The Blame Game

The only reason I’m not in the jail cell formerly occupied by Michael Vick is that my dogs lack the opposable thumbs necessary for them to dial the number for the SPCA, PETA, or the federal prosecutor who sent Michael Vick to jail.

According to my dogs, I’m guilty of doggy abuse. But it’s really not my fault.

And apparently, I am responsible for the fact that my kid is failing math. But I also contend that it's not my fault.

The insurance company providing my homeowner’s coverage would very much like to make it my fault that the water heater burst, flooding my basement and causing approximately $50,000 in damage.

When I called to make the claim, the adjuster asked, “What did you do to your water heater?”

Now, I’ve been told I have an inappropriate sense of humor. And there are times when, if I were limber enough to get my foot into my mouth, that’s where it would be. But this was not one of those times. I wisely refrained from saying, “Aside from going downstairs and beating it with a hammer every afternoon? Nothing.”

I was stunned. What do people “do” to their water heaters that would make the insurance company ask such a question? It’s not like it’s a microwave and some idiot put the cat into it to dry her after a bath, then called the insurance company to report that the microwave was ruined beyond repair. It’s a water heater, and, as I told the adjuster, I don’t know how they work or even how to attempt messing one up.

Speaking of the cat, it’s my fault that parasite-ridden pussy needs a new home. After I decided to move to Florida and my kids chose to stay in Atlanta with their father, Lauren’s dad, who bought the cat, refused to let the cat live in his house. To his credit, he offered to put up a fence in his backyard. I know because I heard him tell Lauren over the phone that the cat could come live with them after he put up a privacy fence. I snickered, only my snicker was loud enough to qualify as a snort. He heard it and demanded to know why I was laughing at him.

Lauren said, “Because everyone knows a fence can’t keep in a cat, Dad.”

But that wasn’t really the reason I was laughing. I think it’s incredibly funny that he’s spending even more money to contain an already stupidly expensive pussy. Then again, it’s not the first time a pussy cost him a fortune. The other one cost him millions, and come to think of it, he’s still spending money trying to contain her, too.

Still, I find it hard to accept that I’m to blame. In my defense, I’d be thrilled if Lauren and her cat came to live with me in Florida.

The insurance adjuster’s next question was, “What have you been using your water heater for?”

“Ummm. Heating water?”

Evidently, my answers were correct, because the insurance company cannot find a way to blame me. They are paying for the damages.

My son’s math grade is perilously close to failure because his dad can’t manage to get him to school on time. He’s missed too many first period math classes. They’d like to blame me because I moved to St. Augustine, but I stand by my offer for Hunter to live with me in Florida.

That leaves the dogs. So how, you ask, am I abusing my dogs? It’s because I refuse to provide a place for them to lay their little heads at night.

I’m tired of buying beds for them because they tear them up. And those little bed shredders took it to the next level last night.

They sleep in my laundry room. On either side of the sink, there are open shelves lined with pretty decorative twig baskets. One basket holds light bulbs. One contains a hammer, nails, tacks, hooks, and various other small pieces of hardware. And one holds all the dogs’ toys.

I walked into the laundry room to wake the dogs up this morning to find their bed in a million little foam pieces. And generously sprinkled on top of the foam bits were a couple of broken light bulbs, the twigs from a mutilated basket, and approximately eighty-nine nails.

They literally slept on a bed of nails.

Since it was one of their own making, I refuse to replace it with a nice, new bed. And since they couldn’t report my alleged abuse, they retaliated by crapping on my porch.

So this is what I would like to say to my kids, their dad, the cat, my insurance company, and the dogs: Quit trying to blame me. You made your bed, now lie in it.

Drowning My Soggy Basement Sorrows

In short, this has been the week from hell. I guess when you see a rattlesnake the size of a fire hose on Sunday, it’s possibly some kind of omen that later in the week men are going to be using extraction machines attached to fire hoses to suck the four-inch-deep water-swamp out of your basement. And that I’m going to have to act like a rattlesnake from hell with the insurance adjustor who can’t understand why the hardwood floors must be replaced. Because they’re buckling into six-inch-high teepees that trip me, dumbass? And that I might have problems with other long, hose-like objects later in the week, like maybe gas pumps that should have been replaced before I drove off from the gas station.

