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Crofton, MD, 21114

A long-running personal blog shared by two authors with completely different approaches to life. And a lot of large, beautiful photographs of dogs and nature and places we've traveled to. Rich in commentary and irreverant in style. 



We started blogging a long time ago. Our work hours never aligned with recommended psychotherapists and we needed to get our thoughts out. We are great friends, total opposites and long-time housemates. This was a way to communicate. With each other. With strangers. With consumer marketers. With sub-par meteorologists. With distant friends who wanted to see pictures of stuff we were up to.

This is the place. Our bucket of thoughts to share. You are welcome. 
(We realize that most of you are here for the dog pictures.)

My Neighborhood is Perfect


Earlier today we had a family meeting where we trash-talked some of the neighbors. Honesty is an important quality. We are really good at it here because we practice it a LOT. Loudly.

The neighborhood family we are focusing on this week are a bag of idiots. They put out a post-apocolyptic charcoal grill for the trash pickup about 3 weeks ago and it is still there. Why? Why is it still there? Because the trash people don’t pick up grills. It’s a thing. People KNOW that. It's like 'not swallowing the toothpaste.' Sanitation engineers also do not pick up large metal or plastic items. There is a big plastic tub sitting next to the stupid grill. 

We decided to be the bigger people and go sort the situation out. I get REALLY irritable when I have to look at other people’s ugly shit. So, this had to be done. We also decided to bring out trash bags incase we happen upon additional trash. Like the trash that seems to be cascading out of those asshats home and on to the communal landscaping on a regular basis. Hate them. They should be dead from the lack of nutrition evident in their litter.

We cunningly moved their stupid grill to another neighbors trash collection. Trash pickup is tomorrow. The other neighbors would not like that this happened but they made the mistake of going to the beach. I promise to learn the beach neighbors names again when they come back. I don’t know what my problem is - they have lived there for 8 years and still I go blank on their names. I just remember that their youngest kid - the one that hits trees with sticks to destress - has an Irish mafia IRA name. #signs

I’m about 98% sure that the garbage men are going to be like “oh look, someone has moved all the old non-sorted ghetto trash from that curb to this curb. Isn’t that adorable?” And gleefully leave the shit right where it is while jumping back on to the truck all dancy-dance Gene Kelly style. 

Rejection is so cold. 

Okay it hasn’t happened yet - but I BET YOU it will.

After dealing with shit-that-is-not-my-fault and for-which-I-should-not-have-to-witness-or-deal-with … we went around the neighborhood picking up scattered trash like some weird religious group on a merit badge quest. 

This is the fault of David Sedaris, of course.

Incidentally he got a trash truck named after him. I suspect he had some influence on the final name.

Yenny won the ‘most interesting find’ award in our garbage picking. Here we were thinking that we lived in this quaint little village, with the parades and the flags and the generous sidewalks for the walking of dogs. Yenny finds (and oddly reads) this trash.

So I looked it up on the internet, as you do... and they directed me to who gave me slightly more disturbing information.

NOTE: At first glance I read this section to be "Intimate Apparel & Accessories" (I am still twitching from that horror). I also took a nano-second to be all like "Jesus- even prisoners have better undergarments than I do." Then back to twitching again. Then I read it correctly. 

So yeah, Yenny won most interesting trash find for like the DECADE. And now none of us will be sleeping very soundly. Where the heck do I live that I have this kind of trash? sheesh. You probably have this in your neighborhood and don't know it. And probably worse stuff, too. :) g'night!

Sleep Off


Yesterday, I woke up broken.  I had ‘the allergies’ and my look was really suffering. I knew this before even setting foot on the carpet. I took a moment to congratulate myself for never hanging a mirror in my room.  I know myself pretty well and my aim improves when I’m irritated. That coupled with the stupid amount of nick-knacks within reach would have resulted in seven years of bad something or another.


My face felt like a generic brand gallon ziplock filled with old jello.  It was red jello. Cherry jello. The dog only opened one eye to regard me in my moment of self discovery. He doesn’t like to waste his attention. It is his currency.  And he will always be rich for not having spent much of it.

I woke up, attended to exactly 45 minutes of tasks and returned to bed with prescription strength allergy meds and two anti-inflammatory pills. Some kids go to Ibiza, I go to CVS - and then back to bed.

I get that the normal routine is that I go to work and from 7am on, Buford sleeps. He sleeps until the dog walker comes, romances whichever girl that  is for 30 minutes, she gives him a treat (or 5) and then he goes back to sleep again until we all come home around dinner time. So I guess he is used to an extra 8+ hours of sleep during the day. But Jesus, it is impressive to witness. I woke up twice between 8am and 3pm. Both times to go to the bathroom. Each time I asked him if he needed to go out. Each time he opened one eye, regarded me and went back to sleep. His bladder must be the entire size of his body. I think it must be his only organ. It’s a mouth with eyeballs and broken ears, attached to a GIANT bladder and capped off at the other end with a pooper. This is a direct-line-system, people. 

He finally agreed to use his legs and go outside after 3pm. I stood out on the sidewalk with him blinking at the brightness while eating another massive rice crispy treat. I know I have a problem. I admit it. As we stood outside (dog was not interested in going for a walk - he just ambled to the corner and sat down like an anchor) every person I’ve ever met in my town came by to celebrate my dog.

It’s a weird feeling to be significantly less popular than your pet.

One guy, I think his name was Scott, full well yelled out this car window “Is that Buford from the internet?? I’m a have to pull over and meet him!”

There were points where I questioned whether I was actually awake. Veritable car loads of people drove by honking and waving and yelling out my dogs name. 

“How did I end up in your fucking dream sequence?”

I might as well have been standing there leashed to a unicorn. It became irritating. Absolutely nobody knew my name. I literally pay to live here. I pay for the dog walkers. I drive 3.5+ hours a day to a job in another state to afford this life and the bloody dog is the one enjoying all the riches. And he never listens to me.

It became so absurd that I dragged him back inside. He looked at me (both eyes open now) and nodded towards the pantry door where the bones are kept. I made a small speech about how pets have to earn treats and he pretended to fall asleep in the middle of it. Meanwhile towns-people are still rolling by the house yelling the dogs name.

I ate another block of rice crispy treat and sarcastically read all the notes from the dog walkers journal to him. He was still pretending to be asleep. I touched the doorknob of the pantry and he stood up and rammed his nose to the crack where the door and the doorframe meet. He breathed deeply. 

I gave in and opened the pantry door. He grabbed two bones from the self service bin at the bottom of the closet and trotted in to the other room to eat without me.

He trotted. He has the ability to go as fast as he wants, he just throttles it to drive me crazy.