But This is Different . . .

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Waiting for the Other Poo to Drop

Jess and I don't own a pet. Being selfish is just too rewarding. But we do like animals, and with a dog park just across the street, we make pretty good dog-sitters. Jess' folks decided to stay in Florida through Easter, so we had their French Bulldog, Oliver, for the weekend.

Let me say from the outset, you haven't really lived until you've wiped a dog's ass! One morning in the dog park, Oliver got a little excited and started running off, mid-shit. I had one plastic bag, a steaming mound on the ground, and a shitty-assed dog that had to be carried up three flights of stairs he couldn't climb himself. I had to get a little creative. I cleaned Oliver up the best I could, my hand sheathed in the plastic bag, then used the same bag to pick up his detritus. I took the pup in my arms and went back inside.

Once inside, I could see that Oliver still needed a little clean-up, so I put him down long enough to get a warm, moist cloth. What I didn't realize was our bedroom door was only pushed-to and not latched. Imbued with that profound satisfaction one gets from a good crap, Oliver jumped into bed with half-asleep Jess who eagerly took the dog in his arms and under the covers.

I had always thought I wouldn't be cleaning shit out of the bed until at least my 60's.

I Seem to Have Lost My Penis!

I'm a creature of habit. Several of them. I've been wearing Calvin Klein boxers for more than a decade now. I like the way they are cut. They're not too baggy, not too tight. The waistband isn't irritating and the fly does not easily gape open (unlike my hole.)

But the other day, I was in dire straits. I hadn't done laundry in three weeks. My gym bag was packed. In addition to my workout clothes, I had a change of clothes for after I hit the shower. Minus underwear and socks. So before my workout, I ducked into the Filene's Basement which is in the same building as my gym, which is in the same building as my office. I bought a pair of Joseph Aboud boxers and a three-pack of Nautica socks.

Fast forward to after my workout. I'm back in the office. I'm wearing my crisp, brand new undies, which is a little gross because new clothes always smell a bit like sweatshop and child labor. My dress shirt is neatly tucked into my slacks. Belt cinched a notch too tight. I go to the men's room to relieve my bladder.

I'm standing at the middle urinal. I have a co-worker to my left and right. I unzip my trousers, this particular pair having a smaller than normal opening (unlike my hole.) I reach in with my fingers to that familiar place where Pepe can always be found (slightly to the left.) But this time I hit a brick wall. Or more precisely, a crisp new pair of unfamiliar boxers. My fingers scurry farther left. Then backtrack to the right. Then up and down.

I'm in a quasi panic. Where the hell is my penis! I know he's nothing to brag about, but he does exist and can always be relied upon to perform the basic functions. In my frustration, I became a little too animated in my maneuvering. I realize that my coworkers to the left and right are completely aware that something is going on the other side of the urinal dividers. Try as they might, they can't help but look over to see what the hell is wrong with me. This does not help my situation.

Finally, they each finish with their business, wash their hands, and leave the men's room wondering what the hell I was doing to myself. This scenario is not unfamiliar to me, but is somewhat embarrassing in the milieu of work as opposed to a rest stop. Eventually I undo my belt, unfasten my trousers and urinate successfully. I can only imagine what the guys next to me thought I was doing.

The moral of the story is that wearing no underwear is better than wearing strange underwear. Lesson learned.

Baby Cow Leg Tastes GOOD!

Veal. Who cares if they spend their lives in crates? It's not like foie gras geese who are force fed until their livers rupture (although I would eat that two if I liked the way it tasted.) I made Osso Bucco for the first time on Saturday and it was delicious. Jess and I have found ourselves a butcher. His name's Bill and he works at John Dewar & Company in Newton Centre. He's "one of us," meaning he's gay (not an alcoholic.) We made Grilled Tuna Steak Teriyaki the following night, and while it was perfectly prepared, I did not care for the tuna-teriyaki combo. I'm new to the whole fish thing anyway (eating fish, not pussy.)

I'm off for a Physical Therapy appointment at 7:30 this AM. Gotta remember to shave my tits. Don't want Joe to see the stubble when he does the ultrasound on my shoulder...

Thank God We Live Close to a Bar!

We put on our shit-kickers last night and trudged through the snow to The Alchemist. It was a grueling 1500 feet, door-to-door. Upon arrival, we rewarded ourselves with a libation. Eschewing the Guiness and Newcastle, we opted for delicately colored cocktails--my usual Cosmo and Jess' usual Pineapple Martini. MANLY!

Our favorite bartender John was not at his usual post. Luckily he arrived just in time to guide the bartender on duty through the pineapple martini creation. I guess John wasn't working cos he's working a double today--St. Patrick's Day. God help him!

We scarfed down a Roasted Chicken and Lyonnaise Potato Flatbread and Braised Beef over House-Made Parpadelle Noodles. Then we bundled up and walked home. I had a sweet-tooth so I whipped up a batch of Molten Chocolate Mini-Cakes with whipped cream. Jess only had one, but I had two.

I can't understand why I'm getting fat!