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In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lion

I wasn’t looking for a cat the day I met Andre. I think I was looking for a car charger for my Blackberry in Best Buy.  My husband, Chris, was next door at Petsmart buying dog bones, or at least that is what he was supposed to be doing. Instead, he came into Best Buy with a big smile on his face and no bag in his hands and said, “You have to see the kittens!”  Kittens?  It was odd that my husband was excited about baby cats as he was the dog person in our relationship.

“We have a cat already, and she’s old,” was my reply.  Our cross-eyed Siamese, Kidder, was about fifteen at that time.  I knew she would not appreciate a youngster.

“But they’re so cute!”  It was like my husband had been drugged with some cat-loving potion.  I just shook my head and followed him next door to Petsmart.

A lot of Petsmarts have cat adoption rooms, and this was the case in Indiana. The local ASPCA had several cats who needed homes. This room had a row of windows and was located right next to the dog food and treats. There were three levels of cats in cages.  Chris led me to his favorite, all the way at the end of the row in a bottom cage.

Beautiful Andre

My husband was interested in Andre’s brother, a much shyer version of the cat we would eventually adopt.  Like Andre, he was a long-haired gray and white beauty, with a beautiful mane. Unlike Andre, he was incredibly shy. I crouched down to peer in this kitten’s bottom level cage.  He scurried to the back corner.  My husband wanted to pet him and get to know him, so the Petsmart person took him out.  The kitten immediately ran under the cages.

I sat on the cold floor and tried to lure the cat out.  He moved farther away from me. I looked up at my husband, who was standing next to Andre’s cage, and said, “This cat will never make it in our house.  We have two dogs and an old cranky cat.”

That’s when Andre, one level up from his brother and a couple of cages over, started grabbing my husband’s shirt.  My husband moved a little, but Andre kept pushing his paw out and trying to grab my husband.  It was like he was saying, “Forget about my brother; take me!”

“Now that one stands a chance. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything,” I said, and I was right.

When Chris and I got Andre home, we set him up in the guest bathroom with a baby gate.  This way the dogs could see him and he could see them, but they were still apart.  I figured that Andre wouldn’t want to jump the gate, and that our old cat Kidder would not jump in.  I was wrong on the first part.

We were barely home for ten minutes when Andre jumped the gate and walked right up to our Pit Bull/Black Lab, Mario.  Mario was used to cats, but the only time he had ever seen a fluffy tail like Andre’s was on a squirrel.  Mario hated squirrels.  So, he lunged at Andre.  Andre was not impressed or afraid.  He got on his hind feet and directed eight pounds of kitten fury in Mario’s face.  Andre boxed Mario’s face until he winced and backed away.  From that moment on, Andre was the boss.

Chris and I soon learned that Andre hated medical interventions more than he hated large dogs.  Andre’s first vet visit at 8 months old went great.  Everyone in the vet’s office loved him.  After all, he was a handsome boy with smooth, fluffy fur.  He was a lover, just like he was at home.  Andre snuggled with the vet, the assistants, and even the receptionist.  He seemed to love people.  For some reason, his loveable behavior at the vet’s office changed the next year when we brought him in for a checkup.

As soon as I put his carrier on the examining table and opened the door, Andre hissed and opened his mouth like a snake with unhinged jaws. Every time the doctor laid a hand on him, he tried to bite the doctor or the assistant who was holding him.  Finally, I helped two vet assistants hold him down.  Andre was insane, and totally not the sweet boy he was at home.  Every annual visit was worse than the last.   I decided that since Andre was an indoor only cat, he would only see the vet if he was sick. So, of course this is the cat that developed colon issues at age five.

When I first noticed Andre straining in the litter box, I thought he had the dreaded urinary blockage that male cats are prone to.  After a few vet visits, it was discovered that he was constipated.  Because of his behavior, Andre had to be sedated for every visit.  He would not tolerate a simple physical exam, never mind the ultrasounds and x-rays needed to diagnose his severe constipation.  And let’s not even talk about the enemas.  A few times, my husband, my son and I had to give Andre glycerin suppositories at home when the Miralax and Cisapride, the go to regimen for this level of constipation, was not working. We learned to cover him with a beach towel and work quickly so we could avoid battle scars.

