For Reasons Unknown

It’s that special time of year again. A time to casually wake up on a Saturday morning, walk the dog and come back to find no fewer than four lines of ants cruising in and out of various rooms throughout our house, the lion’s share of which were snacking happily on last night’s cat food leftovers, and my God, if that’s not the grossest way to wake up, I don’t know what is.

(Actually, now that I’ve let my mind go there, I can think of a multitude of grosser things I could wake up to, like images of Tub Girl.)

(Also minor disclaimer that if by some chance that reference eludes you, sweet Jesus, consider yourself lucky and look it up on Urban Dictionary rather than regular old Google. Your intestines will thank me, and by jove, you might actually eat again, unlike the rest of us. Updated: Um, for real. I regret making the reference, but now that it’s out there, I can’t take it back, but seriously, I wish I could. My mind, it is a little twisted at times, and I erroneously assumed that by now, years later, everyone had been tortured by that image at least once. I was apparently wrong. Heed my warning.)

Ants aside, enjoyed our first rainy Saturday in what felt like more than a year, and to celebrate, we laid in bed until 2 p.m., went out for a leisurely lunch, and promptly came back to bed to lay around like bumps on pickles for another few hours. It was delicious and entirely guilt-free, because that’s what those days are for, are they not? By the way, Prep has come and gone and I loved it. I have to admit, however, that my love may have diminished had I not devoured it like a pile of carrot cakes. If it had dragged on for more than three or four days, I’m not as sure I would feel the same way. But since we’ll never know, it doesn’t matter, except that I recommend that if you read it, read it fast, before Lee wears on you.

By Sunday, however, we were back in a thick, pudding-like veil of sticky heat with absolutely no indication that it had ever rained, and let me tell you, nothing makes a hot, sticky afternoon more pleasant than wearing a non-removable thick wool sock on your right foot. I tore my plantar fascia a few months ago and, like a fool, continued running on it, thinking that running hurts for everyone of course, and that I really shouldn’t be such a pathetic little pansy. As a result, I’ve been wearing some version of this for ten days and I AM SO DONE WITH IT:

Gross. It’s gross. This particular soft cast has been on there for five days, and I’ve been wearing black flip flops, hence the black heels oh my God, and just looking at it makes me want to kill myself slowly, maybe with some sports tape. Also, under that cast is, I can only imagine, a hairy jungle of truly terrifying proportions that I’m trying not to think about too much, and I know Adam is avoiding even glancing in that general direction. I had an MRI on Thursday, and dear God, I hope this is all coming to an end soon, because, as I may have mentioned before, I have a weird thing about my feet being confined, and this is making me positively crazy, just CRAZY, not to mention very sweaty, which is compounded by the fact that I have to shower with a garbage bag on my foot. FREE THE FEET.

For the past five days, I’ve come home from my nightly walks with Sunny marveling at how each night, I seem to be following the same man – a man who wears far too much really cheap aftershave. I couldn’t believe the coincidence – every night, no matter what time I walked, I would be downwind of this mysterious man, and who was he married to anyway, who let him douse himself this way? Who?

As it turns out, no one, after a neighbor pointed out that my mystery man was very likely the open port-o-potty next to a cluster of houses under construction. And all this time, I’ve been inhaling deeply, trying to figure out the baffling odor. Was it Old Spice, I wondered? Also, while Googling port-o-potty (to see if it was trademarked, like Dumpster, out of nothing but curiosity), I discovered Uncle Booger’s Bumper Dumper, and I’m not even sure what to say next.

Incidentally, one of the best and most predictable things about walking Sunny is that every single evening – right next to the port-o-potties – we run into a giant cluster of blackbirds, and every single night, she gleefully tries to chase them, either to eat them or play with them, I’m honestly not sure which. Each and every time, without fail, either she runs out of leash or the birds fly away before she even gets close. And yet, every night she sees them, and joyfully runs after them like it’s her first time, never caring that there is no way in hell she’s ever going to catch them. I feel like there must be some sort of Martina McBride-like country song metaphor I can make here, about how we should learn from our dogs and pursue the impossible dream undaunted, but honestly, I think it mostly means that she’s simply not very bright.

I also have a strange compulsion to admit that sometime in the last few years, I’ve become the sort of person who TiVos Meet the Press. I remember a time when Sunday morning news was for old people who had nothing better to do but sit around and watch Tim Russert while catching up on their antimacassar crocheting. What has become of me? Seriously? I have become the kind of person who’s biggest weekend thrill – a thrill that Adam and I are still talking about and have actually re-watched since – is watching good old Tim positively skewer Democratic candidate Bill Richardson in one of the most impressive displays of television journalism I’ve ever seen. Next up: Reader’s Digest subscription, large-print edition.

I hope you have a delightful Monday.

*The Killers

24 comments June 3rd, 2007