This is Where Things Get Tricky

Today Boyfriend and I have an appointment to meet a possible new addition to our family. Yes, that's right; we're adopting a dog! A few years ago I, sadly, had to give my Yorkie named Gidget to my parents because she was just too high maintenance. She needed constant attention, other dogs to play with, to be let out every 2 hours, and I just couldn't provide that for her. I have had dogs all my life, so these last 2 years without a cuddle buddy has been tough.

Saturday we went down to the grocery store, and lo and behold, they had dogs for adoption! I played with a few, but I knew none were quite right for us. I couldn't let it go though, my desire for a dog had somehow completely consumed me and damnit! I was going to talk to Boyfriend about the merits of having a dog until he caved. So we came up with a list of qualities we wanted in our dog:

• An adult
• Housetrained
• Relaxed, but playful
• Non-destructive
• A good companion
• Happy to be an only dog

That's when Boyfriend brought up an ex's Boston Terrier. The only dog he had ever really liked. So, I searched for adoptable adult Boston Terriers in the area (knowing full well that this was a long shot.) To my great surprise Odie popped up. A 2 year old male Boston Terrier who loves to chill inside on the couch during the day, then go frolic & take walks in the evening. A dog happy to be alone with just his parents AND housebroken!!

This is where things get tricky. Who knew that adopting a rescue would be more complicated than any process Angelina Jolie goes through to acquire one of her many exotic children?! We went down to the adoption center and filled out a 5! page application. Odie wasn't there, so we scheduled a meet & greet at our house this afternoon. Our home and yard must be inspected, our interaction with Odie will be observed, they'll pull a full criminal background check on both of us & maybe even take a blood sample! I understand, though, it's all to make sure he goes to a good home. I'm a little nervous that they won't like us, or something will go wrong. I really want this dog, man! So cross your fingers that Odie will be our new baby!

You Might Just be a Crackhead out to Trade one for a $2 Rock

So, Friday I had to stop at the drug store twice on my way home, and when I was in the second one I learned an important lesson in Urban Living.

Lesson #1: You can tell what kind of neighborhood you're in by where they keep the condoms.

The first drug store I stopped in was in East Memphis. I went to pick up a few little things, and had forgotten that I needed condoms, but I had wandered through the isle with the condoms.

• I noticed them because a little girl (maybe 8 or so) was running her hands along all the items in the isle as she walked; regular condoms, giant condoms, vag infection fighters, vag creams, super-extra absorbent pads that show through your pants (any pants!) I thought it was pretty funny that these were innocuous little nothings to her. She was totally unaware that the necessary use of them, later in life, would become the bane of her existence. Okay, probably not the condoms, but definitely the other stuff.

But I digress; the point is, the condoms were just out there, ready for you to grab a box and get down to business all protected & ribbed for her pleasure. There was no Plexiglas lock box, just pure accessible condom joy!

Somehow during that stop I forgot that Boyfriend and I were out of condoms & would need some if we were going to party this weekend. So further down the road in a sketchier part of town I stopped at the same chain drug store. I wandered around and around. I found the isle where the condoms would be, but it was a prophylactic desert; not a latex love-glove to be seen. Finally after a few laps of the store I gave up and asked the elderly gentleman working the floor where I might find the condoms. Here is how our exchange went:

Me: "Excuse me sir, where might I find the condoms?"

Him: "Oh, those are behind the main register. We have to keep them there, otherwise they'll all be stolen."

Me: "Wow! I guess some people will go to any length to avoid getting pregnant."

Him: "Nope. The crack heads come in here and steal them. They can sell them to the prostitutes for a $2 rock!"

Me: "Um...huh, never thought of that."

Him: "Oh yeah! The new thing is air fresheners. They steal them and sell them on the corner so they can go buy a $2 rock."

Me: "Gee, thanks for the info sir. You learn something new every day."

The elderly are always more knowledgeable and wise; always. So I went and bought my condoms. Relegated to the same treatment that smokers get. And even though I'm a grown woman and am in a committed relationship it was still a little awkward and embarrassing to deliberate on the kind of condom I wanted in front of EVERYONE in line behind me.

So back to the Urban Living Lesson. Here is a breakdown: Good neighborhood: The condoms roam free in the isles like free range chickens; Okay neighborhood: The condoms are in the isle, but they are caged in a Plexiglas box and you must ask the pharmacy for assistance; Bad neighborhood: The condoms are behind the register, hidden like some sort of dangerous vice, because you might just be a crackhead out to trade one for a $2 rock.

Like plus sized clothes, but for your feet!

I have a confession to make: I have horribly ginormous feet; ginormous! I wear a size 10, and I'm 5'9". Not so lucky for me. I have 2 friends who are 6', and 6'2"; we can share shoes. I was a size 9 in fifth grade, and 5' tall. My mom kept telling me not to worry, that I'd, "grow into them." I'm still waiting.

The kicker is my toes. I have this theory that my foot stopped at size 9, and my toes kept going until 10. My boyfriend likes to call them my monkey toes. When I was in girl scouts, the scary stories around the campfire weren't that bad, but the E.T. impression I did with my "pointer" toe in the tent afterwards was enough to get some screams.

Finding shoes in my size is a ridiculous exercise. It's as though shoe makers think that there couldn't possibly be that many women with Sasquatch size feet, and surely not all of them want fashionable footwear. Wrong, bitches! There is a science to finding the right shoe for a foot like mine. The right combination of covered and open. Pumps with a peep toe are fine. Pumps with an open toe and side cut-out? No good. Strappy sandals with no back? A definite no-no! I can't go wandering around the world with the whole enchilada hanging out scaring people! If I find the right style, more than likely they never did carry it in my size, or it's all sold out because all the other Sasquatch girls have already snatched them up.

That little trend a few seasons back where all the shoes were made to be super pointy? My worst nightmare. Every pair I tried on made me look like the Wicked Witch of the West with huuuuge feet! You know how awesome Chuck Taylors are? Yeah, I can't wear those, they make me look like a clown.

Over the years I've come to accept my foot fate. I've even decorated my foot with a tattoo, but I hope someday Jimmy Choo will design a line of shoes for us Sasquatch girls. Like plus sized clothes, but for your feet!