COL Letter: The Great East Side Dog Poop War

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: This is part of my series called Crotchety Old Lady (COL) Letters: Complaint letters written from the Crotchety Old Lady that resides deep inside my soul (and she doesn’t take Xanax, although she probably should).

PS – Thanks CS for reading my blog and getting me off my butt to write today, and thanks RK, who has no problem discussing poop with me (the hallmark of a true friend). XO to you both.

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Dear Providence East Siders who Despise Dog Poop:

I understand. Dog poop is gross. In fact, all poop is gross. But it’s a necessary fact of life.

And thank God as inhabitants of the first world, with clean water and modern sewage systems, we can poop in the comfort of our own homes and then flush it out of sight/out of mind. (Unfortunately, approximately 2.6 billion people in the world do not have access to clean, proper sanitation and do not “enjoy” the comforts we do.)

But the crotchety old lady digresses.

Unlike humans — at least modern first-world humans living where proper sanitation exists — dogs go outside. That’s another fact of life. And people, especially on the East Side of Providence, are very bitter about dog poop.

I’ve been chased, I’ve been cursed out, I’ve been screamed at by people in passing cars, I’ve been told that “your dog’s fucking pee kills my grass” (shouted from a 4th story window). By the way, a shout-out to the therapist whose office is on Angell Street: Do not stand out in front of your urban building and pontificate to me about the pros and cons of whether my dog should be pooping on your three blades of grass. Just make up your effing mind.

In recent years, a spate of letters have appeared in East Side Monthly magazine (I would post links, but this award-winning rag doesn’t have archives available online), with rants from irate East Side homeowners battling the scourge of dog shit on their perfectly manicured lawns. Here are some of the arguments and COL’s thoughts on the matter:

Argument #1: Use your own (bleeping) yard, not mine! It’s mine! It’s not yours. Nor is it your dog’s public restroom.

COL response: This is an urban neighborhood. Some people, including me, have no yard at all. I must walk down three flights from my rented apartment to the street below, regardless of the weather, and walk two blocks to find anything remotely resembling grass. There’s no shoving the dog out into a fenced yard when it’s 14 degrees. Where should I go, armed with my biodegradable dog poop bag?

Rabbit Holes and Gratitude Lists

Note: Sarcastic, funny Audrey has taking the day off today. She is slated to return tomorrow.

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I feel like I’m taking another free-fall into the rabbit hole, but I’ve managed to cling onto one of the twisty roots along the side and I can still see light filtering in above me. Fuck this, I am not hitting the bottom again. There may be cute chipmunks down at the bottom of this hole, but there are also cute chipmunks outside of the rabbit hole. See? See how cute they are in the sunlight OUTSIDE the rabbit hole?

I don’t really know what the hell is wrong with me. I can’t seem to get a grip. The start of 2012 was tough: a lot of old feelings resurfaced and as I sat alone on New Year’s Eve, I realized I still miss H I M, NEB, aka emergency exit parachuting dude. I rang in 2009, 2010 and 2011 with him, and I had no reason to believe 2012 would be spent without him. I suppose the non-depressed side of me could turn that notion on its head and say “Thank god you’re not spending another year with him.” Some days, though, I’m just not there yet. Some days, I feel terribly alone. And paralyzed.

COL Letter: I want a refund for 2011

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: This is the first in a series of Crotchety Old Lady (COL) complaint letters, which I will write from time to time as life experiences and subject matter merit. My first COL letter was written in 2003 following a horrific trip on Delta, and it is a favorite among my friends. (Second best letter was sent to McDonald’s after purchasing their “new organic” coffee, which tasted like burnt mold.)

Dear 2011 Customer Service Representative:

I would like a refund for my 2011 flight (departing 1/1/2011, arriving 1/31/11). Perhaps a free first-class trip to Ireland or Italy would suffice, as long as you don’t seat me next to a 350-pound woman with halitosis (who won’t stop talking to me) or two kids watching Toy Story on their laptop loudly, with no headphones. Instead, I want to be seated next to someone funny or cute, like David Sedaris or John Cusack. That said, what I really want is a full cash refund for 2011 and the promise that my 2012 flight won’t be as crappy.

When you sold me this overpriced ticket, you promised me great things: A lovely trip with a non-commitment-phobic boyfriend I love (with first-class accommodations and plenty of legroom), happiness (in lieu of being coked out on three different anti-depressants for Major Depressive Disorder), and a normal family, finally. What a load of crap you sold me; lies, all lies.

The flight was smooth in January, albeit with storm clouds on the horizon. In early February, we made an emergency landing in a snowstorm and were stuck on the tarmac in Buffalo for six hours. With no heat. By the fourth hour, my now-ex-boyfriend (NEB) freaked out, opened the emergency exit door and disappeared into a haze of  snowflakes. I have no idea where he went and didn’t hear from him for a month.