"Grog Commits To A Miss Demeanor"

I know I said I'd never love again and I meant it at the time. Love can be painful. Unfortunately, however, things happen we can't control. So, though I still say I won't love, it seems Grog has. Which means I'm stuck too. For me it's not love but a good bit of like. Typical of Grog, he chose a non-human which may be the only reason I'm allowing it. 

Grog has been pretty good so I finally gave in and got him a toy. I knew someone who had a litter of kittens and had one in particular they really wanted gone. A "problem" cat they'd named Spaz because they said she was unhinged and food aggressive. Seemed the perfect candidate for Grog. A challenge for him. We changed her name to Miss Demeanor though. She's a Spaz no more. Now she's a felonious feline. 

Now, I knew I'd probably be the one stuck taking care of the critter most of the time just like I do with Grog. But maybe they could keep each other occupied. If he didn't end up trying to eat it when I wasn't paying attention. 

Right away Grog was a little unsure. "Fuzzy cat thing is tiny. It has bitey things on it. Grog need groom it." He was right, though, this thing was covered in fleas. Turns out it also had worms and, at 8 weeks old, they'd made it a mostly outdoor cat. Being the runt of the litter it probably had to fight for every bit of food it got but I think the fleas and worms ate all the nutrients so the poor thing was constantly starving. 

First order of business: get the tiny feline free of parasites. A pretty quick and easy undertaking. 

It climbed up in my lap right away and fell asleep. Grog just shrugged "we eat it now?" No, monkey man, we aren't going to eat it today. Maybe later. "Ok. Grog make fuzzy cat thing fat first."  Good plan. I could only hope he'd change his mind about eating it eventually. 

So we got it a box and litter because cats have us trained to bring the outside indoors and give them shitboxes for us to clean. Crafty little devils. Food, box, brush, toy and treats. We went shopping. 

I think Grog was already starting to enjoy himself. If he'd had his way we'd have spent an hour playing with cat toys before we picked one out. He's a doofus sometimes but he's my doofus. 

Thus began life on the road with a tiny kitten. Grog plays with it and lets it practice its hunting and fighting skills. Ever have a kitten "attack" your hands with impunity? From fingertips to elbow my right arm now looks like Helen Keller used it to write her autobiography. Seriously, it's horrible. My arm is so shredded it's ridiculous. And Grog just laughs and laughs the whole time. "Grog teach kitty thing to be warrior!" Thanks, Grog. Ugh. 

We've learned a few things about cats. Like they're manipulative. We have this game that Miss Demeanor started. I pretend I'm a truck driver trying to safely drive an 80,000 pound vehicle and she pretends she doesn't care. Instead she hops up in my lap then slowly claws her way up my shirt to the collar. Then she hangs there and lets her hind legs dangle. I reach out and support her weight so she doesn't tear my shirt to shreds. Once she feels my hand touch her she releases the claws, collapses into my hands and goes to sleep instantly. 

Since she's self-centered, if I set her in my lap so I can use that hand she just sits there and stares at me for a few minutes. Then she'll climb back up and we repeat her little game. 

I did get to laugh at her once for it. As soon as she started to collapse into my palm I moved my hand. As she landed in my lap she gave me a "hey, asshole, that wasn't funny" type meow. Even Grog chuckled though. 

Another fun lesson I learned: cats must be related to squirrels. They'll climb anything. I drive in jeans most of the time now. My legs look like I waded through a briar patch. I'm fairly certain I've lost enough blood to qualify me among the undead. 

This little Velcro gymnast does laps sometimes while I'm driving. Fun to watch? Sorta. Except when I'm part of the course. She's started at my ankle and climbed to my shoulder. At a breakneck pace. Countless times. While I'm hurtling us down the highway at 70 mph. 

However, I was smart enough to take pictures of her when she's being cute. I did that for her protection. See, that's why kittens are cute to begin with: so you don't kill them. So far so good. Grog doesn't want to cook her up anymore. He actually likes her. She shares our pillow. 

Grog was pretty sure his kitten was broken the first time she used the shitbox. Nothing living should ever put off odors like that. "Grog need bury cat." No. Easy fella, she's just going potty. "Kitty thing eat zombie?! Grog see buzzards circle when cat thing poop."  Yes, I know. But she will bury it and we got special odor control litter. "Litter is poop covering dirt? Grog think it broken. Grog's eyes leak from smell." It'll be alright. Here, I'll roll the passenger side window down. "Aaaahh! Now it stink AND Grog hot! Kitty trying to kill Grog!" 

