Once in a while, I re-up a subscription to one of those monthly boxes of random fun stuff, just because who doesn’t like getting a box of something NOT bills in the mail?
This month, it was a witchybox full of various pagan bits and pieces (um, let’s be clear I mean bits and pieces of things that are often associated with witches and pagans, not bits and pieces OF a pagan…that’d be gross, and way messier than this box turned out to be).
Ragnar apparently thought the box smelled fascinating. Therefore, Ragnar ripped the box apart in the middle of my office floor when I was in another room.
Interestingly, there was some incense, some bath salts (the sort for bathing in, not the sort that turn a person into a face-eating zombie), a candle or two, a set of Tarot Cards…and the ONLY thing he destroyed was the box the cards came in. My wall-eating, shoe-devouring, garbage destroying dog OPENED the jar of bath salt and very carefully didn’t eat any, and left everything else alone.
I’m fairly certain that box came with some sort of anti-dog-destruction spell, and it seems to be persistent.
Last night I used some of the salts. I usually leave the bathroom door open a little so they don’t scratch at it when I’m in a bath, and Ragar slammed his way enthusiastically into the room per usual. Then he stopped, all four legs went completely stiff, his hackles went up just a little, and he stared in horrified disbelief. Seriously, his message “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” was crystal clear, and hilarious. He wouldn’t come near the bathtub, and jumped back if I moved the water. He made a ridiculous whine/growl noise and ran out of the room.
You guys, I’m not kidding: he went to get Angus. My dog tattled on me for being in the bathtub, and brought the actual ruler of the household in to check. Ragnar stayed over a foot away from the tub while Angus jumped on the side, licked my knee, batted the water a little, and settled there to watch floating lavender bits. It’s possible he stuck his face in the water and sneezed. I was laughing too hard to be certain.
Ragnar continued his protest by lying on the bathroom floor and keeping both eyes on us, clearly worried the horrible water monster would kill us both. He grumbled like an old man for the entire time.
He also ate both of my last two pairs of sunglasses recently: he gets zero sympathy.
In other news, I’m taking my open-water scuba diving certification dives this weekend. In order to do said dives, I’m required to go to the scuba shop and try on wetsuits (because it’s September in MN and lakes are starting to cool off, especially at 20 feet down).
Have you ever tried on a wetsuit? I mean the 7mm version, not the cute skinny 3mm half suits used for warm weather/warm water stuff. Have you ever tried to pull on a pair of tights that REFUSE to allow you to pull them all the way up so the crotch is, well, in the crotch? It’s infinitely harder to do when the fucking tights are weird rubbery material that squishes under your fingers and doesn’t move much.
WHO INVENTED THIS FRESH HELL? Seriously, I’d like to put the wetsuit creator in the same room as the dipshit who invented thong underwear or control-top pantyhose and beat them all with something humiliating. Like a giant dildo.
I’m 6′ tall, and I’m not one of those willowy thin tall chicks. Wrangling my buns into that thing involved flailing, heavy breathing, sweating, swearing, and eventually falling over like a damn drunk walrus. And having dropped off my yoga practice and not having any natural contortionist ability, I had to leave the dressing room and get help to zip it up. Since I wasn’t actually GOING diving, I wasn’t in a swimsuit – awesome.
I have to do this tomorrow and Sunday in front of people…if I don’t cause the rest of the divers to fall overboard and drown from laughing too hard, I deserve a goddamned medal.