Dog-sitting

Carrie and Mark have been in California for the last 10 days at the Car Show to End All Car Shows and so I agreed to take their bulldog, Truman. I can’t say I didn’t know what I was getting into. Truman comes to work everyday and so I am familiar with his vomiting and his flatulence. Still, from time to time he grosses even me out.

For one thing, he sounds like a coffee percolator when he moves around because he gargles when he breathes. Secondly, he snores as loud as my mother, which I know you probably can’t appreciate because you haven’t heard it, but let me tell you; it’s bad. He doesn’t know many tricks, but he knows the word “cookie.” If you say this word, you had better be prepared to pay up and give him one because the consequences for making him wait are pools of his spit on and around your feet.

Despite all of this, I am quite taken with the little monster whom I lovingly call “Gross-o.” When he isn’t making you clean up his puke or spit, he’s a pretty cool side-kick. Because of his wrinkles, his face is really expressive and he makes me laugh out loud at least four times a day. Also, he is a man-magnet. I have had more men approach me while walking him. So far none of the men have been attractive or interesting, but I still think Truman has some special power.

Mostly, the last 10 days haven’t been too bad with Truman around. The past 24 hours have been the worst. I thought we were having fun but apparently I was alone in these sentiments because Truman has made two escape attempts since yesterday night.

I went home after work yesterday and decided to go in the hot tub. I let Truman come outside with me because he would lose his little Truman mind if I left him inside and because I knew he wouldn’t go far from me since he is insecure in this strange yard and thinks I will leave him. So I let him come outside with me while I went in the hot tub. Things were going swimmingly. I sat in the tub reading my book and getting massaged by the water jets and Truman laid down next to the tub and slept. It was beautiful.

But then, a dog barked in the distance and Truman stood at attention. “Tru,” I said trying to bring his attention back to me and the nice little arrangement we had going. “What’s going on little buddy?” He marched down to the edge of the yard, by the pond and stared off into the woods where, somewhere on the other side, was a house with a barking dog. He won’t do it, I thought. Especially since it would be so inconvenient for me to chase him right now.

Wrong.

Truman darted into the brush to meet/fight the dog in the yard beyond the forest.

I sat there dumbstruck for a moment because I couldn’t even believe my situation. I don’t know about you, but I don’t wear much into hot tubs. Thus, I wasn’t really prepared to run into the bushes where I could run into ticks and/or other people.

I got it together, hopped out of the tub, grabbed my towel and ran into the house to get some clothes. I threw on some capris and a sleeveless T, neither of which went on easily, as I was soaking wet, and ran outside.

Truman was nowhere to be seen. I walked into the woods, calling for him and clapping and whistling, but I heard not so much as the jingle of his collar. I walked around the pond, myself now following the sound of the distant dog barking, and finally saw a short, fat lump of white, that was Truman 100 yards away. I called to him and he turned to me happily as if to say “Oh there you are!” He ran towards me and probably would have just followed me back to the house, but I wasn’t taking any chances and I grabbed his collar and forced him to go back at my pace. I emerged from the woods back at the house covered with mosquito bites and possibly poison ivy.

Truman, sensing that my bad mood was his fault, quietly took himself to the corner in the kitchen for a nap. I spent the next hour itching and glaring at him.

The next morning, I had a similar incident. You would have thought that after the first one, I would have decided to keep him on a leash at all times when I went outside, but no. This morning, Truman came up to my bed and started fussing. I knew he probably had to go potty, so I got up and brought him outside. Because I was going to go back to bed afterwards, and because there is decent tree coverage around the yard and driveway, I did not get dressed but rather just went outside in my PJs, which in my case are underwear and a tank top.

There were some carpenters building a garage across the street and when Truman heard their voices, he couldn’t help himself. He went flying down the driveway and out of the yard before I could catch him. For the fat little stubby-legged creature that he is, he moves surprisingly fast when he wants to. I called for him and called for him, but responding when you call his name is not one of his better tricks. He was gone and once again I found myself left behind because of my nakedness. I went inside and put on some pants and then ran outside and down the driveway. The carpenters, amused by my situation, pointed to where he had gone.

I clapped and called for him and he appeared out of some shrubbery, once again happy to see me. I proceeded to drag him by his collar back into the house and into his pen where I confined him for the next 15 minutes until we both had to leave for work.

Even though he hates it, I have put him on a leash for every outdoor excursion since. Also I have worn more clothing.

It looks like a fairy princess puked on my bed.

I went and bought a bed. And a mattress set. I did it. It has been done. If you read by post, mattress shopping and my quarter-life crisis you know my qualms about purchasing furniture. But I sucked it up and did it. I now own a bed, a mattress and a box spring. I bought my mattress and box spring off of Craigslist, which ended up being a compromise I could cope with: good quality items but I am not in debt. Ten points for me.

The problem now is linens. Believe me, it KILLS me that decorating my damn room is occupying enough mental space to feel like a problem, but it is. It just feels like moving into my new place marks a new phase of life and so I want my space to represent that.

I went shopping for sheets at Marshalls the other day and walked through the aisles trying to sense what sort of bed sheets represent me best. I wanted to buy sheets that would project all the qualities I want people to perceive in me. What do smart, quirky, classy, funny sheets look like anyway?

