She Doesn’t Do That in My House

Has this happened to you? You go away for a few days, and you leave your dog with a friend. Upon returning, you are told what a great house guest she was. She didn’t destroy anything. She didn’t poop or pee in the house. She was the perfect angel. She slept in their bed. Then the first night you are back, she takes a shit in the middle of the living room to get back at you for leaving her for three days.

I rarely travel, and when I do, it is usually for just a couple of days and only once or twice a year. With Esmeralda, the problem has been what to do with her. I tried one of those doggy daycare places where they let the dogs run around like idiots all day. I don’t know, but Montessori for mutts just isn’t her idea of fun.

When she returned home the one time I left her in one of those places, she was a neurotic mess for a couple of weeks. Or maybe I was.

She doesn’t like barking dogs. If we encounter a barking dog while out on a walk, she just ignores the dog completely and picks up the pace to get as far away as possible. A lot of this has to do with her past encounters with aggressive dogs. But I can identify with her because I don’t like yappy dogs either ... or their owners. We have one with two Yorkies who yap and growl and foam at the mouth – the dogs, too. I wonder if they had their shots?

Also, have you ever noticed that women with male dogs, no matter the size of the dog, always have the most aggressive dogs? Are they protecting their masters? If I see a woman walking a male dog while I am out with Esmeralda, I immediately cross the street. I always get from the woman, “Oh, he is so friendly.” And I answer, “Oh, my dog isn’t, so this makes it easier.” I figure by using “I” statements I can avoid a discussion about how friendly her Cujo is while trying to remove its jaws from my dog’s throat.

When I lived in Rockville, there were these two women with very aggressive dogs, and they would let them wrestle and play in the hallway right outside the elevators. I stepped off with Esmeralda one day, and they immediately attacked (the dogs, not the women). I scooped Esmeralda up immediately, and one of them said in her best Yuppie voice, “Oh, she doesn’t like puppy play time?” I answered, “No, she doesn’t like dumb ass owners and their ill-behaved mongrels attacking her when they should do their puppy play time in a park rather than an apartment hallway. Are you retarded?”

I’ll bet when one of those Yuppies has her first child, she’ll be one of those mothers who insist on bringing her screaming brat everywhere and complaining when a restaurant doesn’t cater to children. You know the type. They usually have a $3,000 carriage and take the child on the Metro and read a book to the child in a very loud voice, so you will know what great parents they are. Meanwhile, they beat their children with wire hangers when no one is around.

Speaking of children, my late Serena hated children. She was very smart. We had this blonde woman in the neighborhood I used to call “mother of the year.” She would jog with her horrible offspring in one of those jogging carriages and expound life lessons in the loudest voice possible, so we would all be impressed with her mothering skills. She would also steal furniture while people were moving in or out. I am not making that up. She assumed that if the movers put a chair or other item on the street for a few moments while they made room or gathered more items, that item was free for the taking. I guess this was her five-second rule. She used to get into arguments all the time with people. I heard more than once, “Oh I thought you were throwing it away.” Who throws away a Queen Anne desk in museum quality condition?

When the landlords redid my kitchen, she actually stepped into my apartment and asked one of the workers to move the stove outside, so she could take it home. This was the goddam new stove they were getting ready to install! I walked into the kitchen and ordered her off the property and to take her blond pet chimpanzee with her.

Anyway, before that incident, her future serial killer son wanted to pet Serena one day, and I said, “I am sorry, but she is afraid of children, so I would prefer he didn’t.” From that day on, she would always say as she passed me on the street, “That is the dog that hates children.” And I would say, “Oh look. It’s Mother of the Year.”

Speaking of touching my dog. I don’t like children I don’t know touching my dog. My dog is clean, and children have hands full of food and God knows what else. Kids also grab and poke. With Serena, I would scoop her up whenever a kid came near, and one mother got really upset insisting I let her child touch my dog, and I said no, and she just insisted, so I said in my creepiest voice, “Can I touch your child?” She ran off and never asked me again.

Then there was the hippy who said to his kids, go get that dog. The kids came running, and I scooped Serena up. I turned around and … I cannot write what I said to him or they will shut down this blog.

