What could possibly go wrong?

The other night, I sent my oldest son to the drugstore for what some might consider to be an "uncomfortable" item.  Ryan doesn't usually embarrass easily.  He's the kid who still allowed me to hug him in front of his friends when he was in high school, so I didn't think anything of asking him to pick up a package of hemorrhoid wipes for me.  (Oh grow up - they're for hygiene purposes.)  Besides, it wasn't as if I'd asked him to pick up something really embarrassing like tampons, right?

                "Are you going to be OK getting these?" I asked him through the window of his car.

                "Sure," he replied playfully.  "As long as I don't run into a girl I'd like to date."

The rest of the story, as relayed by Ryan, went something like this:

When he arrived, there weren't many people in the store, but a cute young girl was working the checkout area.  Knowing he'd have to encounter this girl as he paid for the wipes, he came up with what he thought was a brilliant idea.

                "Excuse me," he said to the girl.  "I was sent here for something and I'm not sure where to find it.  Can you help me?"

                "Sure," she said.  What are you looking for?"

                "Well, it's these wipes that are supposed to be for hemorrhoids?"  He made the statement into a question, pretending he'd never heard of such a thing before.

                "Oh yes, those are in Aisle 9, at the end."

Ryan thanked her and headed over to Aisle 9, very pleased that he was able to think up such a convincing story.

Somehow, in the time that it took him to walk to the back of the store and then up to the front again, the store had filled with people and they were all standing in the lone checkout line.  The cute girl was still there, ringing up everyone's purchases.   Ryan was glad he'd already explained to her that the wipes were for someone else.  Now he won't have to feel awkward when it's his turn at the register.

 

The line was moving slowly and Ryan was at the end of it.  He had to stand there, holding the hemorrhoid wipes, for what seemed like an eternity.  A man with seventeen bottles of soda was insisting that they were all on sale and it took a while to get all of that sorted out.

Ryan thought he was home free until two young girls "even cuter than the first girl" got in line behind him.  Only it wasn't exactly behind him.  Because the line was so long, it formed horizontally along the front of the store, forcing the girls to stand next to him.  Now he was really feeling uneasy.  He tried his best to hide the wipes from view.

At last, it was his turn to check out.  He smiled at the girl behind the counter, relieved that this whole embarrassing ordeal was almost over.  She took the package from him to ring it up and announced brightly, "So I see you found the hemorrhoid wipes!"

And that was the very last time Ryan would ever agree to go to the store for his mother.

A Dog Park for Introverts

My dog Bailey has never met anyone - of either the two-legged or the four-legged variety - that she doesn't

like. When we're out for a walk, she eagerly pulls toward anyone that she sees, her tail wagging in happy anticipation. 

Once, a woman walking toward us stopped and asked of Bailey, "Is that dog smiling?" I'm sure she was.  I have no doubt that if dogs are capable of smiling, Bailey would be just the dog to figure it out.

When I'm out for a walk, I'm not nearly as keen as my dog about meeting other people.  Sometimes I just want to be alone with my thoughts and the occasional birdsong.  Other times I'm not interested in sharing small talk with strangers.  Still other times, the reason I am out walking with my dog in the first place is because I need to get away from people for awhile so that I can avoid the urge to strangle some of them. 

Sadly, Bailey's encounters with other people and dogs do not always go the way she'd hoped. Occasionally, she will be much more excited about meeting someone than they are about meeting her.  Of course, to Bailey, their rejection merely means that she has to try harder to win them over.  I can imagine her canine brain reasoning, "maybe if I sit adorably and offer my paw, they will love me."  She doesn't realize that the only hope of that person loving her would be if she ceased to be a dog.  Ever the optimist, Bailey continues on her walk, certain that the next person will find her agreeable.

A few times, encounters at the dog park have gone horribly wrong.  Once, a woman with a small white dog insisted that I allow her dog to meet Bailey.  Before I could object, her dog went all Cujo and nearly bit Bailey's face off.  Another time, Bailey nearly crushed a tiny dog in her enthusiasm to play with it.  A fifty-five pound dog is not usually a suitable playmate for a fifteen pound dog in spite of numerous pocket-sized dog owners suggesting otherwise.

These experiences convince me that a trip to the dog park would be much more enjoyable if there weren't any other people or dogs around to spoil it.  My introverted nature, which tends to present itself as crabby, anti-social behavior, would do best if I could just walk the dog already and then go home.  Move along folks; there's absolutely nothing to see here, and I certainly don't want to socialize.

Thus my idea for Lisa's Anti-Social Dog Park:  a place where people and dogs keep to themselves and do their best to avoid one another.  No eye contact, no small talk, and certainly none of that let's-get-acquainted butt-sniffing dogs are so fond of.  Plus, everyone - human and dog alike - would be safer thanks to the park's mandatory fifty-feet personal space requirement.  No chance for dog bites if you're no closer than a nod-and-wave distance. 

Everyone moves along the walking path and then goes home.  The end.  Wouldn't that solve so many problems?

Just don't tell Bailey about it.  I don't think she'd quite understand the concept.