So I'm walking Gatsby today, and these two women of Unidentified Eastern European Descent, who I assume are a too-lenient young mom and teenage daughter with a nose ring team, spot him and start cooing like Russian canaries. This happens a lot. I have an adorable dog. Whether I'm sporting a night gown with Universal Studios cap (Shut up. I got it in sixth grade) at the crack of ten, or drunkenly stumbling with the pup for a three a.m. pee, it's a reality I've learned to deal with: I walk the little guy, people are going to stop to pet him.
This is why at first, I'm not phased when the mother-daughter pair drops to their knees on Santa Monica Blvd. and hits him with the usual barrage of questions and back handed compliments, all delivered in dripping, sotto tone, "What are you? You like to eat, don't you? You're like a chubby sheep with horrible breath. Yes, you are." Thirty seconds of this I tolerate. Like I said, I'm used to it. But beyond that, it just gets awkward. How long am I supposed to stand lurking over my dog and his harem, acting like the useless dumb human, the blonde chopped liver? Ninety seconds deep, it's really getting uncomfortable. There's only so long I can pretend to be interested in the pile of barf and cheetos in the gutter. Further, these ladies aren't even talking to the dog any more. They're taking turns sucking on his hairy mouth and squeezing his belly so hard I may soon have a new vomit puddle to focus on. I want to speak up for poor Gatz, tell these women enough is enough and remind them that surely they've crossed mother/daughter tongue swords in the midst of this canine 'seven minutes in heaven,'.
I am, however, far too nonconfrontational for that, so I just pull on his leash and make a mental note to have him tested for doggie oral herpes.
At this point, Young Mom leaps to her feet and gets in my face. "I do spiritual readings. I am getting a very strong read from you." Nose Ring Girl leaps up and nods in agreement. I want to tell them I don't believe in that crap, and they're making me late for my mid afternoon jelly and crackers snack, but again with the no balls thing, so I offer every pussy's favorite form of rejection, "Do you have a card I can take?" Young Mom fishes through her purse. She can sense that she's losing me. Her eyes grow wider. Her accent gets thicker. She's entering act-like-a-real-psychic mode. "Who is this person you've been having trouble with lately? Someone who you're having a disagreement with?" She shoots me a 'gotcha' look so severe I'm forced to rack my brain. Bank of America? But I always disagree with them, and they're not really a person. Dr. Phil? Is it really a disagreement if he doesn't know I exist? Pineda the parking enforcement guy? Finally, I just have to break the news to her gently. "I'm sorry, no. There is no one."
She quickly switches to psychic go-to number two,"You're heartbroken over a man. You don't know if he's thinking about you." Poor old cow. She pulled the love lorn card on me, the serial monogamist, me the who's had a boyfriend longer than Scrubs has been on the air. I don't want to tell her this though. I'm afraid it will break her little gypsy heart, so I smile nervously and respond, "Maybe?"
"Maybe!" she and the kid think they've got me. They move closer in. Mom slaps a pink business card into my hand. "You're smiling on the outside, but inside you're sad." Hmm...kind of like someone who's stuck uncomfortably between the faces of two aggressive Natashas?
"I'll think about it," I smile even bigger.
"You haven't been happy in a long time," she hits back.
I nod, and giggle nervously and again try to defend myself with, "Maybe?"
I scoot away.
"You used to be happy!" is her last and best sales pitch, which she hisses at me as I writhe away with my has-been dog, reading her card as an assurance that I'm giving her psychic wares some serious consideration.
Available for Parties. Fabulous. What social gathering is complete with out an off putting woman bombarding my guests with negative blanket statements. Perhaps she does requests: "Can you just remind everyone that we're all going to die, and sprinkle in a little 'you don't think you're good enough,' and 'you'll never be truly happy'?'"
I don't think I'll hire her, though. If she was truly psychic, she would have read my level of poverty and known that I don't have money for a Pinkberry, much less a psychic. She would have known I felt bored and neglected as she and Nose Ring made me into my dog's wing man, and she would have known that the one pressing question I would like an answer to is: "How old will I be when I get my pet monkey, and will I allow strangers to violate him, too?"