Esmeralda is OK with kids. Her dog walker, Mrs. M, has two grandchildren who go with her when she walks Esmeralda. As a matter of fact, Esmeralda likes children more than I do. Since Mrs. M is so good with her, and Esmeralda likes her and Mr. M, they were the logical choice to babysit while I was gone for only three days.

I returned, and Mrs. M told me she was no trouble at all. They loved having her. So sweet and well behaved and perfectly housebroken. She even napped with Mr. M while Mrs. M went shopping. They want to babysit her again.

I’ll have to think about that while I clean the shit stain off my new carpet.

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Where Are My Gays?

Kathy Griffin asks that all the time. Where are my gays? A few of my friends have also asked if there are any gays in the park. Funny thing is no one ever asks if there are any Jews. I guess once we finally finished that forty-year trek through the desert in search of Chinese take-out, we decided no more nomadic living for us.

I somehow missed that memo.

I have also noticed I am the only one with a Mezuzah on his door. There are Crucifixes a plenty.

However, there are a couple of cars with HRC stickers. Could they have bought those cars used?

The good thing about having a dog, especially one like Esmeralda, who must walk miles before finding just the right spot to go potty then do the potty-dance, which consists of going back and forth and doing circles before finally going, is that I get to see the entire neighborhood at least four times a day.

In every one of my past neighborhoods, I have been known as the guy who is always walking his dog. I am also the guy who has the dogs who take forever to go. Want a picture? Imagine a six-four queen, wearing Chuck Taylors while walking a long-haired Dachshund-Yorkshire terrier mix, named Daisy, now imagine him walking a toy parti-poodle, named Serena, and now a beagle, named Esmeralda. Yes, you would give him a nickname as well. “His dog is so gay it’s a fog.”

As you know, I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks, and back in the day, I used to wear some really short shorts that were so tight you could guess my religion.  

While Esmeralda and I are out on one of our regular walks, I always observe my neighbors, and they are all so friendly. It is very easy to engage in conversation in a mobile home community. After all, you can’t be a snob. Seriously, what would you say? “Oh her, she lives in a single-wide.”

However, you want to know where the gays are. Well, let me tell you what I have observed.

There is the woman who has a Jamie Leigh Curtis haircut, lives on a corner lot, drives a compact pick-up and has large bags of kitty litter in the truck bed at all times – sometimes several bags. Is she preparing for snow, or does she have lots of pussy? You do the math. She also wears jeans morning, noon and night. And yes, the truck is a stick shift.

There is the guy with the barbed-wire tattoo on the bicep, a gay comb-over (shaved head), a yellow Hummer, and a yappy Pomeranian, who always does yard work shirtless (him, not the Pomeranian). His body isn’t all that; I’m just saying. His lawn furniture would make Martha Stewart jealous. You come to your own conclusion.

There is my next-door neighbor. His yard is immaculate. He drives a spotless pick-up, and he apparently has a work-out room in his home. I have never seen a woman come or go. However, he once had a career as an auto restorer, specializing in body work. He is very friendly, kind of shy, but a really nice guy. His nails are immaculate as if he gets a manicure weekly. I cannot figure him out. I am usually wrong when it comes to these types, so I dare not ask. I bet if I ever get to see the inside of his home, I would know immediately. And no, I am not about to shit where I eat. Nothing good comes of doing the neighbors … believe me.

My favorites are the three men who live together around the corner. One is around eighty, one around sixty, and the other is about thirty. I have never had a conversation with the eighty-year-old. Although a little chunky and always shirtless, the three of them don’t look alike. They have decorated their windows and their shed with butterflies, yet they are always working on their cars, which also have butterfly stickers. I observed their shed when the door was open, and it is more organized than a labor union. It turns out the middle one was an American Motors mechanic – not a gay thing, but cool nonetheless, and the younger one drives a vintage Jeep – also not necessarily gay but cool as well. Get this: the middle one refers to the older one as his uncle and the younger one as his nephew. So, that is what the kids are calling them these days. The jury is out, but I think deliberations will be just a few short hours.

They remind me of the time we took a trip to Felton, Pennsylvania, to look at a Chrysler New Yorker. The guy selling the car was a redneck, living with another redneck, and their overly friendly and gentle Rottweiler, named Onyx. Their house had a gondola and a lighthouse, and all their antique cars in this muddy place in a town riddled with McCain-Palin posters were just a little too pristine. Boy did they have us fooled. The entire town was gay. Not a woman in sight!