And so we started the ritual of cleaning the litter box three times a day at minimum. She's cute and cuddly but something is rotten inside her. The good news is she's not food aggressive in the least. She's not aggressive in any way until Grog gets her riled up. I've found he enjoys brushing her two or three times a day though. It relaxes him. 

We get up, exercise and get all pumped up then brush the kitten. After we exercise at lunch and dinner we usually follow up with me doing busy work in my head while Grog brushes his little friend. I think things are going to work out well. 

"Playing Chopsticks"

So I'm back in the dating game. That means I've gotta figure out how to dress myself and stuff; try to make a good impression. Good news is that I dress my kids so that they look presentable. So I figured I'd just dress myself the same way. Only I made sure my socks matched. I thought that might be important. Not that I was planning on walking around with my shoes off and stuff. 

Try on an outfit, see if it works, try on another one. Repeat until I find the right combination. At first it was harder than I thought. Until I realized it was the neon green socks with the brown wingtip Florsheims that was the problem. After much deliberation I decided maybe a different colored sock was in order. Polka dots won. Hey, one can't be totally conformist. 

She'd suggested Thai or sushi. Two things I'd never had. Me, I was going to make reservations at Taco Bell but I figured I'd stick with the options she'd preferred. Probably the wiser choice, right? 

Sushi it was. Maybe I could convince myself it was some kind of burrito. 

Being who I am I showed up as close to right on time as I could. Can't seem too eager but didn't want to be late and seem rude. Of course, I pretty much always show up 5-10 minutes early because I leave early in case I can't find the place. However, I don't care if she shows up an hour late...my response is always "I just got here a few minutes ago." No matter if she's on time or late, whenever she gets there you're to respond that she's "right on time". 

I'd gotten there and secured us a table. Then I started grilling the waitress on the different types of dishes so I didn't seem completely foolish when it came time to order. "Do you have a type of sushi that tastes like brisket?Are there specialty chopsticks that have like rakes at the end? What if I just used 2 forks like a robot hand?" Turns out the answer was "no" to all of those but I did come up with an idea for training chopsticks that I'll have to explore later. 

Fortunately, Rhiannon, my date was right on time. And she looked radiant so, had she been late, it would've been worth any wait. Unlike me. I totally didn't wear a fancy dress or put on any makeup. Which was apparently the right call this time. 

Per Rhiannon's recommendation I got a nice salmon roll that was tempura battered. Then I watched in horror as she took her chopsticks in hand like she'd been using them her whole life. Great. I'm barely coordinated enough to use a fork properly. And there's not even one anywhere in sight. I could already see that I was going to essentially just poke my food in true caveman fashion as I looked at it thinking "my food is raw. Grog need make fire to cook it. Maybe that's why the sticks are here. Do I rub them together to start fire and cook food?" Way to not impress anyone, Grog. 

In about 30 seconds Rhiannon had explained the general mechanics of using 2 tiny pieces of wood to lift food to my facehole. Within minutes I'm picking up cucumber slices with these elven branches and I'm hoping I'm not channeling some Mandarin spirit. Speaking in tongues on a first date probably isn't the way to go. 

Of course, I'm kinda unorthodox so after we ate at the sushi place guess what we did. That's right, we walked next door to Olive Garden. Why not, right? No, I didn't order more food though I would normally be tempted to. I haven't been eating a lot lately so the homemade cat chow I'd had next door was more than enough. 

Cappuccino. That's what they had at Olive Garden that we were in desperate need of. For 3 hours we sat there and took up a table while we talked. (Don't worry, I warned the waitress of our intent ahead of time and I tipped her very well afterward). She has a degree in psychology and studied sociology so we had stuff to talk about. Well, that and politics and religion. And, of course, literature. We are both writers. 

The waitress was patient and even joined in the joking around. Grog came out to play a little but I mostly kept him reined in. I'd say a good time was had by all for the next several hours. 

What's the next stage in a date? A movie. Of course. What's a perfect "first date" movie? Deadpool. A nice romantic comedy. 

