Grease

I spent the last three days trying to wash grease off my arm. I've been swapping out a garage door opener at a rental house, and was the victim of twenty years of overgreasing. I had grease on my arm, shirt, leg, and face. So much, that when I bumped into a fellow employee at Chipotle, I was nervous about shaking her hand because I thought I'd leave a smudge. Today I realized that the last remaining bit I've been trying to scrub out on my arm is actually a large, deep bruise. I can't imagine that scrubbing vigorously at a bruise with soap and a washcloth is in any way conducive to the healing process.

On another note, it's very quiet around here with Sandy gone. It's almost as if there's no one in the house in the morning, because for the last five years, it's been just her and me up together before I go to work. She had a plastic kennel she liked to sleep in inside (where we had to put her for a while after she learned to poop in the house from my sister's dogs), and it's currently outside, so the corner where it sat is now completely visible, including over a year of dust on the wall. It has smudges in it that give it the look of what you might expect if she had died in a nuclear blast and been turned into a wall shadow. Creepy. Eryn hasn't buried her bag of Sandy fur yet, although she has been toting around a stuffed otter she named Sandy and telling all her kindergarten teachers about how her dog died.

Thank you to everyone for all the well wishes and condolences.