sunday, stinky sunday

I've been stinky-smelly girl all weekend. I feel no guilt about this as, for the most part, I've kept my own company and Fred doesn't seem to mind. Sometimes it's just nice to let oneself go with such complete abandon and it's one of the small luxuries of living alone.

I did venture out on a couple of occasions. Took Fred to the park where we encountered some jogging Rastafarian-looking people. The lead guy had dreads down his back and was running barefoot, one blindingly white sneaker held gently in each of his hands. I guess he didn't want to get them dirty. The rest of the group followed a good minute behind him. I was thinking that maybe their shoes were hindering them, until I realized that for a mid-morning run through the park, they wore way more clothes than seemed appropriate -- slacks on some, a caftan-thing on another and one was even wearing a turban. The lead guy wanted to know if Fred bit. I said, "No." Then he wanted to know if I bit. But he was gone before I could answer, naked feet padding silently along the concrete trail.

Cori thinks that I should perhaps stop going to the park. And I might agree, except that it's just so ridiculously entertaining.

My second outing was to Home Depot. And frankly, I don't think it's any safer than the park, even with all those close-to-hand blunt objects and sturdy-looking people in orange aprons to protect you. I'd ventured forth because I needed to have a key made for my front door, as I'm sort of bored with entering and exiting my house via the side window or walking all the way around the house to go in the back door. The key disappeared along with my latest ex-not-boyfriend. It was a fair exchange though. He left behind a plethora of his cat's fur and a jug of carb powder the size of my car. I've been giving it to Fred as he's expressed concern about being inadequately "built" compared to a certain lady-friend pit bull named Mimi he's been pursuing lately.

But Home Depot. Me in cargo pants, birks that just beautifully display the lovely remains of a four month old pedicure, tank top from 1988, lank hair pulled into a messy ponytail, no make-up, eyebrows ungroomed and wild and this guy tries to pick me up. Grey goatee. Hip glasses. Chipped front tooth. Seemed sweet enough, though my judgement of late, admittedly, could be faulted. His apparent disregard for my stinkified state does lead one to ponder. Anyway, as I approach the line to get my key made he sees me and says, "Your eyes speak volumes, you know that right? More than you could ever actually speak."

My first thought: I know no such thing!

I do know this, however. I was less creeped out by the overtly cheesy comment, than I was by the idea that my eyeballs were acting independently of me. Who do they think they are?! I don't know what they were saying, but they hadn't discussed it with me in advance and I was fairly sure they weren't in accord with the rest of my being. It's outrageous. I can't have my body parts all going off and making decisions on their own! I'm going to have to start holding those group meetings again. You know, just so all of me is on the same page.