You know what's even better? We were the only two people in the theater. Of course I took full credit and told her I'd rented the whole theater so that we wouldn't be disturbed. I don't think she bought that story though. 

Hey, good news though...every seat in the theater was available and she still chose to sit next to me. So that's a plus. It might've had something to do with how cold it was in there. We had to huddle together like penguins for warmth. The movie was pretty awesome though. I reckon maybe I'll keep you guys posted now that I'm loose in the world again. 

"The Adventure Begins"

So I started therapy yesterday. I saw a real live head shrinker. I'll be honest, I didn't really expect to like her but I tried to go in with an open mind. 

At first Grog was a little nervous. Needlessly. Did you know that it's not like on tv? I didn't lie back on a couch while she doodled in a notepad. 

So I went walking in there, drinking my coffee because coffee is a vital part of my day (but only in the hours between waking up and going to sleep). I filled out the seemingly 40 page long questionnaire wherein I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd asked for a copy of my genealogy records. And I wait. And wait. And wait a little more. By now I was thinking that people need therapy just to get over the torture of waiting to see the doctor. 

I go up to the little sliding window and listen to it creak open as the receptionist asks if she can help me. 

"Yes, I'm sorry but I was wondering how long until I see the doctor?" Well, turns out only five minutes has passed. Oh. Oops. Sure seemed a lot longer, I swear. 

Sweat is already starting to build on my forehead as I wait for this lady to transpose all my info into the computer. On the outside I tried to seem cool but on the inside I was thinking "what happens when I walk through that door? What if I find out I'm crazy?" 

Even worse, what if I end up with tear ducts? I've always been good with not being a sensitive guy. What if they break that and I start liking romantic comedies and stuff? Next thing you know I'll be complimenting people on their shoes or something. What if they therapy the Grog out of me? 

Well, as it turns out, it's pretty painless. In fact, I was free to pace around the room as I talked. The words just flowed. It really was like talking to a friend. I mean, we didn't sit around talking about movies or anything but we got along pretty well. 

I'm a naturally honest person and try to look at things objectively so that helped, I think. I was willing to look at things from her perspective and from the perspectives she suggested. I wasn't real happy about having to fully admit that I may have been wrong about a couple things but, hey, I can't always be right. 

I now have weekly sessions scheduled. For the next 6 months, (maybe longer, depends on when I can sell my truck), I'll be doing many of them over the phone. That should make it easier because then I can eat during class. I'll be able to hide in my mobile cave as I tell the good doctor my feelings. Maybe it'll help make things better because feelings don't belong in my cave. 

Am I going to be the perfect person after this? No. That'll never happen. But hopefully I'll be able to re-establish my self-worth like my therapist wants me to do. As frugal as I am I was worried about wasting hundreds of dollars every week on a therapist. Now I'm looking forward to my weekly sessions and see it as an investment. And that Doctor lady? She doesn't scare Grog at all. 

"So Pretty It Hurts"

Ok, so you guys know I'm a truck driver. And I've mentioned Molly several times. She's the one that's taken on the challenge of trying to help me better my life so that I can live up to my full potential. I thank her for that. It's certainly no easy task. To her credit, she's told me many times that she loves me as I am and wishes other people could see me as I am in her eyes. 

I'm hoping to remain lucky enough that she sticks around for a long time. After this past weekend I'd say she's in this for the long haul. Which is good since she's a long haul trucker. 

I've always considered myself "a work in progress". I just didn't know that the work was gonna be so...intensive. (Author's note: the following account is purely self inflicted. Though Molly loves me as I am I REALLY wanted to make a good impression on her dad and I didn't want him to think she's dating a bridge troll. Any man knows "meeting the parents" is a big deal.)

I've gotta give credit where it's due here. Women are tough. No disclaimer, no sarcasm. A simple statement of fact. And I'm not just talking about child birth but what they go through regularly like it's no big deal. Hats off to ya, ladies.

This past weekend Molly and I met up in Pennsylvania to take some time off. An exciting weekend is planned: I'm going to meet her dad. A big step in most relationships. 

Obviously, I want to make a good impression. I want to look my best and be on my best behavior. Neither of those are easy tasks for someone like me.

In an effort to look my best I brought along my "normal people" good clothes. No stains, no rips, nothing that reflects the slob I usually am. With any luck I'll be able to keep them clean for the weekend. This may require Divine Intervention. Who are we kidding? It WILL require it. 

