Don’t you just love that slightly self-satisfied feeling you get when you’ve been an upstanding citizen, like on Election Day after you vote, or when you let another car go ahead of you in a long line of traffic, or let a mom with a screaming baby go in front of you in the supermarket line? That’s right, I’m good, I’m kind, I’m all that and more. Let me dust off my angel wings and kiss my own behind. I feel the same self-congratulatory twinge whenever I toss something in the recycling bin. Apparently, so do Pooter and Booger.
Last year we purchased one of those truly worthless Littermaid boxes for Nico, thinking how wonderful to have a little electronic maid do this unpleasant task for us. The first one didn’t work at all, so back to PetSmart to get the more deluxe model. If you want to hire a custodian 24/7 to sit beside it and maintain it, feed it truffles and ply it with Dom Perignon, this could just be the perfect litter box for you, otherwise FOGETA BOW IT! Since this device is essentially worthless, it falls to the three house humans to scoop it every time one of us walks through the laundry room, which is quite often. Recently, however, I’ve begun to smell….. absolutely nothing.
Lately there seems to be very little poop to scoop, which is puzzling since Nico, the suicidal pussy, is a prolific producer. Yet, every day, spanking clean litter box…hum, strange indeed. Due to possessing the skill, stealth, and daring of Magnum PI, I discovered that, in their efforts to assist in the household recycling efforts, Pooter and Booger were eating the poop before it could be swept away by the malfunctioning Littermaid! And then they lick you! REPEATEDLY! OMG. Trust me when I tell you these doggies are not starving in any way, shape, or form. Visions of the Baby Ruth pool scene in “Caddyshack”are flashing relentlessly through my brain. Sounds. Of. Retching.
Booger started his beginner obedience classes today. When we got home there was an offer for a full scholarship in the mail from The Citadel, also a call from an LA agent wanting to discuss the possibility of replacing Ryan Seacrest on American Idol. I think his “eddication” will be a whopping success, and it’s also providing Pooter with some refresher pointers as well. Though I have to tell you, she is soooo good, sweet-natured, and well-behaved already, there’s really not much to improve on. I do hope to become as well behaved as she as I get older. I think I’ll make that a New Year’s resolution for 2012, actually. After almost nine years together, she understands complete sentences of MamaTalk. For the three days last week I was residing in Sobville due to the soon-to-be-exiled Teenage Morose One, she would repeatedly come and lay her precious little silver-spotted head on my leg with a look of such total understanding. How do people live without these furry babies? Never mind…I guess the third paragraph answers that one in full.
But back in the summer and fall of 1975, when the only furry baby I lived with was the penis-hating Brandy, things were getting a bit tempestuous with The Gatekeeper and Wilhelmina. They saw my niche as a cute young ingénue, the perpetual wide-eyed, innocent virgin child. Now, that might have played better if I was 16, but I was now 23 years old, and just wasn’t feeling it. They refused to send me out to high-fashion go-sees, like Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or Cosmopolitan, so instead I spent my days running all over Manhattan pretending to be in the 13-17 age range. Every female knows full well that the last thing a 20-something wants is to be regressed back 10 years!
I was still too new to push back as hard as I wanted, but there were weekly rebellions and skirmishes. “Why did Linda and Chloe get sent out for that job and I didn’t? We are exactly the same age?” After more than a year in NYC, I was perfecting the art of THE WHINE! “Well, Baby Girl, look at it this way. When Linda and Chloe are used up and burned out, you will have aged just enough to be a brand new face on the high-fashion scene, and in the meantime, you will have successfully spent your twenties playing a teenager. Your career will last twice as long, as we really need to make hay with your baby face while it lasts; there’s plenty of time to “play grown up” down the road.”
Booking after booking I was the tall, gangly high-school basketball player, or soccer player, or the overall- wearing oboe player with the shit-eating grin. I never got work more sophisticated than “Coed”, “Ingenue”, and “Seventeen” magazine. Combine this sad situation with living with Boy, and you can just imagine my love life wasn’t exactly on the fast track! Here I was surrounded by gorgeous male models in the hang-out lounge at Wilhelmina’s office, and I was completely invisible. Well, not totally. They did treat me like a favored baby sister, and were extremely protective. And no ladies, it is not true that all male models are gay, just like all male dancers are not. So here I am, in what amounts to the most scrumptious Austrian bakery you have ever set foot in, and your keepers continuously remove the knife and fork from your hand, just as you’re poised to take a delicious bite.
This simply had to stop,…and it would. The month of January 1976 would serve up a tantalizing and exotic treat, n’est pas?