Restaurant Gal

What is the meanest thing you have ever done to someone? I’m talking about down-and-dirty, ugly mean.

Did you take full credit for a work project that really belonged to a junior staffer or co-worker?

Did you throw your boss under the bus with the big boss, because you could and it might mean a move up for you?

Did you have an affair with your best friend’s spouse or significant other and then commiserate with her when she cried to you about her suspicions that he was seeing someone else?

Did you simply cut off communication with someone and then tell them everything was “fine” when they asked what was up, when, in fact, you now despise this someone and don’t have the guts to tell them the friendship is over?

Did you tell someone who is still reeling from being ditched by a boy that you have photos in your cell that the boy sent to you of his new hot girl from Miami, and then call that boy while the someone is sitting next to you–the someone who was simply out enjoying a drink with friends and she thought you were one of them–and then tell the boy (in a loud voice so the someone and the other friends can’t help but listen) that you are sitting with the someone he ditched, invite him to come join you, and then delight in telling the someone that the boy said he didn’t want to come out tonight after all?

“It’s South Florida,” said another friend of the boy the someone barely knows because he saw she was upset. “Don’t take anything seriously down here.”

So mean.

I worked 9 hours yesterday. I won’t bore you, my readers, with the crises, except to say I handled them, and I wish I had handled them better.

I worked 12 hours today. All good. I wanted, I needed the distraction that work provided. I got it.

I was starving all day. Fries, ice cream, salads, spinach–yeah, it all appealed. By the time I was off, however, I was so hungry that I was no longer hungry. But I wanted a shift drink and fresh air. Mostly fresh air.

I went to my place at the ocean, but I did a drive by to make sure the boy wasn’t there. I am grateful for whatever client or work emergency or other girl kept him away. (Yeah, I know, it had to be the next girl, but okay.) Because I sat among friends, and I drank my wine, and then I watched a storm come up over the ocean, and I laughed more in one hour than I have in weeks and weeks.

I felt, for the first time in weeks, or is it a month already, like it might be okay here.

Like I might be okay. Not great. But just okay is the moment I have been waiting for.

“Hey man, visitors,” said the one Starbucks worker to the other. The other laughed, but didn’t turn around.

We were the only customers. No one in front of us. No one behind us. I was in D.C. with RG Daughter, and after a long day, we were tired and desperate for caffeine.

“Seriously, man. Customers!”

“Oh, hey!” said the other worker to us, finally turning around. He made his way over to the register, stared down at the keyboard and then looked back up at us, grinning. “Hey!” His co-worker had vanished.

We waited for a second.

“Hey,” he said for the third time.

RG Daughter and I did the unspoken “Don’t look at me and I won’t look at you, but what the hell?” thing with each other.

“Hey,” RG daughter said back, with a little attitude. The worker grinned some more, and answered back, “Hey.”

“Okay,” I said to her, figuring he wasn’t going to ask us for our order–ever. “Just tell him what you want.”

“Do you want something to drink?” asked the worker. Um….

RG Daughter glanced at me, and looked back at the worker, smiling the smile of someone trying hard not to laugh. “Grande skim iced latte, please.”

The worker looked at the keyboard again, then fumbled around doing some sort of mystery chore. About 30 seconds later, he held up a plastic cup. “Is this the cup?” he asked, still grinning.

RG Daughter and I looked at each other and willed one another not to laugh.

“Yeah, that looks just like the cup,” she said quite seriously.

The worker regarded the cup for just a second, then walked over to the espresso machine. He looked at all the knobs and containers of milk and touched a tiny metal pitcher. Then he just stood and stared at it all, again. A full minute later, having accomplished nothing more, he looked at RG Daughter and asked–I swear to God–”Do you know what goes in it?”

Yes, we lost it. I burst out laughing. RG Daughter was almost crying from trying so hard earlier not to laugh. “Do you know what goes in it?” she asked me.

