no good deed goes unbloodied

Lessons learned today:

• Do not be suckered by cute puppy faces
• Put your underwear in your dresser drawer where they belong

My girlfriend sent me these Sugarland lyrics which are rather fitting when I reflect on recent events:

"Ain't no rhyme or reason
No complicated meaning
Ain't no need to over think it ...
Life don't go quite like you planned it
The fact is psssh It happens"

The last three words are really the only relevant ones. Run them together and you get the idea.

And yeah, it does happen.

Last night, overcome by a rare burst of canine kindness, I decided to load my two very big dogs into my very small car. The sun had already set and it wasn't the time of day I'd normally consider for a pooch outing but they've been rather housebound lately and I was a bit smitten with all their puppy eagerness. So I caved and decided to take them to the park on the way to watch American Idol with Grandpa.

So I herd them into my (new!) Golf. We go to the park. They frolic and play. They feel good. I feel good. Life is good.

I drive to Grandpa's. We watch American Idol. It's dark when I drive home. I can't see the inside of the car.

This morning, I wake up, go through the morning drill, and head out to my car.

And Holy Cats.

My car looks like someone was murdered in it. Blood everywhere. A large pool of blood on the carpet and splatter (splatter!) everywhere. Windows, doors, dashboard, seats. I scan the car to see if any windows are broken, graphic images of savage stabbing racing through my mind. (I watch Law and Order- splatter only happens with violent death.)

While sitting in this bloody mess, processing, my phone rings. It's my dad (also my realtor) calling to tell me the buyers "just want to stop by today and see the house again and is that okay because they'll be there at 3pm?"

Poor Dad. Bad timing.

"Uh, no IT'S NOT OKAY."

Silence. "Why not?"

"For starters I'm sitting in blood and really nothing is okay when you're sitting in blood. Secondly, my vacuum cleaner is broken, remember? My house is covered in dog hair because this house is SOLD."

"I don't think they'll care about that," my dad says, apparently skimming over the "I'm sitting in a bloody crime scene" bit.

"Okay, well. Do you think they'll care about the underwear hanging from the vacuum? Or the pile of three-day-old dishes in the sink? How about the toilet I probably forgot to flush? Maybe they will care about that?

So no THEY CANNOT COME IN TODAY."

My dad, a rather gentle soul, goes quiet. "Is everything okay?"

I look around my bloodied car, pick up my blood splattered makeup compact, and sigh.

"Sure. Everything is just fine. Psssh It Happens."