Doest Not Shite Where Thou Doth Drink (Espresso).
I wrote this a couple weeks ago but waited to post it. I didn’t want my fury getting the best of me. (Though, have you noticed that I do my best writing under this influence? Just sayin’.) Anyway, having allowed enough time to pass, I can safely post this now without regret. Plus, it’s funny and we all might learn something. And that’s my job: to entertain and to inspire. And to be happy. And writing this (back then) restored my gayness (not homo-gay, hetero-gay!).
Two Sundays ago…
I’m so mad. How mad am I? Thank you for asking. I’m so mad that I’m buying cheap pencils. And a plastic-covered notebook. From the Dollar Store. All made in fucking China.
I tried finding enviro-friendly pencils but apparently no one this side of the plastic pond makes eco school supplies. (Or at least not offered for sale in the Dollar Store, which is conveniently en route to Starbucks.) What has the world come to when I can’t even get a fucking pencil made out of wood in the second largest country in the world that is vastly covered in forest and has a timber, pulp or paper mill in every back yard? And this goddarn pencil looks like a bloody pen, which is what I thought I was buying.
I stomp straight over to Starbucks and order a triple shot of espresso because the best thing to do to calm the F down is to douse oneself in caffeine—of course!
(We interrupt this rant to bring you a note: I’m getting a hand cramp from writing. I am used to clicking away on my iPad Mini or laptop at a much faster pace than I can get this cursed cursive on the page and, although I can read a sloppy quick-scribbled chicken scratch, I prefer the aesthetic of a nicely crafted cursive more so than efficient rage spewage.¹
I’d also like to add that what I’d thought would be a visually appealing point-seven-weight ink is actually uber annoying to write with in graphite. (Stops for sip of espresso, stretches hand to relieve cramp, gives stink-eye to a rambunctious four-year old, mentally notes—and notes here—“Those jeans are not meant to be rolled up, lady.” Also notes, “I wonder when the next full moon is. Must be soon.” End note.)
My Rent-A-Pet, Moto, formerly known as SashaMoto, originally known as Sasha, sits outside. It’s sprinkling rain, so she’s under a table umbrella. All the rest of the tables and chairs are stacked and chained near the building. I sit inside by the window where we can see each other. I’m not sure if this reassures her or me more. She’s a good dog. Damn good. And in spite of myself—and her—I’ve fallen in love with her.
And my quick rising affection is exactly why I turned down the house-/pet-sitting opportunity for fall. I can’t deal with the love. And guilt. Animals just don’t understand the whys and why nots. I’d always wondered why parents birth guilt along with their children. I’ve tasted a mild flavour of it in only two weeks of dog-sitting Moto . And I didn’t even birth this being!
Anyway, the coffee is starting to kick in, which will help me kick my heels up to get my butt home in this typical mid-summer downpour. Here I am, having walked I don’t even know how many miles, completely not “present” and totally in my mind overthinking and analyzing the cause of my distress. (It’s me. It’s only always ever me. Damn it.)
Oh, you’re wondering why I was so angry? (See? Already past tense. Walking and writing work wonders to dissipate distress.)
It was a little thing really, though, aren’t they all? Basically, I was mad at me. I shat where I used to eat—or rather, where I drank—espresso, to be exact. That old saying is true: do not shit where you eat. Because then all the staff, owners and regular customers will give you the stink-eye when you return moons later, and you’ll be forced to go to Starbucks because it’s the only other fucking coffee shop open on Sunday! (Um, that is if you’re in a small town. A small town with long memories and few decent espresso shops within walking distance.)
I’m mad at myself for inappropriate shitting. (You do know what this metaphor is for, right?²)
The specifics in brief: I went in, asked if I could tie “my” dog up outside where I could see her—where there were no patrons due to the rain. I got the cold shoulder, was told to tie her around the corner because “some people are allergic to dogs,” understood the real message, accepted that, and walked away only to watch another patron sit down and tie his dog up right by the front entrance.
I can handle your snarky attitude toward me, but when you take out your prejudice on my child—err, I mean my dog—well, that’s another fucking matter, buddy! (Nonetheless, it was me who shat, and I shan’t shit like that everrr again. Don’t quote me on this.)
But skipping ahead—as I’m skipping home with Moto, and my rage on the page is now safely a write-off—I can say the trek was good for us both. We stop in the park, chase each other and play. And I laugh, and she barks and gets down on her haunches, tail wagging away. And I’d not seen this side of her thus far. Her aged bones and bad hip usually keep her hobbling.
We stop at Healthy Way, and I buy organic dog treats (because now that I’m no longer angry, I care about the planet again), even though they are packaged in plastic and shipped from far away. (This is why I sympathize with those who aren’t as usually eco-obsessed as I am and thus I don’t get all judgey. Usually. Okay, that’s a lie. I totally judge. Whatever.)
When we get home, I tell her, You were a good girl, SashaMoto.
She wags her whole bum waiting for her treat. I rip open the bag and present her with her prize. She sniffs it and looks away.
Me: Seriously?
I sigh and get one of her regular (non-organic, less expensive) meaty treats. She gracefully takes it in her mouth and trots off.
Me: Prima donna passive-aggressive, spoiled… cute-as-everrr Moto. (Slump, sigh.)
I typed this wheezing on the sofa with two cats sprawled across me and with itchy, swollen eyes. I dope there aren’t any typos; I cun’t see a fucking thing.
*
Stupid things I’ve said to the house creatures:
To the cats:
Standing at the patio door, cats are inside—or outside: Are you coming in (/going out) or not? Well, which is it? Don’t look at me like that… Fine. (Waits longer.)
The cats think: She’s an idiot.
To the dog:
Stop.
No.
Down.
I can’t take you because—
– there’s no where to tie you up
– it’s too hot in the car
– it’s too far for you to walk
– you can’t keep up with my bike
I’ll be back, I promise.
See, I came back! Down. No.
I just brushed you 10 minutes ago.
I just brushed you 5 minutes ago.
I just just brushed you.
What? I just fed you. What?
I just gave you a treat. That’s all you get.
Poop here…
Or here is fine. (Sigh.)
Must you pee on every blade of grass, shrub, bush, post…?
After sniffing the same spot for endless hours (in dog time): Okay, come on, let’s go! (Waits longer.)
You know you’re driving me to drink, right? No, I didn’t say car ride. Oh, shit.
It’s pissing rain out, can’t you hold it? Or go in the yard?
Don’t look at me like that.
Fiiiiine. (Grabs summer jacket and shit bag.)
Okay, but just around the block.
Dripping wet, we return. Aside from “walk,” the only thing she actually understands…
Blah blah blah treat blah blah walk?
What have I (re)learned?
I have been totally pussy-whipped by a dog.
No more giving up the cow for free coffee.
Homework:
Get rain gear out of storage.
Anti-histamines. Pronto.
Scout for tea houses.
¹Spewage: new word, meaning—“sewage and spewing.” You’re welcome.
²This is a metaphor for having sex with someone. Do not shit where you eat means: do not fornicate with someone associated with an establishment you frequent unless you are fully willing to never go there again. Like. Everrr.
*
Umm also. my memoir, Me: A Rewrite, comes out tomorrow, August 1st—like, OMGOK—separate blog notice to follow. That is all.
I lied! Also, thank you to E.G., S.J. (got your note, hope you’re having a better week!), and C.W. for donating to me! Obvi, I wasn’t expecting it ’cause otherwise I would have checked a hellova lot sooner! You are awesome possums and I heart you big time!!! (Insert goofy emoticons here.)
