Frankly Speaking

At 1:15 this afternoon, I became that woman. And when I say that woman, I (sadly, so sadly) don’t mean anyone with hair even remotely resembling Jennifer Aniston’s (we all need a life goal, right?).

Nope, the woman I became was (perhaps even more sadly) that girl standing in that card store, weeping hysterically over a “Birthday – Sister” card. And when I say weeping, I don’t mean dainty, pretty little tears.

Not at all. Rather, these were big ol’ fat tears, the kind that drip on your blouse, stain your shirt, and cause the people around you to wonder if they should call for help. This, my friends, only preceded my complete meltdown in the “Mother’s Day – From Daughter” aisle, where I really let loose and gave in to the heaving shoulder kinda’ crying I usually reserve for special occasions – like a particularly good desert.

I stood there, sniffling (terrifying most of the other customers, who all immediately began hand-santizing and swine-flu-worrying), and trying to pull it together before heading to the cash. I waited patiently in line, wondering quietly if I had become that girl who’s just going to cry at absolutely anything, regardless of where she is. I handed over my two selections, thinking maybe I could learn to love being the weepy woman afterall, and tried to smile as I listened with confusion to the cashier’s perky chirp:

“That’ll be $15.86, please.”

“Are you out of your mind?” The words were out before I could think about them. “I only picked two cards!”

Ah, yes. So now, I’d become that woman, too. Crazy, tear-stained-face woman who’s too cheap to fork out for greeting cards that actually moved her to cry. Sorry Mom. Sorry Alex. But come on now – who are they kidding?

The rest of the afternoon spun by in a blur. No more crying, no more outbursts, just a lot of typing and such. I had almost forgotten about being that woman – or that other woman – when I stopped by the book shop on my way to the train to grab the new Nora Roberts.

“How’s your day going? Are you excited about getting home and digging into Nora’s latest?” the cashier man asked me.

Suddenly, it was just all too much (why did he have to be so nice? I would have bought the book without his friendliness!). Out came the waterworks as I handed over my credit card (again), nodded, smiled through the tears and mumbled out a “You’re so nice, and I really like your displays out front!”

Sigh. Maybe I am that woman after all. At least at the bookstore I had sense enough not to yell about the price. After all, weepy and frugal may be just fine on their own. But together, they – and I – may be too much for this poor world to handle.

Russell The Dog isn’t speaking to me. And I can’t really say I blame him.

There’s not much I wouldn’t do for this little doggy. From the moment The Husband and I met him, we knew he was meant to be ours. Two years, 3,846 chew toys, three doggy t-shirts, one doggy snow suit and countless visits to the doggy gym/vet/school later – here we all are. He is the centre of our little world. Let’s face it, Russell The Dog got more birthday presents than I did this year. But I’m okay with that. Because that’s the kind of good dog mother I am – rather, was.

Today, I fell from grace in the eyes of Russell The Dog. It was that pivotal moment in which he realized – like we all eventually do – that his mother is not infallible. That she is not all-knowing. That she, too, is flawed. But worse than all that – he realized that I can’t pick him out in a crowd.

That’s right. I confused Russell The Dog for someone else – and he saw me do it.

Oh, the agony of embarrassment. It was an honest mistake. The groomer was holding a little white doggy, to whom I actually said “Wow, Russell, are you ever clean!”

That’s about when the groomer looked at me, put the other dog down, and brought my dog out to the front. One look at Russell’s weepy eyes made me realize he had seen the whole thing.

In my own defence, it had been a long day (?). And I was tired (??). And the other dog was really very similar to ours (as similar as a Shitzu can be to a Jack Russell/Poodle). Excuses aside, there is nothing quite like doing the walk of shame back to our place, with Russell shaking his head in sad disbelief, and the groomer looking on from the shop in utter contempt for my blundering ways. Sigh. It doesn’t get much worse than this, boys. It doesn’t get much worse than this.

The only thing that’s left to say is I’m sorry, Russell. Oh, and I forgive you, Mom. For that day you forgot to pick me up from kindergarten. Because all of a sudden, I know just exactly how you must have felt. And this – this is not a feeling I’d wish on anyone - dog mothers and people mothers alike.

I’m going to be feeding Russell The Dog guilt-treats all weekend long. I better pick up another box.