As I riffled through the bedding section, it struck me that I was attempting to construct my identity through the things I bought and this worried me for a moment that I was being corrupted by the materialistic, consumer society I was born into.

My concern passed quickly though as I was distracted by a display of Vera Bradley luggage. If you asked me, Vera Bradley has achieved the most unsexy luggage design ever: quilted cotton bags with Provencal tablecloth fabric. Nicely done, Vera. Fine for older women and younger ones who have just given up on appearing hip. I texted Marta and said: “If I ever own a quilted Vera Bradley garment bag, I want you to run over me with the minivan I probably also own.”

I turned back to the task at hand of constructing a more appealing identity via bed linens. I wasn’t having much luck. Everything was too plain, too frilly, or too covered with little green alligators. Just when I was about to give up hope and go home for the evening, a set of pink and green paisley sheets caught me eye. They were perfect. Sophisticated. Delicate without being too girly. Classy. I might even have ascribed adjectives like “smart” and “happy” to them.

I hugged the package to my bosom for a moment like it was my newborn child reflecting my image back at me. Success. I found the perfect sheets.

Or so I thought.

I went home that night with my perfect sheets and a pair of Calvin Klein pillows which were sold as a pair for $16 because Marshalls is the BOMB. I couldn’t wait to get my new bedding on my new bed. As I drove home, I could feel the sophistication and perfection emanating from the shopping bag on my backseat.

But it was problems in paradise for me and my sheets when I got home. I didn’t realize until they were unfolded and on my bed just how pink they were. Or how paisley. The design was still beautiful, but it had been much more appealing when I was only experiencing it as a 10X10 square as it appeared in its package. All the details were so much more intense when it was covering my whole mattress. The delicate pink in the pattern that had seemed so understated and charming in that small area seemed fragile and girly. And the green seemed so… Fern Gully. I stood back from my half-made bed cupping my chin in my hand and analyzed the situation. Something had gone terribly wrong.

I thought the sheets were so me. I quickly became uncomfortable with identifying myself with my sheets. I wondered if I was anything like them in the sense that I am only appealing in small doses but too much when I put it all out there. In trying to carry out that metaphor I wondered how a human could fold themselves into a 10X10 package.
I hoped that I didn’t come off as fragile and girly… or Fern Gully.

I called my roommates in and asked them if it looked like a Fairy Princess puked on my bed. They consoled me and affirmed that the sheets were pretty.

I decided that I will not allow myself to be petty and vain enough to obsess over bed sheets and the way they reflect on me and so I am keeping them. I am keeping them and forcing myself to see them for what they really are, bed linens, and not character reflections. So far, the not obsessing is coming slowly.

My first bikini wax.

Today I actually paid a stranger to rip my hair out from the root. Not only that, I tipped her for it. Something has gone terribly wrong with my life.

Somewhere along the line, someone decided that sophisticated women should take care of their bikini lines. And by “take care of” I mean eliminate the hair that belongs to that incredibly sensitive area in the most painful way possible. Maybe not THE most painful way, but I can’t think of a more unpleasant method of hair removal than waxing. Maybe burning it off while someone punches you in the face would be more painful… who knows?

Anyway. I am a sophisticated woman and so a bikini wax was inevitable. I’m not sure sophisticated women wear Hello Kitty Band-Aids and put skull and crossbones temporary tattoos on their forearms, but I am working on it.

According to the Women That Know, sophisticated ladies have professionals neaten up their private areas. Carrie is a Woman That Knows. That is why I asked her advice about the bikini wax thing. She was helpful in telling me where to go and who to ask for. Her most helpful advice though, was to go to the liquor store across the street from the salon and wash down some Advil with a mixed beverage in the parking lot before going in.

In my anxiety, which I think was entirely legitimate given the situation, I had maybe more Advil and mixed drink than Carrie had in mind. Also I am a lightweight when it comes to that sort of thing. Thus, I was extremely mellow when I walked into the salon and asked for Jen. I wasn’t irritated at all when I had to wait a long time for her to finish a facial either- the haircut books just seemed so awesome this evening. I almost wanted Jen to have a turn at the waiting thing because I was only half way through the celebrity makeover section when she called me in.

The waxing room was deceptively soothing. The lights were dim and there was gentle music playing softly in the hallway. I explained that this was my first waxing and she asked if I was getting a bikini or a Brazilian wax. I was nowhere near brave enough for the Brazilian yet and so I shyly requested the regular bikini wax and instantly felt less sophisticated.

Jen gave me see-through panties to put on and then left for me to change into them which seemed weird to me. What is the point of privacy if it is only to put on transparent undergarments? I thought it was already understood that the whole situation was pretty invasive.

The waxing itself was as painful as expected. I felt more sober than ever and pitied my poor body.

In trying to distract myself from the burning rip of the waxing cloth, I tried to think peaceful thoughts about God and the universe and things like that. I think the new agey music brought that on. Philosophizing during a bikini wax really adds some interesting perspective to your inner discussions on morality. I thought about the Golden Rule and suddenly, everyone seemed just a little more doomed. If doing unto others as we would have done unto ourselves is the standard of moral perfection, I hope that “Others” are kinder to themselves than I am to myself because at that moment I was having done unto me a whole world of discomfort and was feeling ready to return the favor unto someone else, namely Jen at that moment.