Dog Turd

I just had her outside, and she had gone. I guess she was saving this one for inside, though. It’s cold outside, and very difficult to get her to shit out there. It’s hard to blame her. She went on the paper like she’s supposed to. I guess that’s alright. It’s the next best spot. That’s why the newspaper is down there. Now there’s a lonely little dog turd on the floor. It’s just one tiny little Chihuahua turd, about half as big as one of my fingers. The whole room smells like shit though. You can’t clean that up quick enough. The stink is immediate and powerful. Even after the offending item is removed, the stink lingers like a ghost.

Electric Blue

In the white-hot, late afternoon heat, I was stuck in traffic, on the ramp merging from the 10th street bypass onto the Fort Pitt Bridge. I was sweating through my t-shirt with the window down. I could have closed it and turned on the AC, but then I wouldn’t be able to smell all the exhaust that I enjoy so much. We all have priorities. Moving smoothly and without obstruction in the oncoming lane was an electric blue, late '80s Corvette with a T-top. A bald man with a very fat face was driving it. He was wearing a white polo shirt and talking on a cell phone. At the merge point, the homeless guy who’s there every day was there again, with the same sign, same change cup, and same clothes. There was nothing remarkable about that. What was remarkable was that his outfit was comprised of long jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up, a beard creeping out and down the front of his shirt. I understood the jeans. I don’t suppose the homeless often have the resources to switch to shorts for the summer. But the hooded sweatshirt seemed excessive, especially with the hood up. Certainly he could take that off in favor of a simple t-shirt. The one I wore to the office today came in a three-pack for $10.

Morning Television

It’s not often that my wife and I are both up and moving at the same time in the morning. My wife isn’t headed to work at her usual time this morning, though. So she’s watching TV in the kitchen while I’m trying to check my email and head out the door. It’s deafening. She always has the volume up like that. I can’t help but hear it. It’s some inane network morning talk-show/news-show kind of junk. There is nothing valuable or intelligent to learn from it, but they “report” on dumb contemporary cultural issues, as if those matter to anybody. My wife loves this shit. She sits at the kitchen table, eats Frosted Mini-Wheats, drinks instant coffee, watches the talking heads and laughs. Sun comes in the window. The dog runs in circles around her feet. They both wag their tails blissfully. She doesn’t take it seriously, which is a relief. She just likes to laugh at it. I can understand, though I don’t think it’s funny at all. I think my IQ drops every second that I’m around it. This morning’s urgent, breaking expose is about office relationships. The “journalist” or “anchor-person” or “personality” or whatever was talking seriously and with conviction about the insanity of people who have office relationships, as if they were raping the elderly, butchering homeless children, or selling their body parts to buy crack. She talked about professionalism, like that’s a worthwhile value. I think professionalism is how wars get started. Professionalism doesn’t mean you’re a Nazi, just a good German. At least my wife is laughing at this shit, but it’s pissing me off that I have to endure it. I think any sort of personal relationship you could possibly have should come before your work. Unless you’re saving lives at your job, what you do for a living probably is not that enriching or important. Your job should probably take a backseat to anything that can possibly enrich your life and make you a more interesting, developed, happy, balanced person.

Dropping Weight

My weight fluctuates a little from the warmer months to the colder ones. Normally, in the winter I’m around 215. In the summer I’m normally down around 205. On my 6’ 2” frame, it doesn’t really make much difference. I lift year-round, but additionally run during the spring and summer. I also try to eat a bit more carefully when it’s warmer, as well. It’s to these things that I generally attribute the modest weight loss. Though normally, during the spring thaw, I get some sort of terrible flu, fever, cold, or other miscellaneous illness which results in an involuntary fast. This is generally very helpful in getting the ball rolling. A good illness is always good for those first three or four pounds of weight loss. Strangely, this year I didn’t get sick. All summer, my weight stuck around 212. Dieting and running didn’t matter. I attribute it to my lack of illness. Now it’s October, and I’ve quit running for the year. My want for the Blond has stressed me out, and taken my appetite, and I’ve lost eight pounds. At the gym this morning, I was 204. Still dropping, I hope. It’s amazing how a good fever can help trim you down, even if it comes a few months late, and even if it’s psychological rather than physical in nature.

Taking Her to Lunch

Taking her to lunch excites me. Hey, I’m not proud. I’ll take what I can get. She asks me if I want to ask any other co-worker friends to come along. I don’t, but I don’t want to seem weird. So I ask them, all good friends whom I like a lot, hoping they won’t accept the invite. When they decline, I feel like I’ve won something. I like the fact that other people in the restaurant likely look at us and think we’re a couple. I just try to hold on to that and savor it. Lunch alone with her on a Friday afternoon, a beautiful Friday afternoon. She always puts on sunglasses, though her blue eyes look so much better unadorned. Christ, she’s beautiful. The radiance of the shining afternoon sky is improved by her standing in front of it. She’s such a funny girl, the Blond. So guarded, and yet so interested in any sort of details she can get out of me. Dirty things I’ve done. Other women I’ve been with. What they’ve been like. The arrangement I have with my wife. Each time we have one of these conversations, I think I’m wearing her defenses down. I feel like I’m getting a little closer to defeating her “no married men” rule. Probably not a bad rule to have, but rules are fun to break. That’s what life’s about. The joy of indiscretion is one of the greatest that life has to offer. We are absolute opposites. Not a lot of overlap at all. I think that’s what is so intriguing. That’s why I’m so interested. She’s exactly the type of woman who looks like she’d never want to degrade herself by talking to anyone like me. She’s an athlete, and from what I understand, has historically dated athletes. She likes clean-cut men who enjoy playing and watching sports. She likes career-oriented, ambitious, well-dressed men who appreciate fine automobiles. The men she admires are most likely the sort who mocked me, intimidated me, and called me a fag back in high school. The irony is that, at 29, I’m in better shape now than many of them. Regardless, her taste in just about everything is absolutely opposite my own. I just don’t understand what she likes about me. Though I’m not sure if she’s attracted to me, she must certainly like my company. She’s always very willing to spend time with me. The puzzlement is exciting. If I ever got her, it would feel like a victory over everything I’ve struggled against up to this point in my life. That’s not to say that I’m pursuing her out of spite, or that she’s in any way “better” than other women that have been in my life. It’s that she’s so incompatible with me. It’s that I’m excited at the prospect of attaining something I wasn’t meant to have. There’s all that…and her perfectly shaped ass. I like walking behind her and watching that tail wag. Her weight shifts from leg to leg, and her hips sway to accommodate, each cheek taking turns showing off. Tuesday we had lunch at Sunseri’s, upstairs. She went up the stairs first, and I followed close behind her behind.