They say karma’s a bitch…

This is not a delicate blog post. If you’re squeamish, then I urge you to look away. You have officially been warned.

I tell you this story because, honestly, I don’t think you all believe how completely circus-like my house is. Some of you think I am exaggerating. Other’s have accused me of lying. Whatever. The Sisters know the truth. They know because they’ve called my house and heard the chaos first hand. They know I hide in the bathroom to talk on the phone. My agent is always supposed to call me at work because it’s impossible to discuss anything of any importance over the phone at home.

It’s a lunatic asylum and, now that we’ve added the puppy, Winifred, who I am certain is half black Labrador and half dervish, we’ve only added to the feel of anarchy.

Last night we had left-over lasagna for dinner. When I’m finally convinced to make lasagna I always make a huge pan therefore there is always plenty left for days. Even after we finished dinner there was still 1/4 of a pan left. I got up to do the dishes, but Sassy stepped up and insisted that she would do them instead. I can only assume she was trying to bank points for some other horrible behavior sure to exhibit the next day.

I happily let her take over and wandered off to the office to write for a bit. 45 minutes later I went back to the kitchen and all the dishes were still on the table. I mentioned this to Sassy who said, “Yeah, I’m gonna get to it in a minute.” I wanted to give her every opportunity to sink her own boat or do the right thing so I back to the office I went.

Half hour later, Sassy wandered in with an empty lasagna pan. “Roscoe ate the lasagna,” she told me.

I didn’t answer, just looked at her with raised brows.

“I don’t want to tell Dad ’cause I don’t want Roscoe to die.”

I sent everyone to bed. I’d do the dishes later and think of a way to torture Sassy in the morning. I was busy trying to get The Bandit to bed, supervising teethbrushing and urination and such, when I heard the screaming from Sassy’s room.

Let’s make one thing really clear here. Sassy is a walking, talking, temper tantrum throwing, text book example of Crying Wolf. She is also an Oscar worthy over reactor. Screaming from her room no longer even rouses a jog out of me, much less a panicked sprint. Besides, her father was in there and he could handle the disaster. Only it went on really long so I sighed and headed down the hall.

Roscoe was standing outside her bedroom door, head hung low, looking very hound doggish. In a magnificent example of stunning karmic retribution, Roscoe has vomited up the entire lasagna on her bed.

Holy crap – I could never, ever have come up with a more fitting punishment.

Sassy is loudly demanding that her bed be burned and a new one brought in immediately. She is stomping around the house having what I can only describe as a horror-struck nervous break-down.

My Honey is calmly divesting her bed of ick.

Don’t you know I start laughing which does not improve things.

Here is the mind boggling thing. I swear on a stack of Julia Quinn books that the vomit is still in EXACTLY THE SAME SHAPE IT WAS IN THE PAN. On her quilt is an “L” shaped slab of noodles, meat and cheese that, if you didn’t know better, you’d never suspect had recently been in the dog. Not even a tooth mark. Roscoe must have opened his gullet and swallowed it whole like a side show knife swallower.

And that, my friends, is why you should listen to your mother and do the dishes right away.