me, too, because this is a dog that likes to sleep in bed next to someone, under the covers, fully extended, front legs curled and T-rexed, on her back, with her hind legs spread wide open and fully extended.  And she wants to be covered under a blanket like this. And then she sleeps like a dog would sleep, all snorty and twitchy and joggy in her sleep, and laughs and moans and snorts and the hogging of the blankets.

I've done my best to clean the spots, but here is how bad it is: I am going to ask the landlord if I can use some of my security deposit and re-carpet the place. It's that bad; there's that much damage. Upstairs and downstairs.  I cleaned like a mofo, all gloved and sweaty. I was literally dripping with perspiration from the anger/shock/fist-shaking/visceral/poop-stained-carpet-scrubbing.  Shit was intense.  I stripped down to a pair of gym shorts and put on yellow rubber gloves and started to clean.  I soaked five towels with three different rug cleaners, then water, then more cleaner. I've done about as well as I could, given the extremely shitty circumstances.  The residual odor is feint; the stains are a hopeless patchwork of round yellow spots on my cream carpet.  Sure enough, when we returned from our vigorous, angry four-mile hatewalk, the house smelled a lot better. [Incidentally, the dog and I stumbled into a paved trail that winds along Salt Creek Beach, deep into the glittering, gilded bowels of a housing development called Ritz Cove, then under the Pacific Coast Highway onto the grounds of a five-star resort called the St. Regis.  It winds along the ridge that resort is perched on, then back under the PCH and back to Salt Creek Beach.  The homes you pass are literally ten figures. The view from the trail is into these massive, tall-windowed facades and in the dusk, you can see inside and these enormous palaces, worth millions and millions, all of them new and modern and just decked out. If you are ever in the area, I HIGHLY recommend the trail.]

So... I've vented. I now need to go clean the rest of the house.  Her owner, Sam, she's coming over reclaim her.  God bless America.

I need to go talk to my landlord tomorrow about the carpet thing. That is job one.  And tomorrow is day three on the new job. My goodness, I feel like I'm walking a razor wire, sharp-end up.