“Well, uh, you know, espresso and milk and ice?” I asked her, giggling.

The worker thought this was hilarious as well, and he joined in our fun, laughing along with us. “Yeah, is that it? I mean the milk or….” Ha. Ha. Ha.

“Oh my God, is he toasted or something?” RG Daughter asked me, still laughing.

“You think???” I laughed back.

The worker looked us full in the face, his eyes as red as if he’d been swimming in chlorinated water with his eyes open for three days. You think?

As he continued to laugh, the worker fiddled with the espresso machine, poured milk into the cup he’d shown us, and somehow managed to produce an iced coffee-looking beverage.

“Taste it,” he said to RG daughter as he handed it to her. “I mean, do you think this is what it should look like? But I want you to taste it before you pay for it, you know, to make sure it’s right.”

Now, THAT was customer service. RG Daughter giggled as she took a sip, and I laughed down at the floor. “Yep, it’s fine,” she laughed, and had to walk away from the counter so as not to get so hysterical that she would choke on the latte.

The worker walked back to the register. He poked various keys on it, which resulted in much beeping. I tried to hand him my five.

“I can’t do it,” he said, no longer laughing, but clearly perplexed as to why the machine kept beeping. He touched more keys. The machine beeped some more. “I can’t” he repeated.

“Can’t make the register work?” I asked.

“I can’t,” he almost cried, which would have made his roadmap eyes even worse. “Just take it. It’s yours.”

“The latte? Are you sure?” I asked him.

“I can’t do it. So just take it. You know, it’s free today.”

Oh, okay. Like a personal free latte Friday or something. Great!

My apologies to Starbucks stockholders, but I accepted this unexpected comp. Yeah.

The peacock and his girl

The party

A peacock and his girl showed up at my restaurant today. They walked right up to the glass doors and looked in, their beaks tapping ever so slightly on the glass as they wondered why they could walk no further into the clear future. He was quite beautiful with his blue feathers, a sight to behold. She was a faded version of him, smaller yet feistier in spite of her colorless feathers.

“Should we call animal control?” asked my co-worker?

“Will our GM be really angry that they were here and we didn’t?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

We looked in silence at the peafowl couple at our door.

“Yeah, well I didn’t call him about water dripping from a light fixture in the ceiling on Sunday, like an idiot that I was, so….” I said.

“Oh yeah, I would have called him about that,” my co-worker said.

“I know. I should have, but I didn’t. It was the end of the night, and it was just a few drips. But now I know I should have called him.” I paused. “I am still so not good with this whole when to call him thing. I call when it doesn’t matter, and I don’t when it does.”

We thought about this for a minute.

“Maybe we should call animal control,” I suggested.

“But they will hurt them trying to catch them,” said my co-worker.

“Oh, no. I don’t think so,” I said. But I didn’t really know for sure, any more than I know when to call my GM when I am supposedly in charge.

And the peafowl continued to hang out at our door. They touched beaks, they walked in unison as if dancing, but never more than a few steps away from our front door. They adored each other, right outside our glass doors.

“I’m calling animal control,” said my co-worker.

“Yeah, maybe you should,” I said. “Then we can call our GM, you know, if they are still here, and tell him we tried to get rid of them.”

But both the wildlife rescue people and the domestic animal control people said they didn’t care about our peafowl couple. “They’re wild and they are free to roam,” both dispatchers said.

“At least I can say I tried,” said my co-worker.

“You tried,” I agreed. And I was secretly glad no one cared about our peafowl. Because they were enormous and beautiful and at our door, an exotic sight to behold.

I remembered I had finally remembered to bring my camera to work, so I went outside the glass doors and snapped 53 photos of the peafowl couple. They were not the least afraid of me. Indeed, they almost posed for me. I could have stroked their beautiful feathers, because they were just that tame.

“You’re taking so many pictures,” remarked my co-worker.

“Out of a hundred photos I take, two might be great,” I told her.

“Right,” she said, not at all convinced.

