I am once again fortunate enough to have my friend Phil’s dog Rita, aka the Queen of the Dog Park (I am unfailingly asked if she’s Phil’s Rita whenever I take her to the park. It’s like accompanying a celebrity) for a couple of days. Being a dog aunt is as great as being an ordinary aunt. You can play with them, have a great time, and then give them back to their regularly scheduled guardians. You can take credit for them if they reflect well on you, or blame the parents/guardians if they don’t. All the fun, none of the responsibility, unlike most things in a grown-up’s life. Sorry, kids, but it’s almost all responsibility and hardly any fun. So don’t be in a hurry to get here.

So I was used to having a dog around these days, but I still got the canine surprise of my life yesterday. I had left the front door open so the spring breeze could waft in (Rita is so well trained that she will not sneak out), and it wasn’t the only thing. Suddenly, I found a 130 pound rottweiler on my lap. Both Rita and I were astonished. One minute, it was just Rita and me; the next, a giant dog is licking my face with glee. It was Fidel, the huge, silly two year old rottweiler who lives in my building and sounds like the Hound of the Baskervilles when he barks.

The two dogs started playing together just as Fidel’s guardian came to my rescue…with Fidel’s brother Che (on a leash). That’s a lot of dog for one day. And some serious canine cardio.

At yoga class today, we were in warrior pose when the teacher asked me what warrior I was. I said, “Winston Churchill.”

He stared at me blankly - I guess a fat old guy with champagne in one hand and a cigar in the other isn’t his idea of a role model - and then walked away, saying, “Mine’s Xena.”

Other than the four-tier dark chocolate fountain, which was girl-nip (I don’t think they would have been more excited by, or lined up as long for, Sex God du Jour - is it still suddenly single Brad Pitt? Or am I, as usual, behind the times and it’s someone else entirely?), the best thing at the party was all the waiters circulating with trays of delicacies. Not only were they always giving you shrimp and wine, they took away the empties and then brought you a fresh supply. Wouldn’t it be great to have that at your house? In the morning, they could circulate with croissants and fruit, then change to lunch things and dinner things, and of course, late-night snacks.

The only thing that would be better than that would be living at a very grand hotel. Eloise had the right idea (hmmm. Just noticed that I bear a startling resemblance to Eloise, what with the unruly, stick-straight hair and the pillowy tummy), and was lucky enough to live at the glorious Plaza before it closed. It is now being made into a travesty of itself, with all the rooms with the best views being made into condos, with the rest being hotel rooms available to the po’ folks who can’t afford the condos (or object to them on very solid philosophical and aesthetic grounds).

There are definite advantages to living in a hotel, number one being room service, which is one of my favorite things in the world. No dishes, ever, and if your plumbing acts up, just call the front desk. Daily maid service! On-site gym! Valet parking! They’ll take away your laundry and bring it back, all nice and clean and actually ironed.

And don’t forget the chocolate on the pillow at night.

What Not to Wear for Dogs

I recently attended a fancy-ass fashion show* where dogs were not only accessories, but accessorized. I seriously think their guardians should be fined or even incarcerated for the fashion crimes and indignities inflicted upon these helpless pups.

I caught one dog, who was understandably trying to make a quick get away and, less understandably, wearing Versace. I felt a pang of regret on handing his leash to his semi-celebrity owner. Who knows what else she’d make him wear?

Other shocking sights:

A huge male dog with silver “pawlish” (yes, they spell it that way) on his claws and rhinestone bracelets on his front paws. Did I mention this was a boy dog? Who knew dogs wore drag?

A tiny black poodle with fuschia fur on her head.

A very large black poodle with most of her fur shaved down, except puffs around feet, tail, and head. Silvery heart-shaped stencils (temporary tattoos for dogs) adorned her derri&egravere. Her head hair was being blow-dried and back-combed and was eventually adorned with a rhinestone tiara with, you guessed it, hearts on it. At this point, I have to admit that some of my ridicule is tinged with envy, since I’ve always wanted a tiara. And I kind of like the idea of sparkly temporary tattoos. But on Me, not dogs.

A very small dog who could hardly move for all the ghetto gold he was sporting around his neck. Some of the necklaces brushed the floor.

A dog in yellow rain boots with a matching slicker and hat.

And the final entry in this walk of shame: No fewer than three outfits worn by human models showed their price tags, and there were two cases of fishnet stay ups that were not staying up.

When did fishnets come back in style? I guess it’s no worse than the poncho thing, though I once heard a woman at Macy’s saying to her friend with great vehemence, “I’d like to kill the guy who invented ponchos.” This fashion show would probably have been the end of her.

*If you’re wondering how the likes of me got invited to a do where there was not only an ice sculpture, but a fountain of dark chocolate - yes, a four layered fountain with fruit to dip in it - I can only say I have friends in high places! Well, one, anyway!

Finally, the plumbing knows who’s boss - Me!

Using my superhuman powers of persuasion, I convinced a friend to plunge away the commode-based ickiness (leaving my ignorance intact). Using my superhuman powers of whining, I finally got the building manager to get a plumber. After all, it’s only been 10 days of showering at the gym (though, as motives go for working out, having no hot water at home is pretty much unbeatable). He fixed it in less than an hour. There must be some mathematical formula for how long you wait for, say, a plumber or the car fix-it guy to show up (an interminably long time) versus how long it takes them to fix whatever it is (a breathtakingly tiny amount of time).