So, your gays are everywhere. You just need to know where to look!

It Was Bound to Happen

I had a date. Have you picked yourself up off the floor yet? Yes, the man who invented the “Milton-Date” keeps getting on that horse in the hope of finally being able to ride it at least once around the stable. Some day, I’ll write a book about all my bad dates.

But before you hear about the big date, some observations of late. I don’t know if this is true where you live, but in the DC Metro area, the first thing people ask is what you do for a living and where do you live. Then you are asked, “Do you own or rent?” You know what my answer has been over the years, which may explain my lack of viable life-partners.

However, whenever I invited people over, I never felt the need to say, “Come to my apartment, and here is the address.” I would just give the address and let them figure it out. Of course, upon arrival, I would get asked, “Do you own or rent?”

I always wanted to say, “Here is a copy of my lease. Now fuck me and leave.”

I never did have the nerve to say that, but wouldn’t it have been cool if I did?

One guy many years ago complimented a couch I recently purchased when living in Dutch Village in Newport News and then said, “I bought one just like it, but I had to Jew the guy down.” I just told him to leave. I didn’t even give him a handshake or a cigarette.

But now, I live in what some consider a curiosity. Think about it. How many people, beside me, do you know who live in a mobile home? Has my home become the Yoko Ono apartment of trailer park living. Do people only come over just to see it and not me? They do look up and down and all around with that look on their faces that says, “I always wondered what these look like on the inside. I wonder if it will tip when all of us stand on one side?”

I have to admit that I have had to mention my type of home in situations where I didn’t have to in my life as a rent-boy … I mean renter.

For instance, when living in Mount Pleasant, my apartment had a door at street level, so when I took a cab, I would say the second door from the corner. A week ago, I had to leave my car at the shop, so I took a cab home – no cheap trip in Howard County.

When the cab driver pulled onto my street, he said, “Oh, I must have made a wrong turn.”

I said, “You’re right. This is where I live.”

Should I have said, “The mobile home park up on the right” or “Look for the guy in the wife-beater walking his dog”?

Do we have to point out what kind home we live in when either taking a cab or giving someone directions? “Yes, it’s the cheaply constructed McMansion at the end of the block.” “After you make the first left, look for the house with the upside-down mortgage and blue shutters.” “My building is the one up there with the tiny condos and paper thin walls.”

Actually, I think people should do the above from now on. It would save all of us a bunch of trouble.

Upon pulling up to my house he said, “Do you like living in one of these?”

I knew it was bound to happen. Someone would refer to my home as “one of these.” Seriously, you’d think I live in a tree house. I should get a sign that says “no girls allowed.”

So I said, “Sure, as long as you get a good set of Michelins, these houses are quite comfortable.”

He didn't laugh.

I knew that wouldn't be the last time I heard “one of these,” but it gets better.

I left work a half hour early the evening of my big date. My first date of 2011. A lot of good that did me. There was an accident that shut down I-95 and diverted all the traffic onto Route 1. I found this out while stuck on Route 1 by asking the lesbian in the car next to mine. I knew she was a lesbian because she had short hair, looked like an attractive version of Bruce Jenner, and she was driving a Chrysler PT Cruiser. Two things I know about lesbians. They are the only people who buy PT Cruisers, and they all either owned, learned how to drive in, or lost their lesbian virginity in an AMC Spirit, which I drive – another reason I go dateless. After telling me what was going on, she said, “Nice car. I used to own one.”

“No kidding?” My genitalia performed their own sex-change.

I finally made it home two hours later. That is right. It took me more than two hours to drive ten miles. I thought I was back in Rockville. Thank God that isn’t an everyday occurrence.

Getting home this late meant I had little time to walk Esmeralda, feed her, take a shower and wait for my Viagra to kick in. While walking her, my phone rang. It was my date.

He said, “I must have made a wrong turn. I’m in a trailer park.”

“The preferred term is mobile home community, and mine is the second one on the right after the mail boxes.”

Esmeralda and I rounded the corner and saw him sitting out front in his F-150. I thought You drive a pick-up, so you better not judge.

Once inside, he looked around, up and down, the way everyone does when they first enter my home, and he asked, “Do you like living in one of these?”

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