I returned home that Friday afternoon to find Beep covered in her own number two and shrieking louder than any infant I’d ever heard. I threw off my dress, rescued her from her crate, and burst into tears. What the hell was I thinking? I’d never been around a puppy before. They didn’t arrive trained and confident. Forget sitting. I needed her to not wet herself every half hour. As Beep continued to shake and cry, there was only one person I could possibly call. Josh, the nice man who had sold me this godforsaken creature, and had the really pretty blue eyes.
(Before I go any further: I don't cry. Ever.)
"Josh, it's [long pause because I didn't want him to know that I was crying] Liz from yesterday. I bought [swallowing a sob] Beep." Beep came out like a squeaky grunt.
Thankfully he remembered me, and asked about Beep.
[Choke] "She pooped on herself, and I went to work, and when I came back it was all over her, the poop, and she's crying, and shaking, and she's really small, and I don't know what to do, and I'm supposed to go to dinner with my parents tonight, but I'm here and they're in Greenwich, and Beep is just here, wailing, and oh My God I'm the worst puppy mother ever." [Audible sob]
He gently consoled me: give her a bath, give yourself a bath, give her some dinner, sit calmly and have a nice quiet evening with your pup.
I thanked him profusely, began to calm down, and he told me to check back in an hour to make sure everything was fine.
[An hour later, by the second]
"Josh, hi, it's Liz."
"Liz! Beep okay now?"
[it should be noted: I was dry eyed until he said her name, and then the afternoon, and fresh tears, came rushing back]
"I think so. She's kind of sleeping."
"Oh good. Good. [pause - he seems to be thinking, I'm still sniffling and choking a little] So, Liz, what are you, um, doing tonight?"
"Well you told me to have a quiet night with Beep. So I'm, um, doing that."
"Right. Of course. Right. Well, see, the other day, when you were in here with your friend, you said cockblocked. And I thought that was really, really funny."
I knew exactly where this was headed. But sitting in my bra and underwear, sweaty, and still a little smeared by Beep, to say I was shocked is a gross understatement. I could go to a club every weekend dressed to the nines, but it's not until I'm naked and crying that someone looks my direction.
"Ha, oh yea? Well, I think it's a statement that should be used more." [I don't agree with this statement at all.]
"Hey, Liz?"
Wait for it. Wait for it.
"Yea?"
"Would you, want to, um, grab a drink sometime? Maybe Sunday?"
Incredulous, I agreed, and also agreed to meet him outside Parrots 'n Pups on Sunday evening at 8pm. My roommate, Virginia, and friend, Olivia, were ecstatic to get me out of the apartment, where I'd been for two days, still bursting into tears at any given moment.
Sunday arrived.
(I must admit there were two things inherently wrong with this picture: I don't really date men and I was going out with a guy who was impressed with my use of "cockblock.")
Lo and behold, we had a great time. There were beers and talking, beers and laughing, beers and (shared) burger. As hour two rounded into three, the conversation grew a little quiet. We'd covered hobbies and jobs and hometowns. I kept feeling nervous for acting so young; he'd already traveled the world and dabbled in myriad professions.
So I finally asked:
"How old are you anyway?" He smirked. "You're like thirty, aren't you."
He kept smirking. "Not exactly."
"Older? [slowly shakes his head] Younger? [kind of not really looks away] Than me?"
"How old are you again?"
"Twenty-three."
[bites his lip]
"Tell me you're legal."
"Define legal." Oh good God.
"Eighteen? Please."
"I'm sorry. I didn't tell you before. I'm 19. But 20 very soon!"
My face wore obvious shock.
"Does that make you see me differently?"
"Well, Josh, I'm a lesbian. Does that make you see me differently?"
He paid for the beers. I paid for the burger.
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