It is in my opinion that women have a subconscious affinity for head games. We can’t help it. There is something in our genetic make up (okay, we know what it is; it’s estrogen) that makes us ask open-ended questions, even though there is only one right answer and, in all honesty, we most definitely know this answer when we pose the question. It’s a pass/fail test that is designed to set the taker up for failure nearly every time. Poor men. I mean, at least lesbians have a fighting chance because they are wired similarly- -but men don’t even see this psycho/psychological onslaught coming. I once heard a married man say, “I can be right or I can be happy” which I thought was hilarious and true, but also sort of sad…...have I said “true” yet? I have to say, I appreciate the simplicity of men, and I commend lesbians. I couldn’t deal with me as a partner, this I’m sure of.
Anyway, my natural headgameyness (I’m insisting that’s a word) paired with PMS yielded some really singular results yesterday. I decided to be a good ‘dog mom’ and take my two dogs for a ride as I ran a few errands. Now, to paint a picture- -I have two very different dogs. I have Xavier, who is 8 years old and wise and sweet and obedient with a soul a mile wide. Then I have X.E. who is 3 and……well, let’s just say she’s “special.” Towards the end of my errand trip yesterday, X.E. opted to shit in the back seat of the car. For those of you who haven’t ever had the privilege of being in a small enclosed space, in city traffic, with a steaming pile of shit, let me just say that I make no apologies for my grievance- -even fucking Jesus wouldn’t have been immune to the likes of this kind of agitation, so I make no apologies.
I like to think that X.E. knows better, but this is a dog who licks windows and thinks her reflection in my foyer mirror is another dog. It’s an added thorn to have proverbial egg on your face for overestimating that your housebroken, 3 year old dog won’t shit in the car. Silly me. So, I pulled over as soon as I was able (into a Mexican Restaurant parking lot) and broke out the poop bags that are kept in the trunk and usually designated for outdoor shitting. So then for about five minutes, the people with the fine pleasure of dining window side of Muchas Gracias Mexican Grill & Cantina (I'm not kidding; I can't even make up stuff that good) had the rare privilege of watching me clean feces out of my car while I swore and carried on like a crazy person. I know it made my night better knowing that Darwin’s forgotten creatures eating their $6 entrées pitifully mused, “Wow, it sucks to be her.”
I drove home, still not excited about the events that had just transpired. Plus, even though I had gotten rid of the poo with expert timeliness, the whole car was still ripe with X.E.’s unholy wrongdoing. I felt the need to remind X.E. what a bad girl she was for the entire ride home; meanwhile she greeted my reprimand with a dead stare and some sporadic window-licking. I felt really frustrated that she didn’t seem to be understanding the scope of my anger and aggravation, so when we arrived back at the house, I hysterically blurted out, “Well, X.E., you get to go in your crate while Xavier and I watch a movie!” Sadder still, I felt vindicated for about ten minutes until I realized that I was laying in a bed with a stinky 8 year old dog watching a movie- -like that should be some sort of triumph. “I showed her.”
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