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January 09, 2005
Hello Hate Mail...
I flew home from New York today. Sad face. On my way out of the airplane, I saw Caroline Rhea. She was sitting in a first class seat and so was I thanks to Montel Williams. (Go. Go. I’m doing The Wop, by the way.) I’d always imagined that when I saw her in the streets, I’d go up to her, snap my little neck and tell her that I know she was talking shit about me two years ago during the first MTV Battle of the Sexes when she had Johnny Moseley as a guest on The Rosie O’Donnell Show. Did they change the name to The Caroline Rhea Show when she took it over? Anyway, turns out I didn’t say anything to her at all.
I glanced at her for a split second without a moment of “You’re the host of The Biggest Loser my favorite show ever…” You know how when you look at celebrities you have that moment of “I know you” come across your face. There’s a split second half smile if you like that particular celebrity. Or if you’re not a fan, there’s that split second where you envision yourself getting a running start and drop kicking this person in the neck. You know, that feeling. I didn’t do any of that.
I just looked at her as if she was a regular old whomever from around the way. I guess that was my shitty attempt at scorn. I just glanced and kept on keeping on with my mismatch luggage. I fondly recalled a story a good friend once told me about her first ever interview on The Rosie Show. Matthew Perry said he felt like he was on a terrible first date. My car service guy was standing next to her car service guy, and in that moment, I felt almost cool but then I realized that I’m comparing myself to fucking Caroline Rhea. No one cares about me, and I’m almost positive she’ll be on some VH1 Celebreality show some day soon which ultimately would mean no one cares about her. I could say way worse things but that would be fucked up. Why do I hang on to the fact that she talked shit about me? I don’t really know, but it annoyed me. And that just goes to show you, you meaning a well-known celebrity, that you never know who you’ll see some day. If I were in higher spirits, I may have had enough energy to get stank just for the sake of telling a better story than this one, but nope. I just didn’t feel like it. I just didn’t feel like being stank?! Translation: I’m the biggest loser. No way am I ever going to step to Caroline Rhea on a fucking airplane. Who do I think I am? Who steps to Caroline Rhea?
I’ve been trying to update this page for 19 years now. I had a whole big essay on disliking dogs. I posted it for about 12 seconds, and I took it down. Surprisingly, in those 12 seconds, I got mail from people wondering where the story went as they were reading it. Well, I’ll tell you where the story went.
Basically, I felt guilty. I feel guilty. I can’t just not like a dog for being a dog. Dogs have feelings. They smell like shit, sure, but they have feelings. Fuck it. Want to read the story? I don’t know if I feel more guilty about my dog feelings or the fact that I haven’t posted in forever and the cubicle dwellers are getting straight up antsy. Hi y’all. Here’s the dog story. Don’t hate me.
Dogs.
In November (entry entitled Who Am I?), I may have had a brain aneurysm because I believed I was no longer afraid of dogs. Lies. All lies. Yesterday, I spent exactly 22 minutes in the corner of my boyfriend’s home office, facing the wall, crying like a victim as his golden retriever barked at me relentlessly. All I could see were fangs and blood and saliva and Cujo. While Paco (the dog) was barking at me, I was instantly brought to flashback. A grainy black and white memory and everything! My skin was dewy and hot. I could see myself as a four-year-old chewing Felix the Cat gum as I rubbed the real fur of the kitten iron-on on my terry blue tank top with matching shorts. I am waiting by a well on a humid day in the Philippines right before a vicious Doberman Pincer with rabies ravaged my tiny leg, attacking both my body and my sense of security (forever). No amount of cocoa butter or therapy can remove those scars.
So I’m back. I know exactly who I am and I am NOT a dog person. Oh, go ahead, send your hate mail you dog lovers. I do not care. Dogs have been fucking with my emotions from day one and I don’t feel I have to be apologetic about that.
I was left alone for a whole 24 hours with Paco. You see, I had gotten comfortable. When my boyfriend’s around, the dog seems entirely cool with plainly co-existing with me. Paco knows that I think he is cute, but he also knows to never touch or lick me because I will surely have a real live heart attack. I touch the dog rarely. In his sleep or um, well, not really ever actually. It’s sad because, having spent concentrated time with my boyfriend, I’ve discovered the dog has a little bit of a personality. I don’t wish to anthropomorphize (learned that on Jeopardy this week) the dog, but I get the feeling he knows what we’re talking about sometimes. He’s cute. But when he gets up on just the back legs, he’s taller than me and that’s not cute ever. Yes, his face is cute. His saliva, his teeth, his odor and his shedding – all terrible. This dog sheds like a mother fucker. I am nothing more than a fastidious housewife in the presence of this dog. All I do is sweep. I sweep so much, I’ve created songs about sweeping. So I sweep, yeah, just sweeping on the down low. Every day, the dog hair falls and falls. Each strand singing “I I I I I I keep on faaaaaallling” which is my least favorite song ever. Intermingling with the dirt, the dog hair laughs in my face as my allergies threaten to ruin my entire day.
