Dog Day's Springtime Happy Poo... and Other Hilarious Names Probably Used for Japanese TV Shows

It could have been one of those perfect days.
 I just came back from one great motorcycle ride through a misty morning and into an absolutely picture perfect afternoon.  Sweeping backroads.  Seeing acquaintances at Miss Blue's Diner in Hundred, WV.  Hours of tantalizing fun and speed filled meditation.
I came home and our daughter was already bathed - and she greeted me with one of those Hallmark runs down the hallway that always gets my heart thumping warmly.  My wife had one of those sunshine smiles that causes global warming. 
I was tired, but for this I could blow the stink off and keep my eyes wide open for as long as they could stand it.
The plans were simple enough: shower, eat a nice dinner, watch a fun kid's movie, put our little girl to bed and then Kristi and I could have the evening to ourselves - to look into each other's eyes and giggle over a glass or two of wine.
Our daughter made the family decision, and understanding that she was perfect that day, we allowed for it. She wanted for us all to go for a walk around the neighborhood - including of course Madison, our dog.  The movie was okay, but a perfect finish to a perfect day sounded great.
Now, I have never been nervous about taking both Madison and our little girl out around the neighborhood just by ourselves, though Kristi will not do it.  So all of us together made complete sense. 
It could have been one of those perfect days.
Taking Madison out for a walk, when there are a million scents in the air is more like taking her out for a sniff, it is a long, long mile.  Every blade of grass must be carefully analysed and then peed on.  Our daughter is about the same, minus the "spotting".
At one property (normally 20 seconds from our front door to reach) a big, chocolate brown lab, somewhat disturbed came barreling out of the homeowner's front porch and is on Madison.  Madison's fur stood up like a fish dorsal fin, in protection mode; she is super-protective and does not get along with other dogs.
The owner, a BC overweight woman, came heavily bounding down her front porch.  She anxiously explained that she didn't know how he got out of the house.  Drrrrrr.
We continued walking.  My normal scowl, which Kristi recognizes right away, appeared as the two littlest Harpers needed to examine Spring, in the slowest form ever. 
I pulled Madison.  And our daughter did not want to walk anymore, and did not want to go home either - ah - the great toddler mind. 
On the Atlantic Avenue, a nicer part of our neighborhood, we continued.  We passed by one fella, who his garage door opened to reveal a garage that was more crammed with crap than our own.  I commented. 
As we moved on.  The following house had recently been gutted and the remains of the garbage sat regally out on the owner's front lawn for all to gaze upon.  The owners and friends drank out on the back porch overlooking the Ohio River, when suddenly a doberman pinscher came bounding out to the front yard in full battle mode.
Now, Madison is 40 pouinds of friendly, but you get that "dorsal fin" up, and all bets are off. 
The doberman and Madison are at it.  One lady, BC large, came running out of the backyard, I am certain she handed her Ir'n City off to one of the "men" in the backyard, who either could not be bothered or were filming.
"My dog is friendly."
My dog is not!
The "friendly" dog grabbed the back of Maddie's neck, which is a thickly furred mane of hair.  Kristi threw our daughter up on her shoulders.  I farted around excitedly trying to retract the stupid "autoleash retracting thingamabob".  Grace had allowed our dog to not only break free of the "friendly" doberman's jaws but she sank her teeth into its neck. 
Now, I know better than to get in between two fur-flying mongrels, but I grabbed the doberman by the back of the head, and I drove it with my knee to the cement sidewalk, so that the owner in all of her sobriety could grab it. 
We walked away very quickly with this woman staring angrily at us.
Kristi used language that I never heard from her mouth before.
Our daughter crossed Atlantic, with absolutely no regard for any traffic, and this got me growling - as I am still in adrenalized defense mode.  (Ladies, if your man is in adrenalized defense mode, please, give him a beer and say nothing, he will be scowling for days otherwise.)
And Maddie, shook and forgot all about it.  As though nothing happened.
Here's the ridiculousness in summary:  Hours of really awesome fun, crescendoing to a welcome home filled with pomp that only kings should be lucky enough to receive, smiles, sunshine - and 1 tiny minute of turd to ruin it all.

I should have been a dog.