But there's more to looking nice than just wearing the right clothes. Apparently looking nice requires deliberate effort and a degree of planning. Great, two things I definitely don't excel at. 

We meet up, get some laundry knocked out and have dinner. In the morning we will pick up the rental car and start our adventure. I'll be on my way to meet her dad. Surprisingly, I'm not even slightly nervous. 

Next morning we pick up the car and mosey our way down to Baltimore. We'll begin the prep work for "the meeting" then stay at a hotel before finishing the trip. Why the delay? Because we both know it'll take a full day before I can be integrated into society. Gotta ease Grog into this. I'm still not nervous though. 

So when we get to Baltimore we begin the transformation from caveman to "civilized". A few beneficial cosmetic adjustments and I'll look semi human in no time. "Grog not sure what to think about this. Grog fear change." Oh, it'll be alright. How can you be such a frightened caveman? Toughen up. It'll be fun. I just kept telling myself that. 

Fun, or so I thought, would start off slowly and work its way up. I'll just start off with paying for a haircut. Simple enough. I rarely pay for one for myself. Usually I just let it grow for about 6 months then shave it down to bald and start over. Cheap and efficient. 

"What's with all the choices? They're scaring me, Molly. Heeelp!" She reads all this just by the look on my face. When we got to Great Clips all I wanted was "just give me a guy's haircut." How hard can that be?

Apparently there's a whole menu now. Tapered in back, tapered sides, what number blade, sideburns off or on, blah blah blah. The list was seemingly endless. 

I'm pretty sure I looked like a fox in a leg trap. Had there been restraints in the "stylists" chair I'd have put them on myself. A "stylist". Aren't there just good old fashioned barber shops anymore? The kind I went to as a kid where I'd get a lollipop for sitting still long enough to keep from losing skin while I got my ears lowered? I've never missed them as much as I do at that moment. 

Grog was frightened of the lady wielding the clipper machine thing who kept asking "but what style do you want?" Grog no want style. Grog want haircut. Why lady no listen to Grog? 

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the stylist and Molly had my hair looking right. If I'd thought it out in advance I would've just brought in a picture of J. Jonah Jameson and said "do that to my hair." Choices. I don't do well with choices. 

But, thankfully, my keeper is better at this than I am. So I spent the better part of the day just grunting approval and it went fairly seamlessly. Only a couple tasks left on the overhaul now that my mane had been tamed. 

"Ready, honey? I think you're going to enjoy this. It's like a massage for your hands." That's how I was introduced to the world of the manicure. I knew womenfolk went to some shaman who did something to make their nails pretty. So I'd suggested maybe they could fix my fish catchers. 

I also knew that the hands say something about the man and I'd read that women like men who take care of themselves. So I figured it couldn't hurt as I sat down to begin the declawing process. 

I'm not familiar with this ritual so I didn't know if the look of horror on the nail lady's face was normal at first. "Maybe she's just calling others from her tribe over because they've never seen a man in here before." I was hopeful that was what all the hubbub was about. It didn't take long to figure out there was more to it. 

I had 5 women standing in front of me with looks on their faces like they'd just spotted a yeti. Shock, surprise and horror all mixed into one look, the lady in charge of my paws kinda looked towards her tribemates and shrugged. There was a brief discussion in Korean or some Eastern language but I distinctly heard "dremel" at one point. I think they'd also just realized their standard menu pricing had just cost them a huge loss on this job. 

As one lady was calling around to landscaping companies for advice the first lady whipped out some industrial strength clippers. I have some weird way of metabolizing calcium so that my nails have the strength of granite so I'm thinking she was contemplating garden sheers. 

With two of these tiny women lifting themselves off the floor trying to trim my claws we got the job underway. They finally settled on first soaking my hands in some chemical seemingly designed to dissolve animal flesh. That softened the skin and nails just enough to let them do their job. 

Part of a manicure is cleaning up the cuticles. This essentially removes them. And everything trapped in them. Like a decade of "trucker funk". Which, I suppose, is why several of them equipped themselves with surgical masks. I knew I was a little rough around the edges but I didn't expect the hazmat team to show up like that. 