So I briefly – very briefly – considered getting myself drunk tonight. I kind of earned it. The house I was supposed to put on the market this week has over $50,000 worth of damage to it, and that’s not counting the furniture, exercise equipment, and stored items that are ruined. As a matter of fact, one of the few items that suffered no damage was the empty aquarium that was once home to a ball python, Hunter’s pet that escaped several years ago and was never found.

But getting drunk is not the answer to my problems, because although I’ve only been really drunk three times in my life, each time it did not end prettily. One of those times occurred while my whole family was in St. Augustine. My poor sister-in-law had to put my drunken ass (or “ash,” as I pronounce it when I’m drunk) to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night very, very thirsty. I tiptoed downstairs and was greedily chugging a liter of Pellegrino when I noticed a cat on my front porch eating from the dish I set out for Degas, the Siamese across the street who spends most of every day going door to door begging for food. Only it wasn’t Degas at the dish. I made my way over to the front door and watched the kitty eat. I wanted to go outside and pet the pretty kitty, but even in my semi-inebriated state, I remembered that opening the door would cause the alarm to beep, and I didn’t want to waken the entire household. So I stood and watched the cat eat while I finished my Pellegrino.

The next morning, I made my way downstairs in time to meet my family for breakfast at eight o’clock, proud of the fact I was not in the least bit hungover. Plus, I pointed out to my brother and niece, at two o’clock that morning, I’d even had the presence of mind not to open the front door and pet the kitty because I hadn’t wanted to wake them.

“What cat? Degas?” Beau asked.

“No. It was a different one. I’d never seen it before, but it was a really pretty kitty,” I said. “It was grey, and it had these cool black rings around its tail.”

After my brother picked himself up off the floor, he explained to me that the “pretty kitty” was, in fact, a raccoon who probably carried rabies – the ultimate in tainted pussies.

So on this night, when I probably have every reason in the world to drown my soggy basement sorrows, I will not drink. Because as sure as I do, some creature from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom will show up at my house. And with the way my week’s been going, it will be that long-lost ball python, now the size of a fire hose and hungry enough to eat a dachshund.

Another Open Letter:

To My Dachshunds: I really hated putting you back in the car for the drive to Atlanta. I honestly thought we’d be in St. Augustine permanently. And I sincerely apologize for being so discombobulated by the news that there was water pouring from the basement of the Atlanta house that I mistakenly gave everyone Shirley’s thyroid medication instead of Benadryl. (They’re both pink, an easy mistake to make when you’re upset). Laverne and Squiggy, the vet assures me you’ll have no lingering effects.

To the Nice Policeman: I know my story sounded ridiculous, but I guess you were persuaded by the fact that I did have three dachshunds and very little luggage in my car. Or was it because I had apparently foregone the shower? Surely I had to be telling the truth about throwing the dogs in the car and leaving for Atlanta quickly when I heard about the water damage of epic proportions. Whatever your reason for giving me a break, I do know it was not due to the rumor that you let beautiful women off with just a warning. Because I looked and smelled like the south end of a northbound mule train. You were very kind to tear that ticket up.

To the Damage Restoration Guys: Sammy, Drake, and Tony from Servicemaster, you are my heroes. Thank you. And thanks to my neighbor, Diana, and my lawn girl, Kim, for noticing the water flooding from under the basement doors.

To my Insurance Company: No, I did not go down to my basement every afternoon and bang on the water heater with a hammer. No, I did not try to flood my basement on purpose just to get a new treadmill. A new one would not make me love running, believe me. The old one worked perfectly for watching a dachshund jump on and get thrown off. And no, your argument that my policy excludes standing water damage does not apply. The water was running out from under the basement doors.

To the Other Policeman: I swear I wasn’t checking my Facebook while driving 90 in a 55. I was Googling Servicemaster.

To My Dachshunds: Biting the Servicemaster guy was completely uncalled for. He is our friend.

To Drake, the Servicemaster Guy: I apologize for the dachshunds. They’re cranked up on thyroid medication. The vet said there are no lasting effects, but then again, this is the vet who can’t be certain whether or not he effectively spayed the cat.