When Andre turned eight, his megacolon was formally diagnosed.  During this time, Andre could no longer defecate on his own. The medication was simply not working.  The only thing that would work was the glycerin suppositories, and even they didn’t work all of the time.  Our only other choice was major colon surgery.  This would involve multiple visits to the specialist, in addition to the surgery itself.  As I may have mentioned, Andre did not tolerate medical procedures well.  The recovery from this surgery would be brutal, and being sedated multiple times in a short amount of time would be hard on him.  Chris and I made the very tough decision to end Andre’s suffering.

My husband was with Andre in the end.  I preferred to keep my last memory of hugging Andre in the dining room before putting him in the crate for his final trip to the vet.  I told him how much I loved him, and how sorry I was to be sending him off to the place he hated most.  Andre snuggled me, like he had his whole life.  He put his paws around my neck and squeezed. According to Chris, Andre fought the vet and his staff up until his last breath.  He fought the injection that was supposed to calm him down, and he fought the final injection that ended his life.  Andre came into our lives like a lion, and he went out the same way.

Catcallers and Creeps

I grew up in South Florida, where the weather is warm and the people are weird.  When you can run around half nude most of the year, I guess it can make you a bit odd.  I know, not only because I’m still recovering from living there, but because I had to interact with catcallers and creeps whenever I left my apartment.

The apartment building we lived in when I was a teen was on a circle.  So, traffic would exit the circle and onto the street I lived on, and then another street intersected with all of that.  It was a busy intersection and an all-around clusterfuck of traffic.  This was where the dumpster for our building was located.  Guess who’s job it was to take out the trash?

I felt like I was on stage whenever I did that walk of shame to the big, green, rusty dumpster. I hated the fact that I had to live in an apartment when all my friends lived in normal houses as the universe intended. So, I was always afraid someone would see me carrying out my meager apartment trash.  I was also a bit tired of the occasional honking and yelling from the cars that would whiz around the circle.

Me 15
I looked like THIS when creeps were hitting on me. I can only imagine what would have happened if I hadn’t looked like a 1970’s British school boy.

One day, when I was 15 and at the height of my trash anxiety, the granddaddy of all catcall creep episodes happened.  The garbage man took a fancy to my sweaty shorts, tank top, and shiny acne-faced look.  He started yelling and whistling at me from the back of the truck.  Lucky for me, they didn’t stop for the contents of my dumpster.  So, I wasn’t forced to run for my life in flip-flops. The truck kept going around the circle, with the truck riding creep yelling at me. Honestly, what did he really think would happen?  Did he think I would run after the truck, jump on the back with him, and ride off into the next South Florida thunderstorm while inhaling dirty diapers and Budweiser cans?  I shook my head over that one for a while, until I met a creepier man at the beach.

A few weeks later, while still only 15, I was at the beach with my friends.  Hollywood beach has a great broadwalk.  (No, it is not a boardwalk, as autocorrect is trying to tell me.  Look it up.) It’s not one of those boring full of only nature without any indoor plumbing beaches.  I hate those.  If I want to see nature, I will turn on the National Geographic channel. Hollywood Beach has a nice, paved walkway where you can walk or attempt to run into nice, innocent walkers on your bike by ignoring all bike lane rules. It also has stores, restaurants, and assorted ice cream places.  Our next creep was seated on a patio in one of the bar/restaurants.

Now, I will say that OBVIOUSLY this guy had partaken in the bar portion of the establishment quite a bit.  This is the only explanation for his behavior.  Well, I suppose he could have had the eyesight of Mr. Magoo since he didn’t notice that I was 15 going on 12. The gentleman in question, and I do use this term very loosely, was a middle-aged French-Canadian (We got LOTS of French Canadian visitors in Hollywood.) wearing a bikini bottom bathing suit and a desperate lack of soap or deodorant.  He was red, smelly, and creepy.

“Can I buy you zee drink?”  He asked me, as I walked by, barely filling out my newly shoplifted blue bikini.

I wanted to reply with, “Can I buy you zee mirror or zee working nostrils?”   Instead, I said, “no thank you.”

He answered in a way that only someone who is truly drunk and or impaired from the smell of their own body odor can.  “Iz your loss.”

Yep. That is what this lobster red, smelly, scantily clad, OLD man told me.  That is was MY loss.  YES.  He was right. I’m still kicking myself, 30 years later, that I didn’t get drunk and have stinky old man sex right there on Hollywood Beach.  What was I thinking?

