Warning: Not To Be Used As A Security Device

If you haven't read today's earlier post, this video and the associated comments won't make any sense to you. This assumes that anything I write ever makes any sense... which is debatable.

Anyway, this is actual video that I shot while the silver SUV was in our driveway, and our door had just been knocked upon. Notice Brody's vehement reaction... one might assume of a protective nature. If nothing else, he's loud.

See? Who could get anywhere near our house? Like, to toilet paper our trees, trash cans, and mailbox? As it turns out... pretty much anybody, as long as they come at night.

I am reminded of the pool rafts that have the warning label: Not to be used as an emergency flotation device.

BroZarkWin: Not to be used as a home security device.

And now we know.

I Knew I Needed A Moat

(This marks the 500th edition of Fermented Fur. Somehow I expected such a momentous post to be on a more meaningful topic, but such is my life.)

I woke up at 4:30. As in, A.M. On a Sunday. Which is all kinds of wrong. My brain started doing its "revving and stuck in first gear" thing, and I knew sleepy-time was over. I was thinking about work stuff, chaos in friends' lives, my first book, the new book, and the fact that Tom had to go to work this morning and I had no idea if the alarm was set and would be blaring at me at any moment.

I tossed and turned till 5:30, then got up to feed BroZarkWin. It was still dark, the eastern sky beginning to show a rosy glow. I started coffee, fed the dogs, and went out on the deck for a few minutes, trying to convince myself that the cool tranquility of a Sunday morning was a good thing, much better than being snuggled in my oh-so-comfy bed. I was only partially successful.

When I came in, Tom was in the bathroom, and I parked myself on the Sofur, checking email and Facebook. Dawn was breaking. A short while later, Tom wandered into the living room. We had the following conversation:

Tom: You're up early.
Me: I've been awake since 4:30. My brain wouldn't let me sleep any more. Stupid brain.
Tom: That's too bad.
Me: It's OK. I plan to punish it later. (With sweet tea vodka. Take that, brain!)
Tom: (Approaches the front window and peers outside) Um, why do we have toilet paper in our trees?

There was really no way to answer that question.

Sure enough, two of the giant trees in our front yard, a pine and a maple, both well over 50 feet tall, were festooned with un-festive toilet paper streamers. Oh, and also our mailbox and trash cans.

My first action? Post this news on Facebook, then Google how to get toilet paper out of trees. Of course. Then I glared at BroZarkWin. Or, as they shall henceforth be known, The Worst Guard Dogs In The History of Ever.

These dogs reach galactic levels of hysteria if a bike passes the house. If they see another dog, our windows get slathered in bark-spit, and window handles get chewed. Brody frequently gets up there and barks maniacally just in case he missed something.

I guess this only takes place during daylight hours. Huh.

I've always asserted that we could sleep in absolute security, because there was no way anybody could get near our house, let alone break in, with BroZarkWin here. I will now have to reevaluate that opinion. Because it seems my "guard dogs" clock out when we go to bed.

I am not under the impression that toilet-paperers are particularly stealthy. I envision giggling, whispered comments and instruction, and general scuttling around. Yet they remained undetected by our furry security system. Which is apparently defective.

Question: Who toilet papers houses?
Answer: Teenagers

I do not know any teenagers. I haven't had a conversation with any of our neighbors since sometime last summer. Like, summer 2009. And none of them have teenagers, unless they've recently bought some on eBay. Our friend T has teenagers, but they live 12 miles away, are out of high school, and wouldn't do this kind of stupid shit anyway. I have not even spoken to an actual teenager... um... since The Boy was one. (He is 26.)

There was that silver SUV in my driveway yesterday, though. Someone knocked at the door. BroZarkWin (well, not so much the "win" part) went batshit, barking and clawing at the window. I, as usual, did not answer the door. I have not answered the door in response to an unsolicited knock in 14 years. Not about to start now. Eventually, the bark-bait left.

Current theory: The knocker of doors was with the local football team, and the purpose of their unacknowledged knocking was a fundraiser. My failure to answer the door resulted in no funds. They did not like this. So they went to Cub, purchased a 4-roll pack of Cottonelle, and paid us a visit.

I can't imagine any other reason for such juvenile vandalism.

(Side note: The entire varsity football team is currently under suspension while the police investigate allegations of hazing... so I guess they didn't have anything else to do.)

