Wanted: Dead or Alive

Black cars, coupled with some of the behavior of men, plus butter and dirty money, multiplied by the Orange County Sheriff’s Department, all add up to one thing. And it’s not a scene from Last Tango in Paris.

The small print in life. That’s what it is. Not the inexplicable, like why yawns are contagious, even over the phone, and where the socks in the dryer disappear to, but those little things that eat at you like a flesh-eating virus until you’re one raw, exposed, mad woman.

Like I was last week.
    
It started with the car. Why no one told me about the dirt thing with black cars, I don’t know. I’ve always had grey cars, so I was unaware of the fact that black cars show every speck of dust, splash of mud, drop of water, bird turd, fingerprint, or scratch that comes their way. I didn’t know this because whenever I saw a black car in the parking lot at Fashion Island, it was buffed and glistening like a giant sculpted piece of obsidian.

So I got a black car, too. And then I learned that the reason those cars shine like volcanic glass is because you have to throw down $15 a day to wash it, lest you look like the owner of a dirt ball.
    
So I drove my dirt ball to a local café and ordered a sandwich. And what did they do? The guy behind the counter took my filthy, dirty five dollar bill which must have been touched by hundreds, if not thousands of people after they had their hands who knows where and put those same hands on food destined for my mouth. It’s amazing I’m alive. Really.

Then I drove home and asked the Love Muffin about the heap of trash next to the house. “Thought you took it out,” he said. And then I asked about the heap of dishes in the sink. “The dishwasher’s full,” he said. And then I asked if he would walk the dog, since I needed to empty the dishwasher of the clean dishes and he said, “I forgot to get her from the neighbors.”

In the morning, when the little angel (my dog) and I wandered down to the beach, I ran into three or four women walking their dogs and asked them if their husbands/boyfriends ever offered to run Fido in the early a.m. It was a unanimous, “No way.” And the trash? “If I nag enough,” said one. And the dishes? “They’ll take over the kitchen, the house, the neighborhood if left in his hands,” said another.

In his defense, my non-dog walking, non-dish doing, non-trash removing darling took me out to dinner to make up for it. Since I was ravenous from all the chores, I grabbed for the bread, only to find that, as usual, the refrigerated squares of butter were as cold as ice. You can’t spread cold butter like that. It rips the bread apart. And I know I shouldn’t be eating butter in the first place, but I like it. Why can’t they serve it soft? Who likes it cold like that? So I started kneading it in the packet. I kneaded it until it was really soft and it came squirting out of the aluminum wrapping.

“That’s disgusting,” said the non-butter kneading muffin, who should have offered to soften my butter in the first place.
    
That’s why I was driving a little too fast on the way home. I was ranting about the butter and the dirty money. Thankfully, when I explained this to the officer, he looked at the Love Muffin with great sympathy and let me go. Which is a good thing, because there’s a warrant out for my arrest. The dog slipped her collar one day and got picked up by Laguna Beach Animal Control, who whisked her off to doggy prison until I called to identify her.

The officer claims he wrote me a ticket for having an unlicensed dog before he checked to see if she was registered, which of course, she was. So in order to deal with the $55 fine, I was told I could pay by mail or go to court on Crown Valley Parkway at 8 a.m. and sit with a bunch of lawbreakers to show proof of my dog's license to the judge.

They pissed me off, considering I had to pay $35 to spring the puppy, who was forced to spend the night in the dog dungeon since they close at 4 p.m. So I didn’t go. I was outraged. I had to protest. And a few weeks later, I got the notice. It said they were going to come and arrest me at home or work.
    
So I’m waiting. I, Moira, am now a wanted woman. OK, so I should have read the fine print. Whoever thought a loose dog collar would lead to a life of crime?