My father belongs to a men’s club that strictly bars the fairer sex.
I think this is because, at their monthly meetings, there’s crazy dancing and silly hats. I’ll never know because he’s sworn to secrecy as to their goings-on.
This past Monday, while he was off wearing a sombrero and doing the Mashed Potato, my mother took me out to dinner at my favorite local restaurant.
It’s a barbecue joint not long on ambiance but very long on smoky, porky, goodness.
Its best feature is not its great prices or large portions, but the fact that its proprietors, Kevin and his daughter, Karen, treat every customer like family.
To wit, Kevin always packs up a large bone for me to take home to my perfect dog, Layla.
She’s some form of mutt; we don’t know what but she can buzzsaw her way through a bone like nobody’s business.
And that she did.
Now, it’s well documented that I suffer from insomnia. Cruel, at best. But when I do sleep, I sleep like the dead.
Dracula has nothing on me.
When finally I wake, my eyes do not snap open, my brain ready to contemplate world domination.
No, I more or less stagger. To the kitchen.
To the living room. Turn on the news.
Plop myself onto the couch. Coffee.
It takes me about 20 minutes to get myself together and figure out which part of the world is about to disintegrate.
Then I take myself back to the bedroom (more coffee on the way) to make the bed, pick out some clothes, and, finally, throw myself into the shower. That’s a normal day.
But not today.
When I got back to the bed, I realized that I had been sleeping in a giant puddle of bone-induced dog puke.
It was all over the sheets, the blankets, the pillows, and one quick peek over my shoulder into the dresser mirror told me that it was all over my pajamas as well.
As fast as lightning, I stripped the bed, cleaned the kitchen, stripped the couch (thank you to the sewing gods for slip-covers), stripped myself, threw it all into my washing machine, and then, literally, threw myself into the shower where I did the “Eew! Eew! Icky! Icky!” dance.
I have been working lately on trying to gain a better perspective on my life and more insight into who I am as a person. (A little navel-gazing never hurt anyone, but — holy crap — there’s lint in there!)
This experience has taught me two things:
A) I have no maternal instincts whatsoever. I should never have fed my dog a bone larger than her head, and
B) I am lucky. Lucky that I am too old to sleep naked.