“Right,” I said, knowing I would be lucky if any of the photos I took of this peafowl couple came out. The light was as horrible as they were easy to shoot.

Soon, it was time to open our doors for lunch, peafowl couple hanging about or not.

And we smirked and laughed as we witnessed an interesting experiment in human behavior unfold before our glass doors: To a person, every man who approached was wary or downright scared of the peafowl couple. A group of three such men actually backed up, turned around and went to the carryout next door. To a person, every woman who approached snapped a photo of the colorful couple with her cell phone.

It dawned on me that if we were to have our usual lunch crowd, I would have to stand by the glass doors and shoo the peafowl couple aside to let the men in. The women, of course, walked in without this assistance.

“They’re so aggressive,” remarked one man. “You have to be careful with them.”

“They are so beautiful!” remarked one woman. “How on earth did you get them to stay here?”

“This is the best lunch in a long, long time,” said my co-worker. “The peacock and his mate are so funny!”

I remembered the last time I saw a flock of peafowl, and how I thought they were a good-luck omen, and how I met the boy not long after, and how they ended up seeming to be a sad, terrible omen–if they were an omen at all.

“You know, it kind of is a great lunch,” I agreed. Because omen or symbol or portent of whatever is or isn’t to come next, it was very cool to have these exotic creatures hanging about with us at our glass doors.

Still, our guests remained divided about the goodness of our peafowl.

“Don’t you think you should get rid of them?” asked more than one man.

“Will you keep them?” asked more than one woman.

“We should name them,” I told my co-worker.

“Yes, really pretty names,” said my co-worker.

A quick Google search revealed that the peacock is the national bird of India. Another search revealed a host of names that might befit our peafowl couple. We settled on Prem for the peacock and Priya for the peahen, which, according to the Google site upon which I landed first, mean “Love” and “Beloved.”

And just as we named them, they left us, turning away from our glass doors, walking together down the busy street in front of our restaurant, toward the inlet.

“Oh, I hope no one hits them,” lamented my co-worker as we watched a Hummer swerve to avoid them.

“I have a feeling this pair knows the streets,” I said. “No one would dare hit them.”

Tonight, another wine-and-smokes party unfolded in front of my solid white door. I drank too much wine and smoked too many cigarettes on a mostly empty stomach that only had a piece of provolone cheese, a handful of cashews, three french fries and a hamburger patty topped with cheese consumed at 5 p.m. to act as a counterbalance. I was totally trashed by 11 p.m.

“Hey, what are you doing in here?” laughed my neighbor girlfriend as she walked through my unlocked door and plopped down in one of my chairs. She was immediately followed by one of The Fraternity, who, it turns out, is an insightful, sensitive, bright young man who I might–might–allow RG Daughter to meet.

“I am drunk and done,” I told them. “And I think I may just have hit the bottom of all nights of the entire year I have been here.”

“No!” said my neighbor girlfriend.

“Man, I am sorry,” said the not-so-annoying member of The Fraternity.

“Yeah, so I am going to throw you both out,” I slurred, wondering as well if this might be the first night of my life that I might throw up from drinking too much wine on an empty stomach.

And then they left me, walking together through my solid white door and out onto our shared balcony.

I pulled my blanket around me and lay down on my sofa with the pup. As the room spun and I was afraid to close my eyes for fear of being sick, I remembered the peafowl couple and the fun they had provided at lunch and how worried we were when they left us, walking their haphazard, clumsy walk away from the glass doors of my restaurant.

When I awoke a few hours later, I felt almost normal. I scarfed a couple of cheese and crackers and drank a bottle of water. I saw on my cell that my girlfriend neighbor had texted me, twice:

“Ur beautiful smart n funny hes an idiot”

“The best is yet to come and hes out there waiting for u Ur going to be great again youll see”

Indeed, I have somehow stumbled to the bottom of whatever it was I set out to do here in this year, and I am not so sure if peacocks, peahens or well-intentioned neighbors know just how low that is. Which means, I guess, it’s all up from here. At least I hope that’s why the handsome peacock and his beautiful mate magically arrived at my restaurant and allowed me to be so close to them on this day. Maybe this time the omen will get it right.