I'm not a Number

What in the world is going on in my country?
Since the country's beginnings, we were joyously given an opportunity to follow happenstance, and our educations, guts and intuitive capabilities allowed us to go forward to pursue our own place in society or farther.  Individuals - with beliefs that could reason, and now especially in an age where most certainly those with differing views, skin-tones and sexes can make a difference - make a name.
And yet throughout the Americas, groups of people have deemed themselves numbers or percentages, and perhaps this to belong to a collective - to give themselves a "small-group" in which that number could have significance; a big fish in a small pond.
Our country has grown in population, but why does that have to diminish the individual to a numeric category. 

• I am the 99%.
• I am the 53%.

Cliches. 
Americans have lost their creativity, so much so that names do not matter unless one is at the top of his economic or political ladder.  Washington DC (which by the way has the richest population per capita in the United States) and the banks do not care about any single one of us, unless we are voting for them or buying into their loans. 
The difference of course between the two of these entities is that one group can either lie or backtrack on their promises, and the other one, in order to save its slimy scales, will word contracts that we willingly sign in the "lawyer-speak" - thereby making it difficult to understand, nudging gently into agreeing with what in hindsight is completely ludacris; the word "mortgage" means "til death".
One more word regarding banks, especially those who promise school loans, car loans and mortgages - read the words (the fine print too - and I know that it's hard to understand) and then remember this "Caveat Emptor".  Difficult?  Don't sign!
I am not a number.
I wake up 4 or 5 depending upon what days I am opening the business.  And work 50 to 60 hours a week.  My wife, who I love more than bread, works another job, which actually helps our business.  I do not have cable or satelite TV.  I pay my mortgage.  I pay my dang'on student loan to a company that I paid for that is now being handled by some jackass that lives in Pakistan.  We have health insurance, it's bloody expensive, but it beats the alternative.  My health care plan is exercise and restraint. We give personally and through the business to countless organizations throughout the community including to public school systems whose unions are among the strongest and hungriest in the country.  We pay a lot in taxes and with more than ten employees are constantly under scrutiny and unwarranted tax obligations and adjustments. 
I probably belong to a number or a percentage.  I just don't care to know what it is.
I am not a number.
- neither are you.  So stop acting like it!

Very Vexed by Vasoline

Abby is a doll and she's smart too.  Sometimes, I think, she is maybe a little too smart, and I think that perhaps a little more SpongeBob and a lot less reading and outside fun is a great idea.  You take that intellect and tag on a strong will to never ever nap - even when daddy is begging her to, then you have an issue which if left unattended can leave you with loads of trouble, or should I say a tub of...
Abby.  It's time for a nap.
"No no no!"  She replies with a musical lilt.
It's time.  Let's go.
"No!"  Less musical, more emphatic.
One.  Two.  Thr...
Up the stairs to her bedroom she advances like a midget on the sands of Normandy,  because she realizes that "three" means I carry her and close the door sans story and song. 
"You go second!"  She instructs me pointing to the bottom of the steps.  And honestly, at this point I don't really care - as long she gets up to her room for her nap.
Blinds drawn blissfully making the room dark but for the few patterns of light shining through the little slats.
"It's still daytime.  There's light."
Yep.
I threw her in a diaper, knowing all too well that I would be removing a stinky package exactly five minutes after I depart the room.  And I do.  And she's very clingy at this point and wants nothing to do with her bed.
I took the poopy parcel out of the room, and descended to the study for a little reading and writing.
I forgot something and knew I should have retraced my steps, but she was making a horrible racket of banging and singing.  I needed some alone time, and allowed the noise to crest and wain like a tranquil wave at a sunny shore.
The Vasoline.
About an hour later, I ascended the steps expecting a few things to be strewn haphazardly around the room.  What I did not expect was Vasoline on just about every nook and cranny, including her bed, the frame of the bed, her newly painted wall, the newly redone floor, her pajamas, her belly, her hair - and then on my fingers and feet which made that hardwood floor a little more challenging to navigate.
Roar!
"Hi daddy."  She coos.
Abby!  Why - you?  Roar!
"I make you happy!"  Greasy smile.
Yep.  Sometimes but not - right now!
I struggled.  My hands caressed her bed frame through the stick, thickly applied goo.
She looked up me with those multicolored eyes, while sitting in her dirty clothes basket, knowing (the lil' scamp) that if she played her cards right the worst I would do is wash her clothes and her hair, and then  write about it in one of my stupid articles.
Ab.  You are absolutely right about that.