January 20, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE: Your nicely balanced routine goes out the window. Don t stress – it’s temporary.
If only it had been a dream. I awoke at 3:36 a.m., vomit all over my pajama top. Hmm, not my vomit. Tupper’s! Oh, Tupper what have you done? With a light on, I see that the sheets have taken a hit too. Damn it stinks! I create a trough with the bottom of my top and the goo slides down. Must fight reflex to upchuck, too. I strip in the bathtub and go back to pull the sheets. Sure wish I had a washer/dryer in my apartment.
More heaving sounds. No, Tupper! No! Oh, why did he have to jump on the sofa for the next round? I barricade the little pooch in the kitchen, the fallen chair making him apprehensive. Sofa cushion to the tub. Quick rinse time: fabric, sheets, me.
I finally discover the evidence on the floor beside the dining table: an empty box of Purdy’s chocolates. It was my thank you gift from Ernesto for working all day Sunday—would have preferred a token raise or dinner (not with him, of course). In a remarkable sign of restraint, I only ate one truffle (with Kahlua!) last night. Somehow Tupper, the little dog with weak legs, transformed into mountain goat in the wee hours, apparently climbing a chair and then reaching the treasure at the apex.
Dogs and chocolate. Not good, right? Deadly?!
I toss on a sweatshirt and jeans. Time for another (expensive) trip to the 24-hour emergency animal hospital. Should brush my hair in case it’s that quasi-dreamy Dr. Richard again. (No match for the studs of “Grey’s Anatomy”, but real. And rich, no? I mean, how many other dogs discover chocolate as a midnight snack?)
Alas. It’s Dr. Stella, the lesbian who keeps sneaking glances at me. I could match her up with my sister, if only she’d drop that militant Carl(a).
Apparently the key thing to do with a dog that eats chocolate is induce vomiting. Been there, done that. But good to get the $275 professional take on it. Tupper will be fine. My Visa is another matter. Again, Ernesto, a raise would be so much better than one piddly truffle.
Will show up a half hour late for work this morning. Yeah, mom, I learned that passive aggressiveness from you.
Okay, ten minutes.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
UP AN HOUR EARLY. HAVE TO FLY TO VICTORIA. WLD RATHER TAKE FERRY, BUT BOSS WANTS ME BACK FOR 1:00 MTG. GOD, I HATE FLOAT PLANES. WLD FEEL BETTER IF WE ALL WORE LIFE JACKETS WHOLE TRIP. WLD FEEL BETTER IF THEY MADE US STRAP ON FLOTATION DEVICES ON ALL FLIGHTS. HAVE THOSE OXYGEN MASKS DOWN AND READY, TOO. BUT, NO, THE HONCHOS ARE TOO BUSY CHECKING OUR SHOES AND CONFISCATING MY HAND CREAM. (NOTE TO SELF: MUST BUY GLOVES. AND NOT THOSE SILLY RED OLYMPIC MITTS THAT LET YOU CLAP LIKE A SEAL.)
MTG IN VICTORIA IS W/VICTORIA. YEAH, VICTORIA IN VICTORIA—NOVELTY HAS WORN OFF. GOOD THAT IT’S AN A.M. THING. DON’T WANT ANOTHER AWKWARD SESSION @ BAR W/HER. MOST AGGRESSIVE FLIRTER EVER. SEXUAL PREDATOR, REALLY. WE’RE NEVER DOING IT AGAIN. IT’S HER MARRIAGE, NOT MINE, BUT FEELS SLEAZY—EVEN TO ME. FIVE TIMES—OR IS IT SIX?—IS ENOUGH.
HEAVYSET COUPLE JOINING ME ON FLIGHT. WILL THAT AFFECT LIFTOFF? THEY HAVE A BABY, TOO. “HE’S COLICKY,” SHE SAYS. GREAT.
BOSS OWES ME. BIG TIME.