| |
SOHPIE
Other than Max, I had no idea what to pack for this doggie dating thing. Clothes, obviously. And toiletries. Okay, I would just get out a small suitcase and travel-sized toiletry case. It was just one night after all.
I stared blindly into my closet. I had nothing to wear. I should have gone on an unrestrained shopping spree.
I scowled into the closet in order to strengthen my resolve. Wardrobe was fine. I would pack like a wildly glamorous, young celebrity going on a carefree vacation to an enchanted wooded forest sprinkled in magical fairy dust.
I have no clothes resembling a wildly glamorous, young celebrity. Instead of thinking about attracting a male, I would concentrate on staying cool, comfortable, and slobber free without looking like a scantily clad canine groupie.
Gah! Have let the entire nation of Italia down by not owning (strictly black) Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses or a Gucci handbag.
Okay. I finally decided on three appropriate outfits. But, wait. This was a dating thing. With actual dating. I would probably require daytime dress as well as nighttime dress.
I decided on six appropriate outfits. All was good.
All was not good. What if someone’s dog molested me with muddy feet? What if espresso suddenly took effect and I got gassy and bloated and nothing fit? What if a lecherous pervert played coy and spilled his drink on my boobs as a lame excuse to wipe them off? Had better take back-up.
Twelve outfits were now flung with horrified abandon on bed. They were never going to fit into my small suitcase. I was going to need a bigger boat ... er ... suitcase. Ha. Boat. Boat, suitcase, same thing since both held things. I assured myself everyone would have a large boat-like suitcase just as Max jumped on the bed, snuffled under my nice summer clothes, dropping globs of hair and slobber hither and yon. I suddenly heard Jaws theme music playing in my head and wished for a barrel of exploding pressurized scuba tanks. “Max! Down!”
Max totally ignored me. He must have known I was packing for a trip and was sad. On impulse I hugged Max, overwhelmed by warmth and love knowing how much my sweet, chubby dog would miss me even if I were gone only mere seconds.
Just as I was about to tell Max he was going with me, he lunged under my clothes once again, only to emerge with a blue silk blouse in his mouth, the entire thing now covered in doggie drool. I noticed an underhanded gleam in Max’s eye. My warmth and affection oozed into detached evil-eyed resignation.
Ha. Max would SO not miss me. He would only feign sadness in order to garner sympathy and dog biscuits. I should pump my fist in the air with a battle cry of, “Max, you fat, sneaky canine and doer of Very Bad Things, you will never win, you can’t beat me!” With no one to hear me other than fat Max, I felt deflated and decided against the war cry. I resolved instead to ignore the dog and concentrate on my clothing disaster.
Hmmm. I was only going one hour north of Atlanta, not into the Great Beyond so the temperature wasn’t going to be any cooler there than it was here. Atlanta, even though technically in the Northern Hemisphere, got rainforest, swamp-ass, soul-crushingly humid during the summer. One hour north was not nearly enough to make a difference. Lakes boiled, tires melted, steel buildings buckled. I was going to wind up drenched in sweat—the kind of prolonged and exhaustive sweating that made you smell like multiple varieties of jungle fungus. I’d better get out a tactical survival kit. And silica gel packs for armpits.
Just remembered there would also be mosquitoes the size of velociraptors. Apart from the whole Labor Day thing, which has absolutely no theme, why the hell did Bailey pick early September?
OK. Deep breath. I would NOT include any garments that resembled:
Chore clothes for prairie homesteader, generic office manager dying in sauna, vampy bitter landlady stuck in swampy marshland with alligators and snakes, or Brazilian tribal expert. (Note: While cool, do not bring grass skirt sold to me by sketchy Papua New Guinea native with Jersey accent.)
Have decided I’m going for dating panache. Cool but classy. Comfortable yet refined. I’m Italian, effortless-sexy-yet-tasteful-fashion is in genes.
Maybe I was born with a genetic mutation. Room now looked like a great tsunami had struck. Probably should get yellow crime scene tape and ask mother if I really am Italian.
Decided against making mother cry. Instead I fell helplessly into a pit of wretched insecurity and soul-crushing expendability. Resolved to kill Luca and risk prison.
