I have a phobia about inviting people in my home. Not because these two critters aren’t hospitable, it’s just that there’s no place for a person to sit without getting covered in dog hair.
You know those signs, T-shirts, and dish towels that say “No outfit is complete without dog hair”? That pretty much describes my wardrobe. I’ve accepted this. I’m okay with it.
Reusable grocery bags are a problem, though, because there’s no hair-free place to keep them in my car. I used to have a plastic tote where I kept the bags, along with my outdoor gear for work, but that was when I only had one enormous dog. I removed the tote to make room for Mia.
A grocery checker sneered at me once and said she could refuse to use my bags because they’re a health hazard. Lady, you think I don’t know my hairy reusable bags are disgusting? Lately I’ve just been paying the extra five cents for paper bags. I’ve tried washing the reusable bags, but the dog hair is stuck in there pretty good. I’d throw them away, but that seems wasteful. Guess I should get a different style of bag.
I used to vacuum my car before having it serviced, but somewhere along the line, I decided to own it. This is the Pacific Northwest! Our cars are dirty! Our dogs are big!
I had to make a repeat visit to the dealer this week because my dashboard lights went screwy after I had two bulbs replaced. (Boy, was that a waste of money. In hindsight, I would rather have burned out defrost and A/C lights than pay $120 in labor to have the guy futz back there, bump my other bulbs and make then go out intermittently. My car may be filthy, the interior chewed up by dogs, but apparently I’ll throw money away on superficial things under the naive impression I’m taking good care of my vehicle.) Usually, I don’t even see the mechanic who works on my car. When I pick up my car, it’s cheerfully waiting for me in the parking lot.
This time, the mechanic called me back to the inner sanctum to show me that my dashboard lights up just fine. And if it goes out, just give it a smack. Then he sent me out the front door while he drove my car around.
When he climbed out of my car, he quite conspicuously brushed off his pant legs. Because what could be more repugnant than having dog hair transfer from the seat of my car to his mechanic’s uniform?
Have you ever felt so completely shed shamed?