Conquering Vertigo

A little song, a litte dance

A little caffeine down your pants.

The phone rings.
It's the Man.
An entire cup of coffee has spilled in his lap; could I bring him a clean pair of pants?

Hot coffee, I ask, concerned.
Warm, he says. Embarrassing, not painful.

I go to his closet, ready to riff on which of the 39 pairs of gray slacks he wants.
Perversely, he wants tan, but will take khaki or taupe.

Since taupe contains gray (let me hear an amen) and I want more fodder for jokes about his wardrobe, I choose the taupe pants. Pressed at the China Star laundry on Clement Street, they look new, camera-ready.

After alerting my office that I'll be gone for about 15-20 minutes (Richard works close to home), I realize this is the perfect opportunity to leave Bryn (our new dog) alone in the house and observe the results. Will she curl up quietly in her dog bed and snooze? Will she chew Richard's shoes out of separation anxiety? Will the mail be shredded and the trash upturned? A lot can happen in 20 minutes, and she's a smart, fast dog.

In the doorway, I lock eyes with her, sending mental images of her asleep in her bed, while I say with a clarity Demosthenes would envy: "Sit, stay, good girl."

Feeling brave, risky and hungry, I motor off to the Lucas Digital Arts Center, home of Richard's company. I pass him the fresh pants and he looks in the back seat, "No dog?" I tell him of the experiment, his eyes widen, and I head home.

Bryn greets me at the door, body wiggling, wanting to lick me and rub against me at the same time. Nothing is different. Each room looks as it did when I left. Everything is perfect, and she's so happy to see me.

I wonder how she spent her time.

posted by Woman In Love @ 12:35 PM