After tagging each other in and out several times they were making progress. As one lady would be covered in sweat and crawl away another would take her place. There were shouts all over the place as people were ducking the shrapnel flying from my hands. I even heard one waiting customer gasp as she saw my armadillo fingers. Molly had to chase away one lady who was coming at me with a belt sander. I'm sure it looked like "Edward Scissorhands Takes Shop Class". 

But these little samurai chicks were just getting warmed up. I'll admit I admired their tenacity. They chopped away, scraped and dodged as they steadily worked on the mess that was my mitts. 

As they worked I noticed them periodically pointing at my eyes and exchanging glances. Not familiar with the language of these oriental witch doctors I was clueless until one made a Chewbacca sound and they all laughed. Ah. My eyebrow was the topic. Gotcha. 

So these little ninjas wanted to do something with the porn 'stache that is my eyebrow. Yes, I use the singular because I'm aware I've got just the one that stretches nearly temple to temple above my eyes. "That camouflage. It help Grog hide in bushes. Grog carry bush on face." Nope. They weren't having it. 

Well, if I'm gonna make a good impression then I probably don't want to show up at her dad's with a bird nest on my forehead. Sure, let's clean that up a little. If they've got hardcore tweezers I reckon I'll let them give it a shot. Hopefully the root system doesn't go all the way into my brain or something. Eh, it'll be fun. Still not even a little nervous about meeting Molly's dad though I may be a little nervous about this next level of prep work. How bad can it be, right? 

They usher me to the back and into a nice, comfy chair. My head is leaning back a little and I'm thinking I could just nap while they pull a few hairs. In decades of fighting I've certainly experienced worse, right? 

Wrong. I was so very, very wrong. But I didn't know that yet. As I leaned back I felt them put something warm and wet right between my eyes. Presumably more of that muriatic acid they'd used on my hands. I figured they were just softening my pelt right there. To be honest, it was kinda soothing. 

I caught a faint hint of chocolate and thought they were preparing a treat since I'd been cooperative for the manicure. That's sweet of them. I'll have to remember to tip them; they've been through so much already. I even asked them, "is that chocolate I smell?" Yes. Yes, it's the scent of chocolate. Yay!

They rubbed me a little between the eyes, right where they'd put that warm spot. Wow, I'm really getting pampered here. No wonder women like it. They pet you and feed you chocolate. I should remember to buy Molly a spa treatment since it's so nice. 

My thoughts were interrupted by a countdown as they stopped petting me. I was thinking, "why are they counting down? And why are they giggling as they do it?"   That's when it happened. Just all at once there was a searing white pain right between my eyes. Oh dear Lord, I've been shot! With molten lava! What is that burning?! 

I sat bolt upright, nearly crushing the nose of this sadistic Oni. If she hadn't been rocking backward in laughter I'd have certainly connected with my forehead as I shot up. 

Chocolate? Yeah, chocolate scented WAX! This lady had just ripped a chunk of hair out with that stuff. There was no treat. I'd been deceived. They were trying to flay me! Oh, the pain! The agony! What have I just agreed to?! 

And they weren't done yet. But now I was committed because, for all the abuse, they'd only done a small, angled patch. These strategic little she-Devils had made it so I now had no choice but take more torture. 

Five of them clambered onto my shoulders to try to hold me down and force me back into the chair. I was looking around the room for a fire extinguisher. Certainly there must have been flames from the friction of them ripping my skin off. My forehead was on fire. 

They assured me there were only 2 more spots and they'd release me. "You look good when we finish. I promise." You promise?! Your promise is no good, you just violated our trust. I was just beginning to like you before you ripped part of my face off. 

Finally I relented, knowing I definitely couldn't show up looking like THIS now. I had no choice. Fine, 2 more spots and I'm done. Couldn't they gas me down first or something though? 

Another chocolate rub, this time right across the eyelid. Please, dear Lord, tell me that spot is less sensitive. I'll be good from now on, just give me this one wish. Nope. Denied. 

A crowd of the other patrons gathered as the lady rubbed the next strip on. All the women, customers and torturers alike, waited with bated breath as they began the countdown again. 

"3..." Wait. Wait. Can we negotiate? Please? I beg of you. "No. Sorry. Wax is already on. 2..." Wait. Wait. What if I pay you double? Can you just hit me with a hammer first? Make it swift and painless? "So sorry sir. Almost done now. You look good when finish. 1..." 