Having hot water seems to have woken up my long-dormant domestic side (actually, it was officially declared dead after being in a coma for so long), since I immediately started performing unnatural acts in the kitchen, like washing the dishes(!) and somehow ending up on a cooking binge.

It all started out innocently enough by deciding to make salsa. I made it, but discovered that I had been far too enthusiastic in my tomato buying, leaving me, like so many cooks before me, with Too Many Tomatoes. I roasted them in the oven with cloves of garlic, olive oil, freshly ground pepper, and thyme until they were soft and then squashed them all up (sans skin). Instant pasta sauce! Then I realized that the cilantro and scallions and limes I had left over from making the salsa could also be used for a Thai salad with the addition of sugar, red pepper flakes, mint (which I happened to have), and fish sauce, so I did that, too.

Quite an achievement for a girl with an unrivalled collection of take out and delivery menus, n’est-ce pas? What with the gardened windowboxes and all, they might start calling me Suzy Homemaker. I’ve been called worse things. I think.

The plumbing is ganging up on me. While the hot water refuses to flow, the toilet is overflowing. I have a plunger, but no idea how to use it. My plunging experience so far has been limited to swimming pools and necklines. I’m going to have to prevail on the nearest available boy to rescue me from my very icky distress.

Which reminds me: my fabulous niece had what may well be a million dollar idea:

“So boys have their uses. Like most things, there’s a time and place. They should have something like Dial-a-Man. Imagine the ad:

For when those gross spiders get stuck in your tub, for those stubborn jars that won’t open or for when the washing machine breaks. If you have ever thought to yourself “I could sure use a guy right about now”, then this brand-new service is for you! We have men available in a variety of sizes, colors, shapes and outfits on call 24 hours day! Nothing is too big, too tough or too yucky for our boys! Call now!”

If only I could. Any volunteers?

——————-

I know what you’re thinking, but even I’m not a bad enough daughter to have forgotten Mother’s Day. I sent Mom a card and two CD’s which actually arrived ahead of time (unlike some people, and you know who you are), so yay Me. Unfortunately, Mom did not achieve her goal of staying out of the hospital for Mother’s Day, and I’ve had a hard time reaching her. She’s either asleep and unable to answer the phone, or awake and too tired to talk for long, so I’m mostly relying on updates from my brother and sister. I have to admit that I’m a little more worried this time around, though for no concrete reason, so I might be going to the country sooner rather than later. I’m already camping anyway, what with the non-functioning plumbiing and all, so I might as well go all the way.

Yesterday, it was marigolds. Orange and variegated orange and red. Should I set a trap for the Secret Gardener? They probably don’t make Hav-A-Hearts that big, so I’d probably end up with a giant net &agrave la Gilligan’s Island with a screaming do-gooder inside who has instaneously turned into a do-badder. The curiosity is killing me, like the proverbial cat.

Still no hot water. The fact that my English grandfather used to have a cold bath every morning with the window open (and lived to be well into his 80’s) is not at all comforting. Neither is showering at the gym, especially after seeing that Seinfeld episode where George pees in the shower at the gym. Like I wasn’t already horrified by stepping into the damp, already used cubicle, trying not to think about bacteria and foreign hairs. Like showers weren’t already bad enough. I am longing for a warm, luscious, Lush-filled bath, the complete antithesis of my grandfather’s.

I’d even like to do the dishes…without having to boil water first. This is getting to be too much like camping. The only camp I’m even remotely interested in is the campy Batman kind. They really raised the camp ante on an episode I recently saw, with Julie Newmar (totally the best Catwoman) and famed stripper Gypsy Rose Lee (with all her clothes on, as a newspaper reporter), in the same episode.

After spending all that time in Florida, I belatedly learned that the only stripper school in the whole USA is located in Clearwater, just a short drive from where I was staying. Alas, and dang.

The Miss Exotic World pageant is being held on my birthday. How Suzy is that? Since I didn’t celebrate my birthday last year, I think I should celebrate it twice as much this year. Only 30 shopping days left! Think sparkly!

None of the usual suspects admitted to being the Midnight Gardener, but his/her addiction seems to be, if you’ll pardon the pun, growing (as they so often do - just ask any devotee of say, serial killing, internet porn or eBay). The hydrangeas and lavender (French, as it turns out on closer inspection - oooh, l&agrave l&agrave!) have now been joined by red and pink geraniums. What’s next? I can hardly wait. I so rarely experience random acts of beauty.

On the other hand, there’s no hot water. At all. The building manager claims that it will be fixed tomorrow…or the next day. I actually had to shower at the gym. With all those other people. And then I had to take the bus to the doctor. That’s way too much public exposure (seems to be Monday punday around here) in one day. I’m going to hide in the house now and see if I can catch the Midnight Gardener. Maybe it will be roses this time!

Well, well.

At some point during my {so far ineffective} beauty sleep last night, someone put pots of hydrangeas and lavender in my window box. Taking pity on Me and my black thumb? Or the empty window box, now that Spring has {supposedly} sprung? Oooh, maybe it was a secret admirer!