I still look back to my time in South Florida and imagine what could have happened if I had been a more adventurous girl.  I could have married the trash man, or moved to Canada, or been murdered and dismembered.  One or the other.   Now, I live up north where people cannot run around half naked most of the year unless they really want to freeze to death.  I’m also 45 now, so I don’t get catcalled as often. I’m OK with all of this.




Well, you non-morning people irritate the $&@% out of me!


I always hear about how annoying morning people are.  People talk about how they’re not really awake until noon.  They complain about overly energetic or talkative people in the morning.  Well, guess what?  You AM Eeyores irritate the chirpiness right out if me.  Here’s why.

You act like the sun is your enemy.  You squint at it when a sensible morning person opens the blinds to get rid of the dungeon atmosphere that is a house with all blinds closed. The sun is what allows you and everyone else to live on this planet.  Put on some shades and stop being a wimp.

You mope around after getting up like someone died. Be glad you even woke up. Be glad you can walk. Be glad you don’t live in Iraq. Wimp!

You’re so unproductive in the morning.  I get the bulk of my work done before noon.  That’s because I actually do stuff instead of sit around and bitch about the fact that “It’s toooooo EARRRRLY!”

You make stupidass Facebook memes like this:


So, thank you for reading this coffee-induced rant, originally drafted at 8:00AM on a Saturday morning after cleaning the house. Are you a morning person, or a non-morning person? Let me hear from you in the comment section.

What’s That Wet Spot?

Lola is probably the source for today’s laundry room poop or puke.

There are games you play when you have five pets. They’re probably similar to the games you play when you have small children, or live on a farm, or roam the streets of third world countries. They involve identifying and avoiding stepping in excrement. Here’s a small sample of the fun and exciting ways we pass the time at Chez Petty:

Poop or Puke?

Well, the name says it all, doesn’t it? I can’t tell you how many times a week, or sometimes a day, I nearly step in something that is both runny like puke and brownish like poop.   It’s generally tough to identify. Sometimes, if I’m brave, I bend down and take a quick sniff. Then, I remember that I’m not Detective Columbo and I don’t really need to know what the stuff is. I just need to get some paper towels, supersonic cleaning fluid, and possibly some rubber gloves.

What’s that wet spot?

This game is best when you have carpet, like we do on 85.7% of our floors (yep, I made the number up). This is because if it’s not a colorful liquid, it catches you by surprise, especially if you are wearing socks. This way, you are not only disgusted by the mystery fluid, but you take it with you for a couple of steps until you rip your socks off. I’m not going to lie; I sniffed my socks once. It was dog pee.

Poop or Toy Debris

One of our dogs is a huge Lab/Great Dane mix. She LOVES to destroy toys. A morning is not complete without the cotton-filled guts of a destroyed sock monkey spread all over the living room. So, every once in a while, like daily, there are mysterious tiny pieces of something on the rug. I usually grab a paper towel before picking anything up, but usually it’s only a piece of felt or rope.

Poop or Mud

Since it is FINALLY becoming spring, sort of, the backyard is wet and warm. The Lab/Dane loves to dig. So, she ends up coming back inside with half of my husband’s garden under her nails (yes, it’s just HIS garden, just like she’s just HIS dog). I’m going to be overly honest again and tell you all that I LOST at “Poop or Mud” this morning. I reached down and picked up a tiny ball of poop with my bare hands. I know it was poop because I smelled it. Thank the universe for Bath and Body Works Kitchen Lemon hand soap. I scrubbed.

Not all animal games are excrement related. Since we have three cats and two dogs, we also get a variety of noise related games. Here are two:

Fighting or playing

This game usually starts when our two male cats run across the house chasing each other. There are usually a couple of ninja summersault moves that make the two resemble some sort of multi-colored furry ball. Once I see the fur tumbleweeds coming out of the ball, I know the correct answer is fighting.

Is someone puking, choking, or is the neighbor hammering something?

It never fails. My husband and I will be on the couch, watching Bates Motel, or some other super cool show, when that noise will start. You know the one. So we both get up, and look around for the upchucking cat or dog. Usually, it’s a cat with a wicked hairball. Sometimes, though, it’s our neighbor hammering or shoveling something. I’m not sure why the sounds are identical.

So, what about you? What kind of shenanigans go on in your house? What kind of cleaning fluid do you use?

Halloween Kitty
It’s fighting!

Perfectly Posh: A Hermit’s Best Friend

Free samples!
Free samples!