Tom and I ventured outside and began removing the biodegradable insult from our towering foliage. We were able to get about 75% of it. Tip for aspiring delinquent assholes: Use the cheap stuff. It tears when you try to untangle it from branches. Higher quality toilet paper holds up better, making the clean-up easier for your victims.

Tom also pointed out that it was a fairly amateurish attempt. Two of the rolls still had a significant amount of un-deployed paper on them. Pretty wasteful for the budget-conscious vandal.

It's supposed to rain in a couple of days, which I imagine will take care of the residual mess. At least there were no beer bottles or used condoms.

Then Tom went to work, and I have to have a long talk with BroZarkWin. They're going to have to start sleeping in shifts, or learn how to get toilet paper out of trees. And somehow I know that Tom is eventually going to arrive at the conclusion that if I'd only let him get that helper-monkey, tree-toilet-paper removal would be a snap.

It's A... Chair?

We have had guests from out of town all week. This presents a number of challenges, one of which is what to do while they're here. We don't go out often, since I'm a total hermit and don't tend to enjoy things that involve being in the presence of others. Also, I don't like to do too much walking, or be too hot or too cold, or use any bathroom other than my own. So, "activity director" isn't a job any rational person would give me.

We went to the Mall of America ("Hell On Earth") on Monday. I ended up with (self-diagnosed) hip dysplasia, no skin on the back of my left foot, a mild panic attack, and a really cool shirt. There is something seriously wrong, though, with any shopping establishment large enough to have a full amusement park in it.

(I mean, really... do we need to encourage more people to bring badly-behaved children out in public?)

But on Wednesday night, I had an idea that turned out great. For me. Which is all that matters. I discovered that Tom's sister likes antique stores, and there happens to be a nice one near the pub where we were going to have dinner. I hadn't been there in a few years, and I was on the hunt for various things.

• Old, scary-looking, stabby-type knives to use to make a butcher knife chandelier for my future Writing Lair
  
• Unusual little bits of pottery (for no apparent reason other than I like them)
• Books that I used to have when I was a kid
  
• Pretty antique desk for my future Writing Lair
• Interesting pieces of Fostoria glassware, American pattern, that I don't already have

But then I saw it. It was not on my mental scavenger hunt list, but there it was. The world's ugliest-yet-most-wonderful chair. It's probably from about the 1950s or so. Wine-red crushed velvet with wood accents. My grandmother used to have a couch and a chair very similar to this chair, but they were purple. I loved that prickly-pettable couch.

And now I was in love with this chair. Completely. I must have this chair.

Look at it. Isn't it gorgeous/hideous? It's sitting there in the store begging me to take it home and love it. Notice matching pillow on the wicker sofa next to it.

I sat in it. Its aging springs sagged and went "sproing" a little bit, but that only made me love it more. I sat there a while longer. Then I got up and took this picture. Then I sat back down and sent the picture to Facebook. Then I texted Tom (who was elsewhere in the store) and told him I was sitting in my new chair. He knew what that meant. He replied, "Let's go."

Ha. Did he think that getting me out of the store would make me forget my chair? We went across the street to dinner. Then we went home. Then Tom got tired of listening to me worry about my chair all alone in the store, and how devastating it would be if someone else bought it. Then Tom went and got my chair and the matching pillow because he loves me, and he also has a low annoyance threshold when I get all obsessive. In return, I had to promise to play Wii Bowling with him and the guests later in the evening, with absolutely no bitching, whining, moaning, or complaining.

(Side note: I totally kicked ass at Wii Bowling, most likely because I got to sit in my great new chair between frames. This chair might be magic.)

The velvet of the chair is exactly like the fabric on a lint brush, which means it would attract and trap dog hair like no other piece of furniture on the planet. So it is down in the family room, which we keep blocked off from BroZarkWin.

(Ah. Safe and sound at home. And the matching pillow... has tassles! Tassles!!!)

In keeping with my compulsion tradition of naming significant inanimate objects, such as George-the-Kindle and Elroy-the-HTC-EVO-Smartphone, I knew this new family member needed a name. Red Velvet Throne was too obvious. And boring.

The Lair Chair. Because it will eventually live in my Writing Lair, when I have one.

That's the thing about antique shops. You might think you're looking for certain things, but then you see the one thing you didn't know you had to have... until you saw it.