“Deep inside us–even during life’s darkest moments–there’s a whimsical and adventurous little fairy trying to escape. Learning to set it free is the best thing we can do for ourselves.”

–Mary Tiler More

If I could find this tile, it would all be okay. Maybe not okay right away, but okay someday. Maybe even soon. But, hey, okay someday is good, too. Except I am lying. Everything okay really, really soon would be an incredible bonus.

The tile is about whimsy and setting it free from our sadness. Believe me, I want to let the whimsy out. I want to set the whimsy free. And for a few minutes each day, the whimsy hovers above me, around me, but only ventures so far before it perches once again on my shoulder, sighing that another day is past and it is still compelled to return to the sad side.

I hunker down in my apartment, long after the wine is gone and my neighbors are still laughing with one another. Oh I was out there with them, drinking wine, smoking even though I don’t smoke, begging a home-cooked meal from the cute downstairs neighbor. My new girlfriend neighbor is the reason all this action is happening in front of my door. She is the reason we are noticed, laughing, talking, telling the “bad boy” stories. Her whimsical fairy embraces this freedom every minute of every day.

I am done telling my story, even as she repeats hers to each and every neighbor–even the 23-year-olds who are newly graduated from a preppy college up north, whom we have collectively nicknamed “The Fraternity,” and whom are never allowed to meet RG Daughter. The Fraternity aside, my girlfriend neighbor’s story is filled with energy and hope. Just as she is. And every neighbor is drawn to it, and to her.

Mine is the story no one wants to hear, because it is so pallid and staid. It is the “Yeah, whatever, been there” story. Except to me, of course. Because it is a first for me, and thus it all feels quite new and original and compelling. But when I tell it to these 30-somethings, they almost shrug with indifference. Because they never would have allowed what I allowed to happen to me to happen to them. Because they are that much more savvy about dating and relationships despite their being so many years my junior.

I am that much more dense, and they could care that much less.

So I knew I had to find the tile, because of all the stories I have read on this remarkably creative blog, this was the one that actually spoke to me. Because God knows it is long past time that I set free my personal, whimsical and adventurous fairy and just let her be. Long past.

I felt a little silly perusing the shelves of cookies and sauces and pastas and a zillion other gourmet deli items at 9 a.m. But the tile had been hidden in this market late the afternoon before, so I knew I was likely the first one to look for it.

“Can I help you find something?” asked the young worker.

“Um, yes, actually,” I said, still looking around for the “Toilette” sign, beyond which I knew the tile to be. “I want to buy some really great pasta and other items to cheer a friend up. She’s Italian and she cooks, so…” I was rambling.

“Oh, well, any of these are good,” pointed out the worker. “And over here, we have all kinds of aged vinegar.” Which was when I spotted the Toilette sign. But it was clear that this was not a public restroom. Hmm. Time to be brazen.

“Would you mind terribly if I used your restroom, then I’ll gather some of these items for my friend.”

The worker looked at me, and I could tell she was considering saying no, but she sighed and waved me back. “Yeah, sure, go ahead.” Gee, thanks!

I maneuvered around in the tiny bathroom, trying to be very quiet as I opened the under-sink cabinet door. I scanned the back, then the left side. No tile. I glanced at the right side, and just as I was about to close the door and call it another unfulfilled search, I saw the rough edge behind the yellow top of a can of a lemon-something cleaning product. I slid it out.

My first surprise was how large it was. My second was how colorful it was. My third was that I had actually found it! I flushed the toilet for effect and lamented how this beautiful tile was way too large to even pretend to hide in my purse. So I simply carried it out with me. What the hell, right?

