Sleeping with the Enema

Jess and I have a rule. We call it "Die in Car Crash/Die in Sleep". Basically, it means we don't part company or go to sleep angry with one another. 'Cause who knows when one of us might get hit by a city bus or choke in the night on our vomit? (Choking on someone else's vomit, while possible, is not likely to happen in one's sleep.)

Did we break our rule last night? Jess got home around 7:30, about twelve hours after he left for work. His nourishment for the day had been a six-ounce can of V-8. I began to prepare dinner, which was improvisational to say the least. I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing with the ingredients on hand. I began a series of starts and stops. Do I grill the beef or saute it? Corn or flour tortillas? I was twitching like an epileptic under a strobe light.

Jess' blood sugar must have been lower than my blood alcohol content was high. He lit gas burners underneath empty pots and pans and flailed his arms about wildly. With my typical degree of composure, I screeched "Wait a minute!" Jess said "Fine!" and stormed off. I continued making dinner which was excellent, I must say. But I didn't say anything and he didn't say anything.

Jess cleared our plates and I stayed seated. He sat down at the computer to do some work or perhaps cruise around on Manhunt.com. I fell asleep on the couch. Jess cleaned the kitchen, and sometime after 10:00, roused me from the couch to get into bed. Not another word was said.

But I don't think this was a violation of our rule. We know each other so well by now. Jess needs to be silent when he gets mad. And over the years (seven of them), I have learned to repress my innate need to "TALK ABOUT IT RIGHT NOW!" I know Jess is stressed out right now because of work. And Jess knows I was right. I woke up this morning at 5:15. I kissed him on the cheek like I always do. He made a smooch noise, half asleep like he always does. And just now as I am writing this, he comes into the room and sits on my lap. I wrap my arms tightly around him; rest my chin on his shoulder; wrap my legs around his. And we are best friends again, just like we always are.

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.