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Lassie, get lost | page 1, 2
It turns out there is a very specific purpose to the mall visit: to see if Coach will have any $295 dog collars in stock in time for Christmas morning. On Christmas morning, my friend will unwrap for her dog the gift she has bought and wrapped for it and then project an emotional reaction onto the dog that will make her feel as if the dog actually gives a shit about the collar or could even distinguish Dec. 25 from a hole in its head. Unfortunately, Coach will not have the collars in until after the first of the year. My friend is distraught. I'm not kidding. She is visibly upset. Her mood has nose-dived. I inquire. She explains that she is going away at Christmas and wanted to use the expense of the Coach gift to assuage her feelings of guilt -- as if, in the eyes of her dog, an exclusive, hand-sewn leather collar from a reputable company would compensate for the fact that Mommy was not around on Christmas morn. Well, at least everything is fine at the office when we get back, so we lock her up tight as a drum. Set the alarm, duck under the security fence. The illegally parked vehicle is gone, too. Finally, we get back to the apartment. The moment has arrived. She looks at me coyly, moves closer and says, "You wanna go with me while I walk the dog?" Yes I do. You know why? Because the walk is going to take us right by my car. I get into it and drive away. Now, before you get all in an uproar and tell me how one-sided all of this is, how cruel and impatient and uncaring I am, let me inform you I just got off the phone with my friend Maha, whom I called to lend a woman's perspective to the issue. Here is an exact transcript of our conversation: Hi, Maha. Thanks for coming to the party the other night. Sure. It was fun. Yeah. Yeah. So, how was your interview at that new place? Pretty good. But I had to fill out this stupid questionnaire, you know? Yeah. Yeah. So, I guess I'll talk to you later. Yeah. Yeah. Actually, I just remembered my friend Kristin, who has a rad dog named Joey. He is a big, lovable golden retriever. And while I am pretty certain she loves him and dotes on him a bit, I know for a fact Kristin watches football and college basketball and could kick my ass at pool. So maybe it's not all women and dogs. Maybe just that one. But it's still funny to think back a year and a half to that date and think about how much work went into nothing happening. I remember feeling drained because I was in a constant state of assessment. My excitement over the pending sexual interlude was in direct conflict with my growing dissatisfaction over the emerging dog- and work-related details of her personality. By the time my car was in sight, I felt like a wrung-out dish towel. And all that to find out I simply didn't click with this one person. Then fast-forward a few months, midsummer last year, and I semi-meet a friend of a friend in passing conversation at a party. We're not popping any breakers yet, but the crackle of words coming out of our mouths is generally electric. Two nights later we're at our mutual friend's house, and I am Saran Wrapping some hors d'oeuvres. This girl comes into the kitchen to see if I need any help. Just before this, the plastic wrap had bunched up, so I took it out of the box. Now I am holding the bare roll with a good section pulled out between my hands. I look at her. She looks at me. We both look down at the Saran Wrap, then back at each other. In an instant her sweatshirt is off over her head and I'm wrapping the Saran around her bare chest in huge swaths. No discussion. No preparation. Nothing awkward. It was dizzying. And as I finish with her chest and stomach, she instinctively reaches for her button-fly and unsnaps it. I feel drunk at just the thought of her pants coming down. Is it clear the Saran Wrap girl didn't have a dog? Love, David
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