Last night, my husband and I pulled up to the local grocery store enveloped in a cloud of familial satisfaction, marital bliss, and puppy gas. I unsuspectingly left my husband behind to sit with the farting fluffies while I ran quickly inside to grab some garlic bread and some fab cab, a decision I would later regret. I had left my love alone and vulnerable to a venereal viper in the guise of a middle-aged meddler with too much time and too much money, her ears ringing with Jesus jazz and her eyes seeking to pass undue judgment. She stealthily approached my innocent amour, her pink velour sweatsuit giving her presence away with the steady "swish swish" of pudging thighs that had seen too many days of coffee cup scotch and not enough pilates.
"What adorable dogs! Are they yours?" Her voice poured over my poor pets like cheap whiskey and parlor perfume. My husband responded in the affirmative, to which she responded "BOTH of them?" Politeness quickly morphed into impatience as my spousal unit searched her prescription pupils for some semblance of sense. Yes, Witty Wendy, BOTH of them.
"Do you both have jobs???" Curiosity mixed with a mild sedative of incredulity leaked slowly from her plastic patchwork pout. Yes, we BOTH work. Hubby was getting close to shutting down this side show of subliminal sanctities.
"So...you have TWO dogs AND you BOTH WORK???" Her squinty lids and squatty body postured itself in a clear position of disapproval. As my husband responded once again in the affirmative, she simply flicked her wrist and dismissed the last ten minutes with a simple "Well, CUTE puppies." And with a rhythmic swoosh, she passed quickly through the automatic doors, the sharp stench of silent condemnation only dulled by the air conditioned store.
When my husband relayed the stinging story to me, I was immediately thrown into a parody of pissy, declaring her acrimonious accusations completely unfounded. Who does she think we are? Barbarians??? She undoubtedly comes from the "dogs need 500 acres of pristine wilderness and a lifetime supply of raw moose flesh to be truly happy" school of thought. Sorry lady, we have a two bedroom apartment and an unlimited amount of love. Guess that puts us at the top of the SPCA's kill list. So instead of going back into the store, finding Judgy Judy, and Tanya Harding her Juicy Coutured bootie, I decided to channel my resentment and dismay into art.
So this is probably what was flashing through her bourbon drenched brain when she was mentally surveying my family's "sad" situation through our picture window:
And this is how it REALLY plays out EVERY SINGLE DAY:
Poor puppies.