Riiiiiippp! Women dove for the floor like I was slinging grenades as I shot up out of the chair. There was a deafening roar that echoed as the windows rattled. One woman fainted, another got a nose bleed from the shock wave of my screams. Never had I felt anything like this! It was like washing my face in an active volcano! Had there been a fire I'd have stuck my face in it to cool myself off! 

I was afraid to try to close my eye because I was certain my entire eyelid had been seared off. They still had to do my right one?! Were they serious?! Please tell me we are doing shots of 151 after this. At the very least let me slip into shock and pass out. 

As they cautiously prepare to mangle my other eyelid I try to relax myself. I know it's going to hurt but I have this thing about symmetry so I can't leave with just one done. I remind myself that, mercifully, that'll be the last bit. 

As the last strip comes off I howl at a volume that nearly shatters all the windows up front. Air raid sirens sound muted in comparison. Two more women drop, bleeding from the ears and another rushes outside to call for emergency personnel. A couple of teenage girls were laughing to the point of tears and one of them made a point of telling me she gets her eyebrows waxed regularly. I think they were implying I'm a wimp. I stagger out of the chair, drop to a knee as I fight off nausea and tears. I've done it. I've survived the eyebrow holocaust. Now I understand why Molly says "beauty is pain". It hurts to look this good. 

As I weakly regain my footing Molly approaches and gives me a kiss as she smiles. The tears in her eyes are from her fits of laughter at my reactions to this torment women put themselves through regularly but I tell myself it's from sympathy for me. 

Hopefully tomorrow the swelling will be down enough that I'll be ready for presentation to her father. If not, I'll try to gain his sympathy by telling him she beats me. What's nauseating me the most is that, after this ordeal, Molly tells me all she wanted to do was clip my nails for me as she shows me the clippers she'd bought earlier. Oh good, I way overshot. But, hey, I apparently look better now. I better. I'm still not nervous about meeting her father. 

Right up until we pull into the driveway I'm convinced I'm not the least bit nervous about meeting the man who I may, someday, ask permission to marry his daughter. Once we hit that driveway the nerves hit so hard I nearly puke on myself. My hands shake uncontrollably, my legs become paralytic and my vision starts to swim as I open the car door. We are going to be staying here for 2-3 days....but that's a story for another day. 

"Oh Sheet, It's Grog"

Molly never makes demands of me and rarely makes requests. When she does, though, it's in an effort to improve my quality of life. I appreciate that and try to make her proud when she gives me tasks to complete. 

It's usually simple stuff because I'm a guy and I have a limited attention span. Anything over 5 minutes and I might start watching cartoons and forget. Usually it goes like "honey, I'd really like it if you drank some water occasionally." 

'Mmm. Grog can drink water if it make Molly happy.'

A day or so later, "Did you have any water today?" 

'Um, Grog forget. Grog go get water. I'll call you right back, angel." Then I'll go inside the truck stop to get a bottle of water, pass by the tv room and an hour or two later she'll call.."You know I only mention these things because I worry about you, babe." Right about then I think my silence gives me away as I remember what I was supposed to be doing. I know she knows because she gives me that laugh. You know the one, guys. The one that says "what am I gonna do with you?" It's like she knows the odds are I got distracted and forgot. 

'Crap. They had the TV on. I forgot again. Grog try harder.' That's usually the point I'll write it on my hand "water. No tv til you drink water. Idiot." 

It went on like that for a few months because I work outside tarping and stuff and I sweat a lot. Something about her wanting me to be hydrated and not die. Eventually I just bought a case of water so when she reminded me I'd have it handy. And I'm proud to say I've had only 1 soda in about 2 months. (Not entirely true. I haven't kicked sweet tea yet. I'm from the south, you don't just "quit" sweet tea) Mostly just coffee and water though. I feel healthier. Considering I'd been living off Mountain Dew and coffee I think I'm doing much better now. Because she cared but she was understanding. I'm sure it was her plan all along but she let me think I came about the idea all on my own. Women are kind to us that way, they let us believe we are in control even when we all know we would still be living in caves if it were up to men. 

So today she made a request. Another valid one that's for my own good. Let me start by reminding you she's very very tidy. I'm very very...not. My truck has been referred to as a "rolling biohazard". Molly won't even get in it without a double layered hazmat suit and a flame thrower "just in case". Honestly, it is pretty bad even when I don't have the dogs with me. 

