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Tuesday, September 17, 2013

The story of my Blog: Where the name comes from

It has been sometime since I've posted anything on my personal blog.  Lack of insipration?  Nah, not really, I've been busy.  Occupied with things that kept me from jotting down my ideas.  I'm happy to say, I'm back in the game!  This entry is entirely centered around why my blog is named what it is.  True story.  I can't make these things up.  Hope you enjoy!

The following story is true; the names have been changed to well, you get the idea.

When I opened the door to her apartment it was as if someone slapped me in the face with a two-by-four of stench.   

Alexa and I had been dating for somewhere around three months.  She was an interesting girl that I had thought was smart.  Clearly I was wrong.

Coming out of a number of relationships that seemed more like an episode of a sitcom than real life, I can’t say that this, in the long run, really surprised me.

It was late summer, right before the beginning of September.  The leaves were getting ready to change, the hot days were beginning to vanish and most importantly the school year was about to begin. 

One afternoon while hanging out in her apartment that she newly moved into she asked me “would you wanna go shopping with me for school stuff?”  Alexa attended Penn State, she was an English major, and this is another reason why I felt she was smart.  Over the years I’ve found that these people are anything but that. 

They seem to carry an arrogance with them that can never be explained.  As if they are entitled to something.  Let me tell you, Alexa fit this to a Tee.  Half of our arguments ended because I got sick of her correcting my grammar.

I decided to accept her offer of school shopping as I was headed back for the fall semester as well.  The date was set and we were supposed to meet up the next day, after she got out of work.  I assured her I would be there no later than four o’clock. 

On the way down to her apartment I took the time to call her and let her know about what time I would be arriving.  She simply said, “Okay! Just let yourself in, I’ll be in the shower.”  Who the hell leaves the door unlocked while showering?  To me this just seems like a bad idea, no matter what way you slice it. 

When I arrived I began the long trudge up the stairs to Alexa’s second story apartment.  They were the sort of steps that were sideways because they were built over 30 years ago.  The kind that throw you off when walking up them, mostly because every third one is a different size.

I climbed to the top and walked through the door.  That is when the stench hit me.  The only way I can describe the smell is by a combination of week old garbage, shit and barbeque Fritos.

It.

Was.

Un.

Bearable.

Have you ever smelled something so bad that it made your head hurt?  I have.  And this was the day it happened.  Couple the stench with the fact that it was 85 degrees out that day and you literally had a perfect storm for stank.

As a man I find myself with a constant need to fix problems.  It’s what we do; we are just wired that way.  Right?  Since Alexa was still in the shower, I took it upon myself to pinpoint the problem and eliminate it.  This way I could stand tall in front of my girlfriend by proclaiming, “I have fixed the problem!”  Sort of like that scene in Castaway, the movie featuring Tom Hanks.  When he finally started the fire and ran around screaming, “I have made fire! I, MAN, have made fire!” 

I began searching the rooms, one by one, determined to find the source of this evil stench.  Walking around checking many different places, I found myself legitimately sniffing the air, much like a dog would do.

In the kitchen, I sniffed in the fridge, which smelled surprisingly okay.  Moved over to the garbage can and even sniffed that!  Nope.  Even the garbage smelled better than the migraine-causing odor.

 Exhausted, I slumped down into the couch.  I had failed.  I failed to fix the problem.  I had single handedly let down my grandfathers, father, friends and the entire male race.  Way to go Russ.

Luckily I remembered the bottle of Febreeze I had purchased for Alexa earlier in the month.  I purchased this item for her for one simple reason.  She had a dog.  A dog that constantly went to the bathroom on the carpet, as it was never properly housetrained. 

I’m told that you should only scold a dog immediately after it goes to the bathroom.  Then clean it up and spray it with some sort of scent masking spray.  Thus the reason for the Febreeze. 

I grabbed the bottle and began to walk around the apartment, spraying the odor-eliminating liquid into the air.  All this was an attempt to mask the smell that was plaguing the apartment.  What was this smell?  How in gods name did Alexa not notice it? 

When I finished and had the apartment smelling slightly better than it was, I was able to again fall into the couch and wait for Alexa to finish her shower.  Not long after I heard the water turn off and the sound of rings clinking together as the shower curtain slid open.

When she opened the door, Alexa was still drying her hair with a towel.  She looked at me on the couch and said “Hi.”  I waved back and she began to walk across the room towards her bedroom.  Around the halfway point of her journey I mustered up the phrase, “Hey, can I ask you a serious question?”  To which she said, “yes.” 

Alexa stopped at the door of her bedroom.  Still drying her hair.  I can still see the sort of turban she had made out of the towel.  Rubbing the towel into her scalp trying to dry her long blonde hair.

At this point my filter is off.  Why?  Because how in the hell do you not notice a scent this bad? 

I guess that’s why the next phrase came as no surprise to me.  I looked at her and said, “What.  The fuck.  Is that smell?” 

