The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank by Erma Bombeck Page B

walked to the car I heard one say, “Boy, that was one terrifying experience.”
    “What, the dog?”
    “No, the woman. She's a real whacko!”
    They were probably right and I realized things weren't going to get any better when one afternoon I answered the phone. It was Mr. Wainscott.
    “Remember me?” he asked. “I'm Jessamyn's father.”
    “Of course,” I said, “from the vet's waiting room. Jessamyn is the one who had the same symptoms as I had. I've been dying to ask what the doctor prescribed.”
    “Lots of bed rest, time to herself, no major decisions, analysis, and a light social calendar.”
    “I guess one out of five isn't bad,” I said. “So, how are things?”
    “Fine. I was calling to ask if Arlo could attend Jessamyn's birthday party. Are you there?”
    “Yes,” I said. “A birthday party. Where?”
    “This Saturday at two. We live two blocks north of the highway next to the golf course. You can't miss it. Oh, and it's informal.”
    When we arrived a dozen or so dogs romped around the room.
    “So glad you could come,” said Mr. Wainscott.
    “I must apologize for the present,” I said, “Arlo ate it on the way over.”
    “That's perfectly all right. Gang!” he shouted, “this is Arlo. Arlo is one of Jessamyn's neighbors. Don't be frightened,” he said as Arlo stood at the sink and licked water out of the spigot. “He's big for nine months. Why don't you pick Arlo up in a few hours ?”
    I don't know what happened to Arlo at the party, but he was never the same dog after that. One day I caught him looking at his teeth in the bathroom mirror (Jessamyn had her teeth capped). Another time, he hopped on the bathroom scale, gasped, and refused to eat table scraps any more. One afternoon, I begged Arlo for ten minutes to go outside. He was sitting in a chair watching David Susskind.
    The only time he seemed happy was in his encounter group.
    The Garage Sale
    There are four things that are overrated in this country: hot chicken soup, sex, the FBI, and parking your car in your garage.
    What's such a big deal about pulling your car into a garage if you have to exit by threading your body through an open window, hang from a lawn spreader, climb over the roof, and slide down a garden hose before reaching the door.
    Our garage was a twilight zone for garbage, the dog, old papers, boxes, excess laundry, redeemable bottles, and “projects” too awkward (big, dirty, stinking) to have in the house. So was everyone else's. In fact, there was a garage clause in most of our accident policies that if we were folded, bent, spindled or mutilated while walking through our garage we could not file a claim.
    Then one day something happened to change all of that. Helen came over so excited she could barely speak. “How would you like to go to a garage sale?” she asked.
    “I have one.”
    “You don't buy the garage, you ninny,” she said. “That's where the sale is. A woman over in the Dreamland Casita plat just advertised and I want to check it out.”
    A good fifteen blocks away from the sale, we saw the cars bumper to bumper. I had not seen such a mob since the fire drill at the Health Spa.
    We parked the car and walked, slowly absorbing the carnival before our eyes. On the lawn, a woman was trying on a skirt over her slacks. “Do you do alterations?” she yelled to the woman who had sold it to her.
    “Whatya want for 25 cents?” she yelled back, “an audience with Edith Head?”
    Inside, mad, crazy, frenzied ladies fought over an empty anti-freeze can for $1.50 and an ice cube tray with a hole in the bottom of it for 55 cents.
    One lady was lifting the snow tires off the family car and shouting, “How much?” Another was clutching a hula hoop over her shoulder and asking, “Are you sure this is an antique?” An older couple was haggling over a pole lamp insisting it would not fit into their car, and arrangements must be made for a suitable delivery date. It was marked 35 cents.
    Outside,