She worries about me and knows I don't sleep well. I don't have sheets on my bed and there are piles of "stuff" at the foot of my bed. Some I can identify and some even I can't explain. So much so that I don't really stretch out. According to some research that's just not healthy. If science is to be trusted. I still think "science" is a passing fad. 

The request? "You want something to do today since you're not working? How about straightening up at least your bed so you can sleep comfortably? Do something with all that stuff at the end of your bed, put actual SHEETS on your bed and try to make it look like you don't nest like a squirrel. You'll sleep better, I promise. Love you."

So I had my challenge and I accepted it. I thought "Grog will do good job and make Molly proud. Molly will smile at Grog when he done." What I didn't realize was exactly how daunting that task was. I thought I was slightly domesticated. Boy was I wrong. In my mind I was gonna breeze through this then sit back and watch a movie. It'd take 10 minutes tops. But here's how it actually went:

I walk across the parking lot to K Mart to buy a milk crate looking thing and some sheets. "I've got this." I walk in there with a purpose. "Sheets and a crate, that's our objective." I secure a crate like I've just freed a hostage. Woohoo! With the crate in hand I remember I haven't had lunch. I'll need a snack with my movie. 

Aisle 3: tuna, crackers and relish. Score! Wait. I need a drink. Gatorade sounds good, I'd like some flavor today. Orange. Got it. 

Well I've got my snacks, let's see what movies they have in the cheap movie bin. I finally settled on three titles. "Ok. Everything's in the crate, I'm headed to check out now". 

I get back to my truck with my goodies. "Crap. Wasn't I supposed to get something else? Think, man, think! Sheets." Shit. 

Back to K Mart. It's only about 300 feet so I walk in still chanting to myself "sheets, sheets, sheets" like I'm at a Martha Stewart concert as I reach the sheet section. What size do I need? Um, it's a pillow and a half wide. Let me go to the pillows to get a measurement. 

I found a nice pillow over there. My old one is pretty flimsy now so I'd better just buy a new one. I'm all proud of myself as I get to the register. "Molly is gonna be excited, you even got a new pillow to go with your..." Shit. Forgot the sheets again. How can this be so HARD?! Focus, man! 

Back to the sheet aisle. Found them. I'll just go with Full size. I'm a full sized guy, why not. So I read the package to make sure it has everything I need (like I'd know the difference)..."fitted sheet, flat sheet, 2 pillow cases. Awesome. Wait. Where'd the pillow go? Did you seriously just lose the pillow from the register to here? You're an idiot, I swear." Back to the pillow aisle. Found one a bit bigger than the one I had a minute ago. Time to go check out. 

I wait in line, put my new black sheets on the counter and my new pillow. Right next to the one I'd apparently left up there. Oops. It's alright, I like the bigger one. Molly has big pillows on her truck, I'll just try to make my bed look like hers. (That's like saying I'm gonna make a pig look like a Cheetah).

Back across the parking lot to the truck. I start pulling stuff off the foot of my bed and stack it neatly in the crate. The plan is to put the crate at the foot of the bed all tidy and shit. Good plan. Except when I start I realize one crate isn't nearly enough. 

Back to K Mart. Thank God it's close. Crates, Christian. You need like 2 more at least. They're by the pillows. Get in, get out. Standard extraction plan. You've got a black one so grab another black one and 2 red ones. Don't go all black, you're not Johnny Cash or some emo goth kid. Oh look, they have little ones too. I'm sure those'll come in handy. Grab a couple of those. Now don't look at anything else; just go up front and pay. You've still got work to do. 

So I get back to my truck. Everything is going smoothly. Stuff is either in the trash or in a crate. Look at me go! Alright, pick up the mattress and clean under it. Can't hurt. 

Time for the sheets. That's when things get complicated. 

There was an all out fight. Round one went to the fitted sheet. Apparently there's a lengthwise and a sideways. They should label them because you can only put them on lengthwise. I tried like hell but they just won't fit any other way. The mattress in my truck is fairly thin. Put the sheets on wrong and they will literally slap you in the face. I know this for fact now. Twice. And so will the mattress. How humiliating. 