A couple of weeks ago, I left the comfort zone and went on a scary trip to Bath and Body Works during one of their sales.  It was terrifying and I blogged about it here.   A kind soul named Olivia saw my Tweet about the blog and reached out to me for my mailing address.  Now, I don’t normally just give my address to strangers, but she was offering beauty product samples, DELIVERED to my home.  I would not have to pay for them or leave the house to get them.  Win-win.

Olivia sent Perfectly Posh samples, along with detailed instructions on how to use them.  Before trying them, I read more about the products, and I was thrilled to learn that they are all cruelty-free and as hypoallergenic as you can get.  While people can be allergic to just about anything, Perfectly Posh really tries to use gentle ingredients.  So, since is a Sunday, a typical shower and put on different pajamas day for me, I decided to try everything.

Here’s what I thought of the products I tried:

Best Friend Forever Face Wash (BFF): I usually shy away from scrubs, as they tend to irritate my Irish girl pasty skin.  This one did not.  It left my skin feeling super clean, and better than when I paid $95 for a facial at the spa.  Yes, I was dumb enough to do that.

The Stripper "tingles."
The Stripper “tingles.”

The Stripper D-Tox Body Mud Mask:  My skin tends to be sensitive, as you may have gathered from my pasty Irish skin comment. Olivia told me The Stripper would “tingle” and feel “slightly warm.”  She also told me “Don’t panic.”  It’s like she knows me.  I’m glad she prepared me because the first 10 seconds were more HOLY MOTHER OF GOD than tingle.  After that, I was fine.  I even painted my toenails while waiting for the mask to dry.  This mask can be used on your entire body, but I would only put it on my face.  I can’t imagine having my whole body “tingle” for 10 seconds.

Sweet Young Thing:  This is a creamy serum.  It’s light; I didn’t feel like my face was suffocating, like I do when I use the carrot oil stuff I paid $35 for at the spa.  Since a little goes a long way, I still have enough serum to use for at least 4 days.

Moisturizer 911: This is a great face moisturizer.  It’s light enough to use morning and night.  It can be used alone, or with Sweet Young Thing.

Sugar Fix: I’m not really a body scrub kind of girl due to that whole sensitive skin thing I have going on.  Sugar Fix is really gentle, though.  I used it in the shower, and I even washed my face with it.

You Can Call My Candy:  This is a body lotion.  Posh calls it a Slather.  I only had a little sample, so I just did my legs.  It was light, and natural.  It didn’t make my legs itch like some other products.

Hey Honey Hand Creme:  This is by far my favorite Perfectly Posh product.  Hey Honey Hand Creme instantly takes away that winter, skin splitting, dry feeling.  It even made my hands look smoother, and therefore younger.  It lasts through a few hand washings, too.  So, I wasn’t constantly reapplying it like with Bath and Body Works products.

Overall, I loved the Perfectly Posh products I sampled.  My favorite thing about them is that they are affordable, and they really are made of mild, natural ingredients.  As advertised, they are paraben  and paraffin free. All of the products smelled nice, too, but not in that scary artificial “Party Dress” way.  Cough Cough.  Bath and Body Works.

If you want to learn more about Perfectly Posh, take a look at Olivia’s web page.   As with most folks who do not live in caves, you can also find Olivia on Facebook.

Giving Back to the Jehovah’s Witnesses

If you have read this blog before, you may have figured out that I spend a lot of time alone.  I work from home, so I am here, talking to cats and rolling my eyes at dogs all day, every day.  So, I have a lot of time to dwell on things.  A couple of weeks ago, when Jehovah’s SWAT team disturbed my peace, I got angry.  The loud, cop-like banging on the door gave me heart palpitations and brought me back to the 80’s when I spent many an evening sitting in my room watching “Cops.” DO NOT give a hermit heart palpitations.  It can actually give the hermit enough energy to leave the house.   I almost ran down the street after the holy SWAT team in my snow flake pajamas.  I decided against it as that would mean actually talking to them.  Plus, what would I have done, yelled at them? What good is anger?

I came up with a better idea.  Instead of being annoyed with the Jehovah’s Witnesses, I attempted to channel my inner Buddhist and find a way to help if I can.  So, I’m going to give back to them, as they give to many people.  They like to give people brochures and persuade them to believe like they do.  Well, I’m going to share my views on spirituality with them.  I may not believe in God, or Jesus, or Hell, or Heaven, but I believe in Santa.  In fact, I’ve made a little flyer to share with the JWs.  I’ve even included quotes from books because books always prove everything.