The worker was only too happy to pull together $48.59 worth of various food stuffs for me to purchase for my girlfriend neighbor. When I placed the tile on the counter to count money from my wallet, she said, “Hey, that is really cute!”

Cute? The tile that will comfort and cajole me to let it all go and be happy in my life and with myself once again? The tile that will give me permission to no longer beat myself up for being so stupid about the boy, the idea of even considering a boy like that, of dating anyone for that matter…. I bore even myself as I think this to myself for the billionth time.

That tile? Cute?

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”

Get over it. Get over him. You would have broken it off in a month or so anyway, because you are light years beyond him in intelligence, looks–everything.

You were just married too long. Now, you are acting like a teenager, which is understandable, because you were married for so long. Hey, chalk it up to a learning experience.

He is a jerk. He is the reason I am still single. Oh, I’ve dated “him” before, ha ha.

Seriously, he wasn’t cute enough for you. Yeah, I wondered why you were even seeing him. You could do so much better.

Oh come on, don’t blame yourself for being stupid. He took advantage of your vulnerability. He knew exactly what he was doing with a girl who trusted him. Next time, you be the player. Play him!

I’m sorry, but it was all about the booty. Don’t pretend you didn’t know that. The best thing you can do is walk into his bar with another boy, a really hot boy.

I didn’t go out with him, and I could have. Guess why.

I happen to know he’s already seen and is now done with someone else. Yes, really.

Get over it.

Get over him.

So many helpful opinions from those who think they know. Too bad hearing each well-intentioned thought is one more unintended knife shoved ever so slowly into my stomach.

I have a saying that I have often used to calm myself when the pain from illness or grief is quite deep: Tomorrow will never feel as bad as it does today, because today is as bad as it gets.

Today was remarkably horrible. Today, the pain was unexpectedly acute. Today, the hurt I thought was mostly done came out of nowhere, in full force.

So I say it one more time: Tomorrow will never feel as bad as today. And I add this: Because the healing is happening, even if it is imperceptible today.

Today is over. Today is done. The pain will ease.

I know this. I just hate today. Give me that, and then say nothing to make me feel brighter or better or wiser. Please, just don’t say one more thing about how it’s all going to be okay.

Because I just hate today. Give me that.

The three were beautiful people, you could just tell. A stylishly thin, elegant woman in her late 50s, work done on her face, for sure, but almost good enough not to be obvious. Her highlighted blonde hair only showed the merest streak of uncolored gray, which, in a way, provided natural highlights. An animated but not particularly handsome man, also in his late 50s, a barely paunchy belly pushing just a little at the buttons on his expensive shirt, his receding hair still thick and curly in spots. His soft leather slip-on shoes poked out from beneath his designer dress slacks. He wore no socks. A girl in her early 20s nothing short of stunning. Her long, thick blond hair draped over her bare shoulders, a fan of white gold against her black tank top. A yellow-and-black print skirt hugged her narrow hips, flaring out above her knees, just so. If you looked from her mother to her, you could see the likeness of so many yesterdays perfectly formed in this young beauty of today.

They were seated next to us at a four-top on the outdoor terrace. Icy cold, fruity martinis flowed, even at our table. Grapefruit this, lemon drop that, raspberry anything—all the perfect accompaniments to the images of cool and beautiful.

I watched the older gentleman bend close to the girl to hear something she was telling him. He laughed and gripped her shoulder, then removed his arm, his hand lingering only a second as he gave her the merest caress. The mother smiled at this and sipped her drink.

I realized I had been staring at this table for longer than a minute. I looked at RG Son and his girlfriend. They were as mesmerized by the trio as I. Without knowing when and how it had happened, the beautiful people had rendered us silent and uninteresting to each other, drawn as we were to watching their every move.

Suddenly, another gentleman appeared at their table. “My God, Hank, great to see you!” said the older man to another man about his age. “Pull up a chair!”