Right. Back to packing. My wardrobe is eclectic and plentiful. Um, maybe, too plentiful. I’m only going for one night and one day. Probably I won’t need anything:
- that resembles a pirate. (Put poofy shirt and eye patch away)
- to walk down the red carpet for an Emmy acceptance speech. (Disregard black sequined evening gown)
- that requires a parachute. (No need for my royal blue jumpsuit)
- for a triathlon. (Would only sweat more anyway)
- for high tea with the Queen. (Fussy lace outfit would have to wait for proper timing)
- to barter with Pygmy natives in order to escape a third world prison. (None of my clothes would fit Pygmy natives anyway)
- that resembles a costume from The Lion King, Cats, or Phantom Of The Opera. (Hats and masks would only ruin hair and melt make-up.)
Which is too bad because I have a beaded cape that makes me feel like a genuine super hero. I tossed it aside. I doubted I’d be chasing mutant wombats or anything else (other than fat Max) in the wilds of Georgia.
My gaze narrowed as I studied my lingerie pile. Crapballs. It looked like Rainbow Brite pooped on my bed. Better to take understated lingerie in case of car accident or Zombie Apocalypse.
Max gave a high pitched bark only to dive back under my clothes, playing the fat Max version of Where’s Waldo. When he finally emerged, I noticed Max had gone into full protest mode, pushing most of my wardrobe onto the floor with his hind feet.
For crying out loud. Before fat dog could tear clothing and bedding to shreds, I hastily went into self-preservation mode. “Trip, Max, trip! Park! Car! Fun!”
Max stopped, looked at me, then tore from the room faster than a speeding bullet. Like Superdog. Probably more accurate to say like a happy, drunken wildebeest. I listened as Max streaked across the apartment going into a full skid as he approached the kitchen, careened across the wood floor, then heard a loud WHOMP as Max lost traction and smacked into the wall near his food dish.
He charged back into bedroom, food dish in mouth, then joyfully tossed food bowl, slobber and all, into the suitcase right onto my best silk blouse.
Two silk blouses down. Right. Too hot for silk anyway. If it was winter, I could take flannel. Although flannel might make men think of Paul Bunyan (minus ox, unless Max is ox) instead of sexy young woman.
Maybe I’m not sexy. Maybe I’m just fat like Max. I glanced down at the hand holding my fourth macchiato of the day, then set the cup down on my dresser with an annoyed flourish. I wished I could blame Max for my feeling fat and/or PMS bloated nightmare. Instead, I chastised myself for gulping down yet another venti macchiato. No wonder my hands move all the time.
A macchiato is not like real Italian coffee. More like a calorie-laden treat. Even skinny version would make my ass spread like a big Montana sky. In Italia, no one lounges around sipping on espresso, they knock it back in one shot and they’re gone. Also espresso cups in Italia are not huge but small, except in commercial coffee houses, then espresso cups are large enough to jack up an entire village.
I made a mental note not to have espresso at speed dating doggie gala thing. Am afraid I would look like a well-dressed junkie with jitters who needed a heroine fix. Not the impression I was going for.
Max eyed my Starbucks cup with overzealous lust in his eyes. Just as Max gathered himself to lunge for my cup, I stuck my hand out like a rookie traffic cop. “You’d better not, Max, or no car trip!”
Deflated, Max slumped to the floor in a puddle of fur (his default move), looking up at me with big brown eyes, eyebrows raised in a pleading doggie fashion, looking first this way then that. That was his favorite way of inflicting guilt. I wasn’t falling for it. No way. Not again.
Who was I kidding. Guilt flooded me and I dug in my pocket looking for healthy dog treat. I tossed the treat which Max caught in a mid-air gulp.
In a last minute panic, I suddenly remembered the Labor Day flyer suggested a list of questions. Probably for me, not Max. Another list. Oh, monkey balls.
Finally packed, I decided to first give Max a quick bath and blow dry. I wanted him looking his handsome best for our special weekend. I would do the list later.
#IMadeMaxAnOfferHeCan’tRefuse
#BarkLikeNobody’sWatching
#MyLifeIsADisasterMovie