I’m including the flyer here, so you can use it, too.  Simply click this link to get the PDF version from my Google Drive:  Santa Flyer This flyer could be used for everyone, not just Jehovah’s Witnesses.  I mean, other religious groups, vacuum salesmen, roofers, driveway pavers, and assorted other characters think they are entitled to step onto your porch, ring your doorbell, and invade your peace and privacy.  Give them a Santa flyer, a hearty “HO, HO, HO,” and tell them to go in peace.


A Hermit’s Black Friday

“Why don’t we stop by Target?” I asked my husband and my mother, as we pulled out of the parking lot of an apartment complex we were looking at for my mom. “We have an hour until we have to meet everyone for lunch, and mom wanted to look at small Christmas trees.  Plus, I really have to pee.” I HATE public bathrooms, but it didn’t make sense to drive all the way back to my mom’s apartment. My husband looked at me like I’d been huffing Windex, and asked me how to get to Target.  He was driving our rental car around my hometown, Hollywood, Florida.

I asked my mom where the Target in Pembroke Pines was, since we were meeting some of my closest high school friends for lunch at Burger and Beer Joint on Pines Boulevard. Mom told my husband where to go (not like that — she actually likes him), and we arrived at Target.  It was so crowded.  There were not even handicapped parking spaces available.  My mom has a handicapped parking permit.

“Wow. It’s so crowded,” I said, while thinking about how much I missed Ohio.

“Well, it is Black Friday, Lisa,” My husband said, while pulling the car over to one side in the lot.  “You ladies get out here.  I will go fight for a spot.” I totally forgot it was Black Friday, since, as your token introverted friend, I do all of my shopping online.  My husband is a gem for dropping us off out front and not smacking me.

So, my mom and I went into Target, and headed to the restrooms.  Holy cow! I mean. I’ve been in gas station bathrooms before, and Walmart bathrooms, but the Target ladies room in Pembroke Pines needs some kind of honorable mention in the International Nasty Bathroom competition.  If this competition doesn’t exist, it should.  I realize it was Black Friday, but come on, Target.  Don’t make me regret hating Walmart.

As my mom and I exited the bathroom, my husband entered the store, having found a parking space.  We walked around Target, trying to find that tree.  We could barely look at the trees because the folks at Target had carts full of merchandise blocking the Christmas tree display. We squeezed by a cart to get a look at the trees.  The whole blockade reminded me of the liquor section in any grocery store in Indiana on a Sunday.  Prior to moving to Columbus, we lived in Fort Wayne, IN (THE Armpit of America).  So, I know all about carts blocking the items you actually want to buy.  Man, was I glad to get out of there.

So, after an unsuccessful trip to Target, we headed over to Burger and Beer Joint for lunch.  Through the beauty of Facebook, I have kept in touch with A LOT of friends from high school.  Since I am a touch on the introverted side, I made lunch plans with a really small group of them.  Next time, I want to make individual plans with my besties.  I don’t feel like I had enough time with anyone.  Like a textbook introvert, I don’t like to hang out with gobs of people, but I LOVE the friends I do have.

My friend H, who I met at the bus stop on the first day of 8th grade at a new school, brought her adorable son and niece.  The kids colored pictures for Chris and me that I will hang on my fridge as soon as I unpack them.  I will put them here for your enjoyment.  H and her son and niece could model.  Seriously, I told H that, too.  They are all such gorgeous people.

My friend T has not aged one bit and is still the sweetest person ever.  She brought me a card and a Starbuck’s gift card.  T and I met in drafting class in 8th grade, and she still KNOWS me.  I love this girl.

C brought her boyfriend.  It was nice to meet him in person as I had seen pictures and read his funny comments on Facebook.  It was so nice to see them together and see my friend so happy.  They are a beautiful couple

M, who I never hung out with in high school, was thrilled to have a grown-up lunch.  Her two kids, both models, for real, were at home with dad.  M is a prime example of everything that is good about Facebook.  I hardly knew her in school, but she is one of my best, most genuine friends, thanks to this newfangled Internet.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted, and a little sad.  There was a lot of talking and interaction, which can drain a hermit, but it was with people I adore.  I loved seeing everyone and catching up.  I miss living in Florida only when I think of my friends and family.  I would really like it if everyone would just move to Ohio.  I’m sure all Floridians are jumping at the chance to shovel snow.  I guess I will keep visiting.

Beautiful Art!
Beautiful Art!