Hank obliged and introductions were made. “This is Caitlyn, as you know, and her mom, who is in town visiting.” Hank kissed both women on the cheek. Oh, okay, so the daughter lived here in town and was out with Dad for Father’s Day weekend, and the mom was here, too. Clearly, Mom and Dad were not married any longer, but they seemed on good terms. Nice.

The young girl said something else to the Dad, and he stroked her forearm as she spoke.

RG Son looked at me, I looked at RG Son’s girlfriend, and she mouthed a silent, “What?”

“Janet, Mark!” shouted the Dad at another couple walking closer to our table. “Come on over here, can you? I want you to meet Caitlyn and her mother.”

Janet and Mark pushed their way behind our seats and made their way to the beautiful table. They stood awkwardly because there were no more chairs. Or maybe it was the introduction by the mother that prompted their discomfort: “Hi, I’m the mom and my daughter Caitlyn is the girlfriend.”

“Are you kidding me?” whispered RG Son’s girlfriend. RG Son and I were stupid and slow in processing this.

“Wait, the mom is his girlfriend? Oh, no. Hold it, the GIRL is his girl?” I said to no one.

“I’m done looking over there,” muttered RG Son.

But how could we not look, now that we knew. As the group continued to grow, tables were brought together and extra chairs fitted around them. With each additional guest, the mother moved further away from her beautiful daughter. Finally, a party of 11 was before us, the mother alone at one end of the haphazardly arranged tables, the friends of the older man everyplace else. Next to the older man, of course, sat the beautiful daughter. Except she was hardly his daughter as he kissed her hair and she rested her hand on his knee.

Not once did the mother’s smile ever wane as she introduced herself as “the girlfriend’s mother” each and every time to the steady stream of newcomers. Only one of the newly arrived guests seemed uncomfortable with the May-September romantic tableau before her-—a middle-aged mother with her 10-year-old boy who was as bored sitting there as his mother was uneasy assessing her own faded allure in the face of such youthful perfection. Of such in-your-face lust.

“That is just…gross,” said RG Son’s girlfriend.

“You have to wonder how great he’s going to seem to her in another 10 years, when she is 33 and he is pushing 70,” I said.

RG Son said nothing for a moment, then wondered aloud: “Hey maybe he donated a kidney to the mother and he met the daughter at the hospital and it was love at first sight because, you know, he saved her mom’s life.”

“Right, and maybe they are a team that goes after rich men, one of them always marries the guy, and they get all the money after a quickie divorce,” countered RG Son’s girlfriend.

“Maybe she works for him, and now the whole relationship is out in the open, and even her mom is okay with it,” I concluded.

“Okay, enough watching,” RG Son said.

“Yeah,” RG Son’s girlfriend agreed.

“Yeah,” I said.

We sipped our drinks. The terrace filled, and soon the beautiful table was lost in the crowd.

We paid our check and talked about where to go next for dinner.

A cheer went up from the beautiful table. Glasses were hoisted in a toast. The beautiful girl leaned her head on the older man’s shoulder. I looked for the mom’s reaction. But mom was no longer seated at the table. Gone? Where? For how long?

“Maybe they’re just in love,” I said. “You know, just stupid in love.”

And that is how we left them. Stupid in love.

I called my girlfriend and asked her to meet in town for one glass of wine. “I can’t just be home and stare at my walls.”

“Of course,” she said.

We had two glasses of wine and split a fruit and cheese platter and then decided to go to the bar we love at the beach, the bar where I met the boy. The boy whose phone number I deleted from my phone–not out of spite or anger, but in self-preservation–so that I am no longer able to initiate texts or calls.

My girlfriend and I chatted with each other at the bar where I met the boy, then we chatted with friends of the boy, because everyone is friends with the boy, but the boy was not there. And this was good. In fact, the evening was pleasant, fun.

My girlfriend left, and I stayed to finish my wine, because I was enjoying laughing as I sat between two friends of the boy and actually didn’t care that the boy wasn’t there. When you delete a phone number from your phone, you are most definitely making a statement to yourself.

