August 22, 2008
The ducks in that picture are a whole lot more graceful than my 65-pound dog.
Last night, I was walking Gracie and things were pretty much status quo--a couple of soupy poos, a tromp through a huge bed of poison ivy, and a whole lot of trash sniffing. Like I said, totally normal.
When we took a left onto Hayward Street, I spotted a party up on the lefthand side of the street. The yard was packed with 20-something year-olds who were laughing, flirting, and drinking Sam Adams. I can honestly say that I've never seen anything like that in my trashy little town. Usually it's three or four rednecks gathered around a 1988 Buick Regal, listening to gangsta rap on the cassette player--not a happy little Abercrombie crowd.
"Well, excellent," I thought, feeling incredibly self conscious. After all, I was wearing a pair of sweatpants that I've owned since 2001, a white t-shirt that's no longer large enough to contain my baby-belly, and a really strange TEXAS zip-up hoodie that I bought on clearance for less than two dollars. I was pushing an unkempt, and reckless three-year-old on a tricycle, and on top of that, I wasn't wearing any make-up and my hair looked a lot like this.
I had the overwhelming urge to run in the other direction and sob behind a trashcan--but that's far easier said than done when you have a toddler in tow. After a split second of thought, I decided the best thing I could do was to act cool. Also easier said than done.
As we approached the party I adapted my walk into more of a swagger (because that's cool), did my best to swing my knotted-up hair over my shoulder, and casually waved to the party saying "What's up?" in my patented sexy voice.
At that point the sidewalk ended, and were were forced to cross the street (thank goodnich). James followed my directions and looked both ways, and we cautiously stepped off of the curb--away from that horribly fabulous party. I was so anxious to get away from that party, that I gave Gracie a firm tug on her leash when I felt that she wasn't following.
As soon as I tugged on her leash, it was as though I had pressed the whimper loudly button, because Gracie did just that--she whimpered very, very loudly. I quickly turned around in a huff, just wanting to get out of there, but knowing something was probably wrong with my dog.
And it was.
Gracie--having the coordination of a monkey who's drunk on tequila, and a brain the size of a chopped walnut--had decided to tromp across the sewer grate, and inadvertently allowed her back legs to fall through the holes.
For a moment, I completely forgot about the party, because my dog looked so super strange...really short, I guess. And then it dawned on me--"I should probably feel moderately humiliated."
I was itching to rescue my dog, but before I did anything heroic, I had to make sure that James and his tricycle were planted firmly on the sidewalk. That step took about thirty (long) seconds. All the while poor ol' Gracie was howling, and the entire party was watching the situation unfold.
It took three attempts for me to successfully rescue my dog. I probably could have gotten her on my first try, but I was dying not to expose my extra deep plumber's crack to the entire party. By the third attempt I really didn't care and I was like, "Ahem. Attention all party-goers! You will now see the crack of my ass!"
At least I got my dog out.
Ten minutes later, when I arrived back home, Jared was like, "How was your walk, you guys?"
And that's when I finally had the opportunity to hide behind a trashcan and cry.