Damn Dirty Dog



My eyes flash open and it is dark in the room and outside. The clock reads 5:00 am. My husband softly snores. I love this time in morning – all is calm on 14th street – lack of sirens, lack of drunk pedestrians and lack of rumbling trucks and horns blaring. The room is a little cool for my taste and I snuggle deeper into the bed and contemplate my forthcoming day. Perhaps I should go jogging? However, it’s a possibility that I trip while jogging in my urban jungle and fall flat on my face. My two front teeth are knocked out and blood is gushing from my mouth. The pain is searing through my gums and shooting down my neck, the only thing I can think of to do is grope for my fallen teeth on the cracked and uneven pavement. I can’t find my teeth. The blood is warm and salty on my tongue. I press my arm up to my mouth to try and stem the blood, I pull my tattered lip down over my bleeding gums. I feel faint, I feel nauseous, the world goes black. The ambulance arrives, they slap me awake and scoop me up on the stretcher.

“Where are my teeth?”, I grunt.

“You’ll get new teeth.”, the paramedic tries to reassure me.   They hoist me into the ambulance, but not before the front of the gurney slips and my head scrapes the rear bumper – causing more blood.   It is now 6:00 am and rush hour is in full swing in Washington, DC. The ambulance is held up with gridlock on the way to the hospital and the bleeding can’t be stopped. I’m pronounced dead on arrival.

Perhaps today is not the best day to go jogging. I pull the bed covers up under my chin.

I could snuggle up to my husband and surprise him with an early morning delight. He has been badgering me his balls are turning blue and that a little booty would do him good. However, it’s a possibility I could get pregnant because I’m fertile right now. We long ago abandoned birth control. If I got pregnant at age 50, what would be the chance for a healthy baby or that I would even survive the birth. This is ridiculous — I can’t get pregnant. But what if I did and then it had some chromosomal gene defect and I wanted to abort the baby and my husband wanted to keep it. The stress of this situation caused us to divorce and I was left alone with an abortion and broken heart.

No, no booty call for the husband. He can just beat off – which he will probably do on the comforter which will cause a stain and then we will have to spend $70 bucks getting the damned thing dry-cleaned and suffering through two freezing nights with no comforter. I sleep in a sweatshirt, sweatpants and socks. If only I had a wool cap. The comforter returns with a note from the drycleaner that they can’t remove the stain. They still charge us $70 bucks and we now need a new comforter. That’s easily $400 bucks. Too bad I just lost my dream job or we could afford a new comforter. The stain will have to do. A little dirt never hurt was a favorite mantra of my father while scooping up treasures off the side of the highway that folks had discarded for some reason or another. I cringe with the recollection.

I will not jog, I will not have sex with my husband and I will not mention that he should just beat off. We just can’t afford a new comforter right now. Perhaps a cup of coffee and a steamy shower would start the day off right.


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