Can I Show It To You?

So I don’t know how many of you remember a post from back in February, This One’s NC-17, but my neighbor is moving out.  He’s officially out end of the month, but he’s moving back East this Saturday.  I just came home and he came out into the hall as I was getting the mail, as is his wont.  He told me he was gone as of the weekend and asked if I wanted some booze and sundry items that he doesn’t want to ship.  I’m not a big drinker, but I took a cast iron skillet and some light bulbs.  I thanked him and told him if he felt like it to knock and say hi/bye before he left, if I’m around.

That was not enough.

He followed me down the hall to my apartment, hemming and hawing, and then said, so I was thinking, before I move away forever and never see you again… can I show it to you?  There was a moment of dis-ease.  Sorry?  I asked, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.  Um, he said, well, I just would be sad if I moved away and you never saw it.  I know you said this one time you were outside a bar and this drunk guy showed you his and I want to show you mine.  At this point I knew where this was going, but once agian was in shock and disbelief (for as savvy as I am, you’d think I’d get it together in these moments, but I’m so busy trying not to shame anyone).  So what are we talking about, specifically?  I asked.  I want to show you my penis, he finally said.  Oh.  Well.

Now it was my turn to hem and haw.  Again, I never want to make anyone feel bad about their sexual proclivities.  Well, I asked, is it important to you?  I am an idiot.  He stressed once again that he really wanted to show me his penis and suggested that now would be a good time for him. I explained I had a call to make and now didn’t work for me.  Then he had the gall to say that he’d just given me a fifty dollar skillet, which I promptly offered to return.  He walked away dejected, leaving me with the skillet, but saying he’d knock to see if I’m around later in the week.

Looks like I’ll be laying low until Saturday.

The Sad Story of the Dog

Mom, if you read this blog post, don’t get mad, it was written by request.

After my parent’s divorce, Lucy, our Poodle, went to live at my Grandparents’ house.  They looked after her much of the time when my parents would travel, as well as looking after me.  Some time, not long after, my mother purchased two maltese puppies, Popcorn and Crackerjack.  Super cute little white balls of fur.  Total city dogs.

Now a couple things you need to know.  Number One – we lived in a pre-war building on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the kind with an elevator and an elevator man to drive it.  In old elevators like that there is a gap at the side of the car, where the door shuts (do you see where this is going?).  Number Two – Lucy had been a neurotic mess of a dog, who trembled and shook the entire ride up, so my mother would undo her leash while still in the car and the dog would dash out as soon as the door opened.  Number Three – Maltese, especially puppies, are smaller than Poodles.

My mother took the puppies for a walk.  She was coming back up in the elevator and, out of habbit, unbuckled Crackerjack’s collar and leash while the elevator was still rising.  Thank God she didn’t have time for Popcorn as well.  The door opened, the dog turned rather than running out, and we were left with one puppy.

This is a terrible, horrible sad story.  The really mean part is that I was fifteen, and Popcorn was mine and Crackerjack was hers, ostensibly, and I was so adolescent and loathsome that I told her at least she hadn’t killed my puppy.  Gah!

No picture.  What, you want cute puppies frollicking to accompany the horror?