Suddenly, an arm snaked around my waist. “Hey, there’s a pretty girl,” said the deep voice, and a kiss touched my lips.

“Oh hi,” I said, as genuinely surprised as I was mostly unresponsive. After all, I no longer had his phone number in my cell. Not that he knew this. But I did.

He seemed only a little surprised to see me sitting between his two pals, laughing as his two pals and I one-upped each other with terrible jokes. I’d like to say the night went on to include his attention as well as his effort to make plans to see me another evening. It did not.

Instead, I chatted far more with the GM of this place about silly guests and their outrageous requests, private dining and food-and-beverage minimums over which guests beat you up–business, if you will, albeit in a hilarious way. I think the boy wondered at this, but only ever so briefly.

When he rose to leave, I asked if he would walk me to my car. He did, chattering about how busy he was at work and how a deal overseas was unfolding. I heard him, but I’d also heard it before.

He hugged me goodnight at my car, wrapping his arms around me, but I did not kiss him. I couldn’t. “You look so great,” he mumbled into my hair. “What were you doing tonight, anyway, out picking up other guys?”

“Should I have been?” I laughed, a laugh that was strained at best.

“No!” he answered, and maybe he meant it. I thought at that exact moment, however, He really thinks all is okay between us. And then I thought about it again. No, it’s simply all okay for him.

“Say hi to Rouletta for me,” he said, hugging me again, his hand caressing my hair.

“Sure,” was all I could say as I twisted out of his arms and climbed into my car. I drove off without so much as a wave. I don’t think he noticed.

I didn’t know that tonight would be the night that all of this would matter a tiny bit less than it had during the storm of sadness I’ve been battling for the past week. That it would matter this tiny bit less so soon after feeling so devastated was a delightful surprise.

I know myself. I likely will feel sad again soon. And again and again. But tonight was good.

Now, here’s the Cinci part:

In the spirit of moving forward, I will be in Cincinnati this Sunday helping my pal at Just Cured dispense his incredible European-style smoked and cured salmon at a Brunch–part of an annual “7 Days for SIDS” event that supports SIDS research. If you live in or are visiting the Cinci area and feel like grazing on great food for an excellent cause, stop by Just Cured and say hello.

Rouletta has gone insane.

I cannot go a block into our daily walks without her lunging after lizards. She hurls herself into the air, twists her sausage-like body into a double corkscrew, and spirals forward after these elusive yet plentiful-by-the-hundreds creatures that scurry across the steamy concrete pavement.

This drives me insane.

More than a few times each day, she lands on her back or smashes nose first into a thorny hedge. This morning, she fell so hard on her back, I was sure she would be injured. But no, she bounded back up, hopelessly tangled in her leash, did the Boston Terrier “pointing” thing and looked for the next pint-sized reptile she was certain was the one she would finally capture. I have no idea what she will do with a lizard if and when she ever catches one, but I also don’t want to find out. This is an aggravating, distracting activity of hers that challenges her cool diva persona.

Blame the lizards for repeatedly showing me this dark side of my otherwise perfect pup.

This evening, we walked past a mom and her two kids whom I see on every single walk Rouletta and I take. The boy is about four, the girl about two. They could be my kids, so many years ago. Their mom could be me, a lifetime ago.

But this mom is a better mom than I ever was. She is always doing some sort of outside activity with her cute kids–painting rocks, drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk, planting flowers, singing outdoor songs. Her creativity is endless. She exhausts me just thinking about the energy it must take for her to put on this great-mom show every day. Frankly, she looks exhausted, but she always has a hello and a ready smile for me when my insane lizard-hunting dog and I cross her path and that of her babies.

Today, I watched from a few doors down as this super mom wielded a butterfly net, swooping down on a scraggly bush in her front yard with swipe so swift, I wasn’t sure what was going on. Batting a bee? Swatting an errant feral cat?