Round two. I'd call that one a draw. Sure, the sheet stayed on but now my mattress looked like some four-cornered bowl. No way could I sleep on that. If it was waterproof I'd have been able to bathe in it. 

Round three. I was soaked in sweat like I'd just finished bailing hay. There was definitely some severe name calling involved though. At one point I thought I was gonna have to perform an atomic elbow drop from the top rope like a pro wrestler. Finally I emerged victorious. "Grog may need a beer now." Grog was seriously considering shots at this point. 

Flat sheet? Easy peasy. I even put my quilt on top and made it look nice. Then I started putting my crates in place. I'd been careful to get interlocking ones so they'd stay put when I drive. In theory. I'll know in a day or so. 

Alright. Now to apply pillow cases and I can relax. This is the home stretch! I get my comfy looking new pillow out of its secure case. It was all zippered into a bag that had a handle. Presumably this thing was intended to be carry on luggage I guess. "Pillow, meet your new home. This is my bed. That's where you'll be serving your life sentence. Since you came in a bag I'm gonna put you in a pillow case. Don't worry, it's black so you won't have to worry about the light anymore." (Don't judge me for talking to my new pillow, I was teetering on insanity by then).

What the shit?! This pillow case is too small. Well the other one is the same size. I'll try anyway. Yep, about 3-4 inches of pillow sticks out. Well shit. 

So I march back over to K Mart. Straight to the pillow aisle. Look, there's pillow cases but they're all white. And they all have zippers. Whatever, they show them on pillows and that's what I need. I'll take one. 

Back to the truck. I open the package, lay the "pillow encasement" next to the pillow. Yeah, they really called it a "pillow encasement" like it's for security and stuff. This damn thing is the same size as what I already had. Is this a joke?! 

Now I'm practically stomping back over to K Mart. The one cashier they had working was surely beginning to think I was casing the joint. I go back to the sheet section trying to figure out where I've failed. I find "extra long fitted sheets" (that would've come in handy an hour ago) and "extra long flat sheets" but no "extra long pillow cases". I looked up and down both aisles. Right about the time I'm thinking it'd just be easier to set fire to my bed I see a lady shopping an aisle over. Reinforcements! 

I approach her, probably looking like I'm about as lost as a cat in a doghouse. "Ma'am can you help me? I'll be honest, I have no idea what I'm doing." Fortunately, she was rather kind. "I'll do my best. What are you looking for?"

"Well, I bought this pillow but the pillow cases that came with the sheets are too small."

"So you bought a body pillow? Let's go see if we can find pillow cases for a body pillow." And away we go. She knew right where everything was. "Is this what you're looking for?"

"I have no idea anymore. I don't know what kind of pillow I got. I was trying to be fancy like my girlfriend. She's got a bunch of different sized pillows."

"Well, did you buy it here? Yes? Good. Let's go over there and you just show me which one you bought and we will go from there." Off to pillow land we went. Boy, I'm sure getting my cardio today. But we found it. Then...she made me feel even dumber than I already did. She flips the package over. "King size". Right there, plain as day. 

"So does this mean I've gotta buy king size sheets? My bed certainly isn't that big. What've I DONE?" 

Turns out there's a section to buy just King size pillow cases. So she took me over there. She was even kind enough to name the colors as she pointed to each of them. Clearly I'd come across as mentally deficient. Ordinarily I'd have been offended but I had no defense since I was too stupid to figure out to look at the package to begin with. 

Now I've got 3 pillows on my bed, each nestled in its own case. My bed is made, my stuff organized back here and I finally put on a movie. My "10 minute chore" only took 2 1/2 hours. I told Molly I completed my task and sent pictures. "Proof of life". 

We FaceTimed and I talked her through my torment as I showed her my crate system and made bed. She periodically gave me that "you're a big, dumb animal but I love you" look and even told me she was proud of me. She smiled. Suddenly it was all worth it. I think I've decided I'm just gonna buy another blanket and sleep on top of the sheets. No way am I fighting this bed again. It'll just stay made. And I think half of my task was intended to see if I could figure my way around the "domestication" section of the store. 

There should be a separate customer service counter where males can rent guides to help them buy this stuff. Like at the mall where you rent strollers but with females. "Cindy, you're up. Take this guy shopping. He has a list his Significant Other sent him with. Look at him, he's already got that deer in headlights look."