Oh, shit.

We've been experiencing some inclement weather here in California for the past couple of days.
I don't know about you, but as a Californian girl, it seems like the world isn't right when it rains.
It's the kind of weather that makes you sluggish, but moreso, it justifies your sluggishness.
The kind of weather that makes you muse and brood.
The kind of weather that makes you want to put on some Coldplay or something lightly depressing, like Jewel -- and just watch the palm trees outside sway in weeping agony, colliding with the tiny droplets on your windows.
I created my own miniature tsunami with my car yesterday, by driving into a puddle, the size of which, I'm sure was inspired by the Atlantic.
I think I've mentioned here on multiple occasions how eerily in sync my mind and body seem to be with the weather. It's not that whenever it's sunny that I'm overjoyed, it's just that grey skies make the world seem (to me) a little dimmer. . . even though weather has really nothing to do with the state of the world.

The world, I've found, is always shitty.
And what have you got to do?
Deal with it.
A lesson I had to learn the hard way.

Feeling a bit under the weather last night, I decided that I needed company sleeping in my dark, cold room. So I freed Sakura from her prison in the downstairs laundry room and brought her upstairs with me. As I wept slow, rather poetic tears to the cadence of the rain beating down, I thought it would be equally poetic to have Sakura at the foot of my bed. But my life wasn't meant for poetry because she walked all over me before immediately jumping off. Defeated, I still wound up sleeping cold and alone, and on top off that, in a bed that was rejected by an animal who would usually happily sleep in mud.

I woke up to the sound of her collar jingling and incessant panting. I turned to see what the noise was all about and I saw her sniffing and pawing at a pair of leggings that I had tossed on the floor the night before. Groggy and sleepy-eyed, I brusquely shouted for her to stop pawing, and she jumped, two paws resting at the edge of my bed. But the noises didn't stop. So I rose from my sleep, put my glasses on, and, it was then that the situation presented itself in full clarity: she had defecated all over my room. Yep. I woke up to a roomful of fresh, steaming dog shit. My jaw dropped. The tights that I had seen her pawing at before, she was really using to cover up a pile. A couple of inches away, she had dragged one of my shoes to cover another merciless pile, and next to it, droplets led to pieces of paper she had cleverly placed to hide a mound. The whole display looked like a tribute to the Polynesian islands. Brown landmarks, among a sea of white carpet.-- the last artful addition was a mammoth of a poo -- left right by my bedside. As though it were saying, "Good f*cking morning, Tiffany!"

Furious beyond belief, with sleep still calling me to return, I tried to assess the situation. Well really, there wasn't anything to assess. My room was covered in shit, and I needed to clean it up. The alternative was going back to sleep, as the pungent smell of my dog's excrement crept into my dreams, beat my dog silly for not being able to control her obviously troubled bowels, or just cry. The first didn't seem physically possible, the second seemed feasible, but in the end, the shit would still be there, and the third just didn't seem very promising either.


So the moral of the story is. . .
When you have to deal with shit, you deal with it.


Also. . .
don't let your stingy asian mother feed your dog 5 year old cat food (left from a cat that ran away) because she was too lazy to go buy more dog food.

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