The Showdown

Some people "play" fantasy football. Some people play fantasy roleplaying games, like Dungeons and Dragons. Some people engage in fantasies that are not meant for a pg-13 blog such as this.

And some people, like me, take too much pleasure in what I call Fantasy Arguments.

My day started like this: Wake up way too early, drive Matt to Best Buy so he can carpool with Angie, and then drive halfway to Ojai (Ojai is the town back in the mountains that's right out of a Stephen King novel. I'm seriously not going to be surprised at all when the Ojai High Prom Queen goes on a killing rampage with nothing but her fundmentalist-soaked brain.) to drop Moxie off at the dog boarder's.

Now, none of this seemed to me that it was going to be stressful or life-altering in any way at the time. Moxie is a good dog and loves to ride in the car, especially because 99% of the time, that means she's going to her favorite place on earth.

The kennel.

I wish I was being sarcastic, but it's true; from the minute I turn into their driveway, Moxie forgets that I even exist. I am relegated to the back part of her brain as "that bitch that tells me to knock it off all the time but shares her apples with me anyway". Her little canine brain has already sped ahead to the fact that soon, she will be basking in the attention of a number of other little dogs, all of whom - or so we've been told - instantly begin following her around the minute she arrives.

That's right. My dog immediately becomes the Alpha at Dog Disneyland.

She also this quaint habit of taking a shit on their pristine tile floor that's just inside the reception office. The kennel is on this huge farm where basically, it's like Lord of the Flies and the dogs get to run wild, with plenty of teenagers to wrestle and fetch with. How they have a pristine anything is beyond me, but leave it to Moxie Bartz to find it and promptly drop a load on it.

When I showed up today, the lady was on the phone. Understandable; she was clearly handling business and seemed a little harried, but she also was surrounded by a handful of yipping, barking dogs. She waved at me a little and I waved back, but I wasn't going to go about talking to her as it was clear she was busy and I wasn't in a hurry.

I was surprised, then, when she started talking to me. She recognized Moxie on sight (always a parent's pride, when your dog is recognized immediately. "Oh, my...it's Moxie.") and chatted at me a minute about her, and then went back to the phone. Okay, I think to myself. She must be on hold or something.

It was right about then that I looked down at my precious companion and notice that she's about to drop her precious load all over the precious floor. I immediately freak out because hey, even at a dog kennel, it's embarrassing when your dog shits on the floor. It's like being the parent of the kid in the Christmas Pageant who screams that he likes poopie in the middle of the Nativity and proceeds to fling boogers at the audience. So needless to say, I was in an urgent state to clean it up while apologizing profusely.

Now, back to my friend. (Up until now, I still consider her my friend.) I thought she was off the phone, or at the very least, able to talk - as she had talked to me not five minutes before. So I frantically ask, "Oh jeez! I'm so sorry, do you have any tissues!?" So that I can clean up.

I am promptly greeted with the announcement, "I am on the phone."

I hope the significance of both italics and bold is not lost on you, dear reader. I am not exaggerating when I say that she was using italics and bold in her very SPEECH. It was not the gentle "Oh dearie, I'm on the phone. I'm so sorry faithful customer, I'll be right with you so I can take your enormous amount of money for letting your dog run around on my farm for a week." It wasn't even the "I'm a little busy, customer. I promise I'll get right with you, if I can ever get off this gosh-darned phone!"

No. It was the nurse-sick-of-stupid-questions (I know that one really well, being a master of it), on the line with the police to get her drunk husband hauled to jail trailer trash, mother who has been pushed to the edge and is about to introduce her children to a bedtime story called "Bathtime with Andrea Yates." She was snapping at me.

In the spirit of that great nineties musical classic, Hold up. Wait a minute. Don't go there, 'cuz I ain't with it.

Some of you may remember my Grandpa. My Papa Loiacono didn't take any shit from anybody, and he had what you might call a temper. Aside from inheriting his dashing good looks, his giggle, and his penchant for lifesavers, I also inherited the Loiacono Temper. Seven months pregnant and wrestling with a Schnauzer that's ready to tear across the open plains, this woman did not just snap at me for wanting to clean up her floor.

In the words of Dane Cook, it was on.

Okay, flash back in: She's glaring me down. She is clearly very, very upset that I spoke to her while she's jawing on the phone. I am very, very, upset that she thinks it's okay to snap at me when all I'm asking for is some tissue or a little baggie. So I reply - and yes, I was snarky - "Oh gosh, I'm sorry. I just wanted to clean up your FLOOR that my dog was trying to POOP on."

Phone Nazi (we are no longer friends) gives me a look so harsh I'm pretty sure my baby can feel it. She goes on to berate me about how she's on the phone, she's really busy, and can't I just WAIT. By this time I'm ready to jump across her counter and beat her with her own cordless phone. There's plenty of witnesses, sure, but there's also a farm full of dogs that are probably hungry. After she mutters at me for a few moments, all while searching out some wipes, she snaps, "Maybe you could just take your doggie outside to go poopie." Only she says it in the condescending way you'd tell someone, "Maybe you could try NOT being a douchebag for a little while."

I yank the wipes off the counter and reply, as cool as I can manage (At least as coolly as they would've done on Knots Landing, but maybe not as cool as Dynasty), "Yeah, maybe I just will." And Moxie and I go outside, where she poops and I clean up.

While I'm outside, I seethe. I want to take my dog and my money and leave, but I also know that I'm stuck leaving Moxie there. It's the day we're leaving and I have no other arrangements for her (Our friends won't take her anymore. See above, where she shits on floors). So I'm stuck leaving her there, which I know is a good place for her and she loves it, but at the same time, I now no longer trust this woman any more than I'd trust Britney Spears as my nanny.

I go through a moment where I want to march back in and give her what for. Tell her I don't deserve being spoken to like that and who does she think she is? She watches dogs. That does not mean you're the humanitarian of the year. You sell your back yard to people to let their dogs run around. You're a backyard pimp! That's what you are, lady! And I would haughtily pick Moxie up and walk out, head held high.

When I got back inside, working up the guts to say something about how she'd upset me, I find a strange thing. The woman is off the phone and when she talks to me, acts like nothing ever happened. Our little D-Day battle didn't just occur. She never snapped at a guest for wanting to clean up her floor. She's nice and pleasant and ready to take Moxie, and all is well with the world.
For some reason, this just angers me even more. I want to shout, listen here, Sybil. I know you probably forgot your meds today, but don't take it out on me - I'm pregnant, I've got a lot of shit to do today, and to top it off, I have to get on a plane at midnight and fly to Minnesota. What've you got to do today? Watch dogs run around and hope they don't kill each other? Now apologize for snapping at me, take good care of my dog, and don't ever talk to me like that again!"

But I know, as I'm writing the check, that I won't say anything. I just mumble answers and avoid her gaze, and reluctantly pass over my dog. Moxie jumps into the backyard without a backwards glance.

Maybe she realized when I went outside (and slammed her stupid door) that she'd been rude. Maybe she realized that we use her kennel at least twice a year for a large amount of time and that we're virtually a promised meal ticket. Maybe she really was sorry for sounding so bitchy and thought that by being super-sweet, it'd make it up to me. An apology would've gone a lot further.

In any case, I left, deflated and impotent in my anger. I still wanted to do something, but I was already gone and I knew I was going to seethe over it. I was halfway home when I realized there was something I could do. I was empowered to teach her a lesson, by God! I knew what I had to do to feel better about the argument - in other words, what I had to do to win! It was all so clear.

I gripped my steering wheel and hissed into the rearview mirror, "That's right, lady. I'm going to blog about you."

I sure showed her.