You see, golden retrievers need contact. They need to play and touch. Therefore, I should not be alone with the dog for any amount of time. I cannot offer this touching, this playing, this licking, this frolicking. Putting dog food in a dish. Done. Opening the door so he can pee and shit. Fine. But actually petting and touching and loving. I can’t go for that. No can do. (A little Hall & Oates for you.) Mind you, putting dog food in a dish and opening the door require that I wear clothing from head to toe and my hands are covered in oven mitts just in case the dog jumps up and “mouths” my hand as he likes to do. I shudder at the thought. Shall I get a fencing uniform?
Because I was unable to touch the dog all day, he got bored. Boredom, as I read in my new dog manual, causes goldens to bark and destroy and pace and dig. All things I despise in humans so it’s doubly despicable in dogs.
After I cried (out of fear and therapy), I realized that good old Melissa is still here! Eww, referring to oneself in the third person is unattractive, and I apologize.
I am not the girl that is moved to near tears when she sees a cute little puppy in the arms of a stranger. I have the ability to keep on walking, without commentary or even a glance. If prodded by the person I’m with to admire such a dog, I say, “Yes, he’s cute…” face forward with my destination still firmly on the mind.
As a child, I never asked for a Trapper Keeper with the picture of the dogs peeping out from behind the daisies. I did not go to the pet store and annoy my mother with requests. If you wanted to find me at a mall, you’d know to go to Claire’s Boutique where I could be seen begging for 9 headbands that look exactly alike. As a matter of fact, I’m more likely to be at Ku Klux Klan rally than in a pet store. Seeing animals caged in their own urine and feces while crawling face to butt in mulch or wood chips is neither fascinating nor adorable to me. Watching a bunch of lunatic white power fanatics? That falls under the category of fascinating. Maybe even adorable? Imagine that. The Adorable Ku Klux Klan?
I do not believe in having dogs sleep in bed with humans. I do not believe in having dogs in the house, actually. I do not believe in having large dogs around little babies and toddlers. Even the smell of dog food is offensive to me so the smell of dogs is just torture. I especially hate it when people bring their dogs to restaurants with patio seating. They tie them up outside and the dog barks at passers-by which is annoying to all parties involved. Oooh, ooh. I really don’t like it when people are walking their dogs and the dog somehow singles me out to jump on and the owner says, “It’s okay. She just wants to love you…” and then I get the death stare when I reply, “Please make it stop, seriously.” Why is it okay for an owner to allow his dog to jump on a complete stranger? Need I wear a sign that says NOT THAT INTO DOGS? I can’t comprehend why anyone would like to wrap his hand in a thin Wal-Mart bag, bend over and pick dog shit up. Please do, especially near my porch, but still, the horror of it is unimaginable. The seemingly universal taboo of human shit makes picking up dog shit even more unfathomable to me.
I do not hate dogs. Hate is crazy and I reserve that feeling for roller coasters, eczema, Verizon, liars and the misuse of apostrophes. I don’t hate dogs. I just don’t like them, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot conjure up that fuzzy feeling in my chest when I see them. You know how when you just fall in love with someone, he can be getting out of his car in your driveway and you can watch him from the window and get the urge to run out and greet him and kiss him and be a crazy person? I don’t get that feeling for dogs. Maybe I only get it with humans, but some humans have this ability with dogs and I know so because I Google’d it.
To be fair, I did some research on dog people. There is a level of companionship and trust and loyalty and real genuine love that people have for dogs. It’s amazing if you’re into that sort of thing.
Some dog lovers make their girlfriends sit in the backseat of the car so the dog can sit up front. I saw that on MTV True Life. I would have dumped his ass. This gorgeous little South African exchange student was steady sitting the back. She looked like a super model with this amazing hair. Steady sitting in the back seat while her country ass stupid head boyfriend had this big slobbering ass dog up front. Go fuck yourself, dude.
There was a show on TV once where couples rate how annoying their spouse is. This one woman made her husband take allergy medicine every day so that the dog can sit on the couch while they watched television! Sit at the dinner table while they were eating! AND AND AND, sleep in the bed with them EVERY DAY! Exclamation point! I was disgusted. I would divorce her. Maybe this is normal behavior in dog-loving world. I mean, I’m all for animal rights, being kind to animals, all of that. But to put your husband’s health and happiness second to that of a dog’s? You’re out of your mind, bitch.
Dog love is off the chain. It’s healthy for the dog lovers. It brings a sense of wholeness to their lives.
