Early dark thirty.
Waiting for my french toast.
Lifesaving coffee.

Since Monday was a U.S. holiday – for some of us at least – and I had meetings until 7:30 last night, I decided to take the first Friday morning flight out of Chicago instead of traveling on Thursday evening.

O’Hare is even more O’Horror-ish at 5 a.m.

—- I figure drowning myself in powdered sugar AND maple syrup will help, right? —-

Yesterday, I read Lyvvie’s post about reading in public places – specifically on public transport. And now that I’m a regular public transport user (I mean rider, not that I use drugs on public transport…), I read all the time.

Most recently, I borrowed my new landlord’s copies of Naked and Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris. Good, easy reads for times when I’m surrounded by people jostling for space and half-listening to make sure I don’t miss my stop. That the essays are hilariously funny are only a bonus.

This morning, though, I obviously wasn’t thinking about what Lyvvie wrote. I grabbed a book, got to the station, and settled myself into my seat – surrounded, as usual (at 6:45 a.m.) by twenty-somethings heading downtown for work. I took off my glasses (all the better to see the freakin’ words) and propped my newest selection on top of my briefcase – exactly the right distance and height to make out the words on the page. I got involved in the character’s introduction to his life – a Jewish boy with an insurance salesman father – and ignored the activity going on around me. I’d heard of this book quite often, but had never read it – and since most of my other choices were either plays or tomes far too serious for light train reading, I figured this was my chance to read it without going to the library or buying it myself.

Four or five stops into the commute, I glanced up and noticed the guy across from me staring. Intently. With a wry grin on his face.

Then I realized he wasn’t staring at me, but at my book.

And then I turned 17 shades of red, died, and they dragged my body off the train.

—- Of course, when I got home this evening, I also found out that I had missed taking a dry-cleaning tag off the back of my skirt and walked around with a little slip of paper stapled to my ass all day. —-

On Valentine’s Day, Mr. Hot and I took the dog for a walk. Now, this isn’t unusual in and of itself – we take the dog for a walk together every weekend. The dog LIVES for his walk. The dog does a happy dance when he hears “walk”. The dog bounces off walls when he sees Mr. Hot reach into the drawer where the poop bags are kept.

In fact, if the dog doesn’t get his walk (and remember, the dog lives on an acre, so it’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of exercise space), the dog mopes. He sighs. He huffs and his bosom heaves.

He may as well be a character in a Victorian novel.

Obviously, we try very hard to prevent “the drama”. The only thing that keeps us from a walk is rain – and only because the dog doesn’t.do.rain. It’s okay for us to brave 40 mile-an-hour gusts in 10-degree weather, but heaven forbid we attempt to get him out during a shower – he won’t even go into the back yard until he’s ready to burst. And then? His feet barely hit the grass before it’s raise the leg, piss, and run back in.

Annnywayyyyyyyy.

On Valentine’s Day, we walked. All of our usual haunts were out – the snow was far too deep for a Labrahund. Or a Daschrador. And even though it’s hilarious to watch him bunny hop into the drifts, he barely makes it 10 yards doing that – and it’s not worth the bundling up and driving to the trails for that distance.

Where to go? We settled on one of the only places we knew there would be pavement showing:

We parked and made our way through the lot, being buffeted by the wind whistling around the side of the building while the dog galloped ahead, sniffing for lunch castoffs tossed out of windows by the kids old enough to drive to Taco Bell or Wendy’s at noon.

(He still dreams of that wonderful Saturday during football season when a tailgating family left an entire tray of hot dogs for him to feast upon. So what if they were cold and from the night before? They even came with buns!)

And while he was certain that the white box in that picture up there contained a steak – or maybe a cheeseburger – or at the very least…a piece of pizza crust – as we got closer, we could see that it wasn’t food at all.

Oh no.

It was:

Yes.

In the high school parking lot.

On Valentine’s Day.

(Thank gawd Shortman has already graduated.)

(And that I have no use for such a thing any more.)

—- What worries me is that I think this is the brand they sell at the Dollar Tree. —-

“I’m never gonna get married. Are you?”
“Hmm…I suppose if the right person came along, I might. Someone with green eyes and a nice laugh, who I could call ‘Pooty Pie’.”
“POOTY PIE?”
“Or bitsy pookums.”
“I think that would affect my stomach a lot more than my heart.”
“Bitsy pookums I’d say. Yes snoogy woogy, she’d reply…”
- from Calvin & Hobbes by Bill Watterson

—- Yes, the last one is me. Me and my green eyes. You can call me Bitsy Pookums. —-

Now, to see more Mute Monday participants, check out The Troll Report.

• Leftover pasta for lunch.
• Not having a 6:45 a.m. flight in the morning.
• Saying, “WTF” to my mother and having her laugh.
• Seeing wild turkeys in the old pumpkin patch today.
• The smell of Goo Gone.

—- And having that damned wallpaper off the walls. —-

Wage a battle against embitterment and take part in Grace in Small Things. Thanks to Schmutzie, as always.