“Wanna see what my mom caught for me?” the little boy asked me as I yanked Rouletta to my side so she wouldn’t climb a palm tree trunk in an effort to complete her lizard quest. Mom smiled at me, proud yet somewhat embarrassed.

“Sure!” I said. Because what the hell? I am sure this mom could successfully wrestle an alligator for her kids if it came down to that.

“See?” he said, hoisting a small plastic container up to my face.

I had to look more than a few seconds to finally see it–the tiniest of lizards. A baby, to be sure.

“Oh, wow!” I exclaimed. “So now you get to keep it as a pet?”

“Only for a day,” said Mom.

“Only for one day,” echoed the boy. “Then we let him go.”

“Go, go!” giggled his younger sister.

Nice. Cute. Adorable. Way to remind me of how many Disney Duck Tales episodes and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle tapes I shoved in a VCR to keep my kids occupied so I could simply catch my breath when my now-awesome-in-spite-of-me kids were these kids’ ages.

Blame my recurring feeling that I am a mother who STILL doesn’t measure up on this stupid lizard that was lucky enough to be caught by a great mom who will ensure his freedom tomorrow.

As the lizard-possessed pup and I continued our walk, we spied a beautiful French Bull Dog being walked by his owners. Both of our dogs pulled at their leashes to greet each other. “Can they say hello?” I asked the men walking this cute dog, because I have heard that is doggy-owner etiquette, although I am the only one in my neighborhood who does this. Mostly, folks just pull their dogs close to them and cross the street away from my dog. I don’t take this personally. I simply blame the lizards that make my dog seem like a maniac for preventing anyone from wanting to talk to us.

“Sure!” one answered. And our pups were smitten with each other at first sight.

“How old is yours?”

Five.

“What’s her name?”

Rouletta.

“She’s beautiful!”

She is a fallen show girl. Ha ha.

“Ha!”

How old is yours?

“He’s our baby–a seven month old.”

Great. No really great. You are a happy couple of guys wearing wedding bands and you have a well-behaved puppy you adore. You complete each other as much in love as you obviously are. I don’t begrudge you this, of course. I am just having a rough couple of days, okay years, on the love front, and now my dog has turned into a maniac about the lizards, and….Hey, you wanna be friends? I damn well could use a friend in this town right about now! Not that I am needy or anything, but you seem so happy with the dog and all….

“Nice meeting you. See you again on walks,” the one man’s partner smiles as Rouletta wraps the leash around her neck in an attempt to pounce on a lizard she spies dashing along a landscape rock in someone’s perfectly landscaped front yard.

I blame the lizards for every friend I cannot make and haven’t made in my neighborhood that I am leaving in exactly five weeks.

When we get back to my apartment, my neighbor is there at my door, begging a glass of wine and a cigarette. She tells me how she has deleted her bad boy’s number from her cell phone and how empowered she feels by this action. “Finally,” she says, “I was proactive and did the right thing for me.”

Rouletta eyes a lizard scurrying along the wall next to my front door. She careens face first into the stucco even as she is five seconds too late to even put a paw on the lightening-quick critter.

“You just deleted his number and that’s that?” I ask, examining Rouletta’s face for damage after I haul her sorry self into my arms.

“Yep. You should try it. It is so empowering. So freeing.”

Hours later, the pup is sprawled out on her cushy bed. She looks exhausted from her recurring efforts to go after what she will never capture. I stare at my iPhone on my desk. It is still encased in its pink “skin” that will make it difficult for me to drop it, according to my daughter.

I give it a moment’s thought. Then another. Then a glass of wine and a couple of more minutes.

Then I delete a phone number from my iPhone.

I wait. I wait some more. But I don’t feel empowered. I don’t feel free. Instead, I feel sick. Sick on a day I got a small raise. Sick on a day a local newspaper wants to publish one of my photos.

So, I try not to feel anything. When I still feel everything, I blame it all on the lizards.