Post-date thoughts.
Never, ever, never go on a date with someone who lives in your apartment building. If it doesn't work out (and it probably won't provided it's your first date post-breakup) then you will run into this person at the most unfortunate times. Like when you have a pile of your stray dog's poo in your hand. So nice, that. Mugsley and I haven't been together too long but still: I should know better than to roam the halls with him sans leash.
Let me back up for a moment and start at the beginning. It was a HOT Saturday afternoon in SoTX so I thought to take my sweet little dog to the beach. I slathered on the SPF, shimmied into my two-piece and collected my beach-outing accoutrements: chair, bag, mini-ice chest and dog. We started out the front door and I thought Mugsley would be fine since we were going the usual route so I didn't make him wear his leash. As I padded down the hall I thought, "Maybe I'm bringin' too much stuff." I can stay at the beach for HOURS so no, the answer was not to take anything back. So Mugsley ran down the hall ahead of me and I followed. Then I remembered, "They MOVED the ice machine."
Fuck.
We got on the elevator and I pushed for the floor below me. As the doors opened, Mugsley ran off and I saw that, again, there was no ice machine in sight.
Double Fuck.
And now my *sweet* little dog ran down the hall pooping the whole way. A little here, a little there. My arms were loaded to the hilt with nothing appropriate for poop/carpet cleanup so I lurched down and tore a piece of newspaper off the neighbor's doorstep. With one knee on the ground and all that stuff in my arms I somehow managed to pick up the first in a long line of shits.
I staggered after him trying to manage the chair, the cooler, the bag, the poop and my flipflops when I heard, "Hey Risa."
Oh for fuck's sake.
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