Non-dog people just don’t understand this. For people that love dogs, the dog odor, the shitting, the whining, the barking, the shedding is entirely inconsequential. The dog love is all that matters. I read several websites where people have given up having nice furniture to be more accommodating to their dogs. Some people just forgo a level of hygiene to their homes, allowing the dog smell and the dog hair to permeate every aspect of their lives, simply for the unconditional love of their dogs. I do not wish to judge this. It just isn’t for me, which brings me to my next point.
My boyfriend is many things. A genius, for one. He owns a 1986 limo because it’s the only thing that simultaneously brings him “up in status and down in class.” This classless limo is complete with a privacy partition that is totally not sound-proof, a broken television, a totally 80s strobe light, a stereo system that crackles, wooden and marble consoles, orange drink in the ice bin and black velvet upholstery. It also breaks down at your destination, even if it is a classy hotel in downtown Manhattan. Foul-smelling plumes of smoke and green fluids leaking from the bottom and everything. Basically, the limo is the shit and when in Long Island, I obviously ride in style. But I digress.
My boyfriend is a dog person.
It happens to the best of us, I know. You meet someone. He’s awesome. You eat at all the great restaurants. You get all the doors opened for you. He’s telling you how pretty you are. Ooh girl, I like your perfume. You look so fine today. You have the greatest ass. You are so smart. You are so talented. You’re the best woman ever for me and I love you, girl. I want to meet your mom. You are amazing. Don’t change. He’s blowing you kisses when you get up to go pee during the movies. Shit is awesome. Everything is straight up peaches.
Then, you start discovering shit.
My, what a nice dungeon you have here in the basement. Is this for the children you’ve stolen from the playground? I see you have a “girls to bang” list on your computer. Is that my name next to the “1 more x” in parentheses?
Yes, girl, he’s a dog person. He’s not all Crazy Dog Man though. He’s not the type to chew up a doggie biscuit and then have the dog eat it from his mouth. He’s not disgusto. He just likes dogs. How was I to know? I’m in deep too so there’s no going back. I just have to survive. Keep my head up and my hands covered. For the next ten to fifteen years. Dogs live, man. They live on and on and on.
He likes to lie down on the ground with him and they play which means the dogs jumps all over him, licking his face and hands. Face and hands that will ultimately end up in my face and hands which quietly freaks me out. (I don’t care if a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s either so that line of reasoning doesn’t work with me…) Sometimes the dog’s ass is right in his face, and none of this is problematic for him. I have to monitor my facial expressions so I don’t seem like I am judging him. Dog people are sensitive about their dogs. The dog doesn’t smell very good even after a bath. I researched this and found that golden retrievers are known for a distinct “doggy odor” which my boyfriend actually can’t smell. I’m not saying the dog smells like hot shit on a train ride in India during The Amazing Race. It’s just that distinct odor that makes dogs smell like dogs and I just don’t like it and I can smell it anywhere, anytime.
I read an article on AskMen.com about a guy who felt like he had to decide between his girlfriend and his dog. I never want to be that kind of girlfriend. I will quietly suffer in dog world before I tell my boyfriend that he has to get rid of his dog. I would never do that to my boyfriend. His dog was here first. I also refuse to be blamed or held accountable for the sadness my boyfriend would feel if he gave his dog up. I can’t deal with that. Can you imagine the arguments that would arise from that? You made me give up my dog, you insufferable mean person! I mean, what can you really say to that? That would mean I was actually losing an argument and we can’t have that.
I’ve made insane compromises. Compromises I never thought I, Melissa You Can’t Tell Me Shit So Fuck Off Howard, was capable of. The dog used to sleep in his bed, but seriously, that grossed me out so I had to draw a line there. I removed the bedding, washed it in scalding hot water, Febreeze’d the shit out of the mattress, swept under and around the bed and made the bedroom suitable for human girls. The dog now sleeps on a doggie bed on the floor. I’d rather the dog not be anywhere near the bedroom because I just find that to be disturbing for many reasons other than sleep, but this is a new girl you’re talking to. I compromise.
I simply become a shell of my former self in the dog’s presence. Especially when the dog is very excited. I shut down. I ball up in the corner. My body gets really tense. I get scared. I have to use all my lifelines to avoid screaming I WANT TO KILL MYSELF when the dog is targeting me for attention. Yup, I just go phone a friend. In the other room. Upstairs. With the door locked. Ooh, I get scared.
I’ll be back in LA soon anyway. High heels, dresses, shit-talking at the television with Coral, Brasilian food delivery and dogless sunshine. No dog hairs in my soup today. I really wish I could just enjoy the dog like he does. I really do. I just wasn’t born that way.
Posted by melissah at January 9, 2005 10:59 PM