Much to my surprise she responded calmly with, “Oh, it’s probably the garbage.”  Now I knew it wasn’t, so I furthered the conversation by adding, “It’s not the garbage, I know this because I smelled the garbage.” 

Just before she shut the door to her bedroom.  She said, “Well it must be the dog poop over by sink.”  The door shut.

What?

How?

Where?

Now I was worried.  I was over by the sink! You know the way people always check their shoes after they step in shit?  Lifting each foot to check.  That was me. Only picture me doing it while sitting on the couch.

Both shoes, there was nothing there.  I went to the sink and checked the floor, nothing there.  I checked the entire kitchen floor.  Nothing.  What in the hell was she talking about?  There was no dog poop.  I was baffled. 

All there was left to do was wait.  Wait for Alexa to come out of the bedroom and have her explain to me what she meant.  I sat on the couch and waited.  It must have been the longest five minutes on the planet.  I began to zone out, thinking about all the possibilities that it could be.  After what seemed like an eternity, my consciousness came rushing back to me all at once.  When the door swung open and she said, “What’s up?” 

            I looked at her and wondered how she didn’t know what was up.  The smell, that’s what’s up.  I immediately sprang forth with “What do you mean dog poop?”

            She seemed to be taken back with me asking.  Sorry babe, I need to know.  She responded with, “It’s over by the sink.”  No it wasn’t I was sure of this again, because I checked it.  I am a very thorough researcher.

            I felt like a detective questioning a criminal, or a lawyer question the all-star witness.  The spot light was on her and I was going to get the answers I wanted.  The answers I NEEDED. 

            “There is nothing over by the sink,” I said.  Alexa looked at me as if I just insulted her grandmother.  She looked almost disappointed.  Looking back at it now, I don’t think she was disappointed in me for asking, but more so with her self for not handling the issue.

            Alexa put her hands on her hips, slumped to one side and let out a long drawn out sigh.  “It’s under the sink,” she said.  “In the cabinet.”  Excuse me?  What did she mean the dog shit was in the cabinet?  My whole world was thrown askew. 

            She then began to explain the story to me.  She was running late for work.  At that time she was working part-time at a local grocery store.  She had just enough time to get into the car and head to work, however there was one problem.  Her dog, Stella, took a number two on the floor. 

            Alexa was now presented with a problem.  A problem that really only has one solution.  Granted there are a number of ways she could have reached her solution, but she decided to choose the most wrong way I can possibly think of.

            Ideas like picking it up with toilet paper and flushing it down the toilet, or scooping it into a bag and throwing it outside never dawned on her.  Instead she decided to grab a bathroom towel and use it as a pooper-scooper.  Alexa then placed the towel into a plastic bag and put it in the cabinet under the sink.  She explained that way she could dispose of it easily after work. 

            Is this real life?  What bizzaro world does she live in that made that seem like a good idea?  This is where the argument began. 

            There are a number of unexplained mysteries on the Earth.  Easter Island, crop circles and even the Pyramids of Egypt, but there is no greater mystery than how much a woman can love her stupid dog. 

            Don’t get me wrong, I own dogs, I love my dogs, but there is something different about a woman and a dog.  That dog could be the worst behaved mutt on the face of the planet, but it is still “Mommy’s widdle baby!”  I’ve literally heard women describe their dogs as smart, only to witness them run into the wall or chase their tails.  I’ve been in a number of relationships since this and frankly I’ve seen this almost every time. 

            Women love dogs.  Period.  You are better off if you don’t question why.  And for the love of god, don’t ever.  EVER.  Insult the stupid dog. 

            This is where I wish I had my own advice years ago.  Then again, don’t we all?  All the time?

            I made the mistake of mentioning how maybe she should get rid of her dog if she doesn’t know how to take care of it.  Talk about throwing rocks at a hornet’s nest. 

Direct Hit!

“Don’t tell me how to live my life!” she said.  “I’ll put dog shit in the oven if I want to!”  I responded snappily with, “that’s a bad idea, it will probably melt.”

Apparently this was one of those times where my sarcasm only added fuel to the fire.  The more wise-ass comments I added, the more pissed off she became.  After all, I was right.  Right?

            Of course I was, how can expect to win an argument when you put a turd in a cabinet.  Let me tell you, there is something extremely gratifying about having already won an argument and not even needing to prove your points.

            The door slammed again.  I was alone again, with the stench.  As I sat in the chair thinking about what I’m going to do now I couldn’t help but laugh at the situation. 

            After later explaining this story to family and friends, by the way it’s a real party favorite, I realized how that was one of the rare times where I was actually on the right side of an argument with a girl.

            Needless to say Alexa and I broke up not to long after the “shit in the cabinet” incident.


I’ve had my fair share of relationships.  I’ve had love and lost it, I’ve been the “other guy”, and even had my heart broken.  No matter what I encounter in the future, my relationship with Alexa was undoubtedly the shittiest relationship I’ve ever had. To this day, whenever I introduce a girl to my mother, she always gets me on the side and asks me, “She doesn’t put shit in her cabinets, does she?”  

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