Friday, May 28, 2010

In May

Taiko is sick because Boyfriend has been in Prague for the last two weeks and this dog is ultra dramatic about being left out. He's trying to get his revenge, and this involves getting ME up at all hours of the night to let him out, not eating his dinner, and groaning when I walk in the door after work. "You? Again?" He sighs loudly and walks away, shaking his enormous bobble head.

His piece de resistance this time is hidden vomit. Thrice has this love-scorned, bulimic, little ingrate surprised me with little pockets of dog barf: in a shoe, under a shopping bag, beside the toilet. What have I done to you, Taiko?? But I know that this has nothing to do with me. He knows once his best friend walks through the door I'm going to go on and on about the trials and tribulations of single parenting, and Boyfriend's chances of leaving for such an extended period of time will be slim to none in the future. Checkmate.

Last night I had to take him about once an hour, every hour. By around 1 am, after having been woken up 3 times already, I've stopped getting dressed to go outside. I leave the house in a nightgown, glasses, and dragon-breath.

Three houses down and I hear a gaggle of young women in their early twenties shriek, "OH MY GOD!! LOOK AT THAT DOG!!" They run over, in a flurry of high heels, miniskirts, and Bump-Its. I fold my arms over my chest and uncomfortably try to hide my lack of bra. I can't let go of the leash or Taiko will run like the Dickens and I can't unfold my arms or it's Nipple Town. The result is a very awkward scene where even my dog is embarrassed to be near me. He wants to go off with the cool girls. And their boyfriends. Who have just left the house and are trying to talk to me about Taiko.

Now I have to cover my boobs, handle the leash of a very excited dog, and breathe into my arm because what was once an average bout of bad breath has solidified and taken a life of its own. "A social life?" It scoffs. "Not a chance. MWAHAHAHAHAAHAH!!!!"

When I express my concerns that I am in no way prepared to be out of my house for than 2 minutes, one of the girls whispers conspiratorially, "Seriously, don't even worry about it. Your nightgown is cute!" She says this in a way that a mental ward worker would say to lure a patient back to their room. In a way that makes me want to exhale a thank you right into her face so she has to go back home to wash it. Their cabs arrive and I'm finally free.

This morning, drunk on his power of not allowing me to sleep all night, Taiko sleeps in peacefully, thinking there is no chance I will make him exercise. Well, wake the fuck up, Homeslice, we're going for eggs!

I find a cafe with a great shaded patio. Taiko secured on the sidewalk within view, breakfast ordered, I settle in with my book and coffee. In about 15 minutes, he vomits everywhere. I clean as much of it as I can and give him some water. While I go back to pay my bill and get my stuff, a couple walks by and gasps in horror at this disgusting dog, lying next to a pool of vomit. "Ewww! That's so gross!" They exclaim. They look at me and I have to decide whether or not to rush to his defense or deny any relationship to him. It's early and no one else is around.

"Oh that's disgusting!! He's basically lying in his own barf!"

Boom! JUDAS'ED!!! How ya like me now, Dawg?


The time came around for me to pick Boyfriend and his buddy from the airport. It's fairly straightforward, only about 4 turns from my house and 25 minutes away. I may as well have been driving to California.

I'm horrible at driving and all that goes with it, including directions. I couldn't find the GPS, and I don't have a printer, so was therefore forced to write the Google directions down by hand. I wrote every single detail down, not leaving out the km amount (even though I have no idea how to judge a kilometre), and the time allocated to each directive.

I'm very frustrating to drive with, because I'm always second guessing where we are. On my way to the airport, if there is not a sign with a little flying airplane every 1 minute, I'm sure I'm lost. If Google says it takes 4 minutes to get from A to B, and I've been driving for 5, I turn around and try again. I'm the kind of person that gets excited when the next checkpoint actually exists, even though the world wide web indisputably said it was going to be there.

So when I reach the airport on time, without getting lost, I get misty-eyed. I feel a sense of pride, like the mothers on those movies about small-town football stars.


Due to a work issue, I'm currently swamped with zero spare time. Unfortunately, this blog will have to take second stance and I'm going on hiatus til this ish gets sorted.


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