Even a Hermit Needs Her Hair Did

Macy's, I'm hoping you're not serious with this.
Macy’s, I’m hoping you’re not serious with this.

Every so often, even the strangest of introverts (raises hand)  have to leave their cats and their comfort zones to do things like buy groceries, go to the doctor, and attend to many other errands that cannot be done at home.  I mean, you CAN order groceries on Amazon, but who wants to pay 10 bucks for a quart of milk.   Of all the things I leave the house to do, getting my hair done is my favorite, and probably the most important.  Let’s face it; if I’m going to show up at the grocery store in sweat pants AKA WAHM (work at home mom) attire, my hair at least needs to look decent.  I should clarify that I wear NICE sweat pants, which look better than some jeans I’ve seen for sale at Macy’s.

Last week, I went to get my hair did and have my tiny, yet unruly eyebrows shaped.  I enjoyed every minute of my trip to the salon, and not just because I remembered that the new car has heated seats. This Florida girl living in Ohio LOVES her some heated seats.  So, even the trip to the best salon ever was heaven.

My good friend Alli introduced me to Lennonheads when I moved here.  I LOVE this place, and not only because


Melissa, the world’s greatest hairdresser works there.  Everyone is so cool at this place, from the people at the front desk to Taffy, the lady who tames these brows, to Melissa, who makes me look human.  I have never had to explain a joke to anyone there, which is important to me.  People without a sense of humor make me uncomfortable.  I usually find myself checking the backs of their heads for a battery pack.  It’s just awkward.

Not only is Melissa a miracle worker with hair, she is an animal lover who happens to have an unruly puppy.  If you have read this blog before, you know that I am in a similar situation with Miss Sophie. While Melissa applies my color, or trims my bangs, we chat about our puppies’ poop eating habits.  Her puppy even brings cat turds from the litter box to her other dog, who is blind.  I guess that is being considerate in dog world, kind of like bringing your friend a latte.  I’m sorry if you were eating while reading this.  Oops.  I’m sorry. Oops rhymes with poops.  I’m not making this any better, am I?


I’ve already made my next appointment with Melissa and Taffy. I’ve also recently scored an employee discount at a sporting goods store, thanks to Ben, my son’s friend who had some friends and family coupons.  You know what that means.  I’m going to be looking stylish with my well-coifed hair, my non-squirrelly eyebrows, and some hot new sweat pants.  I may even get a matching hoody.  Step back, fellas; I’m married.



Forget the Reaper; I Fear the Doorbell

IMG_0624I have had Don’t Fear the Reaper stuck in my head today.  Maybe it’s because it is Halloween, that spooky darkness and death time of the year, or maybe it’s because I see a graveyard whenever I look out my back window.  Seriously, my house backs up to a graveyard.  This is actually what made me want to buy our house.  Graveyards and Halloween (except for the trick-or-treaters) do not scare me.  I fear something far worse than ghosts and goblins — the doorbell.

If you’ve read this blog before, you know that I HATE phone calls, and that I usually don’t answer the phone.  The only thing worse than a phone call is an unexpected visitor.  The sound of the doorbell ringing usually makes me jump, and here is why.

  1. I work from home.  I’m not sitting here eating bon bons and waiting for someone to visit me.  I have deadlines and I already battle constant interruptions from my five animals.  The last thing I need is another obstacle, whether it involves talking about Jehovah, or saying no to lawn care ( I have a teenager for that).  This is why I have a No Soliciting sign.  I’ve learned that lots of folks need to look up “soliciting” in the dictionary.
  2. I’m an introvert.  I can barely handle scheduled socializing.  Dropping in on me is super annoying. You might as well just parachute down my chimney.  It would have the same effect on my frazzled nerves.
  3. Again, I WORK FROM HOME. I’m in my pajamas at least half the day.  I’m not dressed for company. Don’t hate me because I’m comfortable.
  4. I have dogs.  The dogs go NUTS when the doorbell rings.  They also tend to run out and jump on the person standing on the porch when I open the door.  They give kisses, too.  Remember, the big one eats poop. This is why I need notice before someone shows up.  I need to crate these beasts.
  5. A lot of home invasion robberies begin with a doorbell ring. Here is one example. I’m not opening the door.

So, long story short, text first.  Don’t call; just text.  I need at least 24 hours notice for all visits.  Thanks.  Happy Halloween.  There will be a bucket of candy on the porch.  Feel free to take a piece.