Fred Has Had It

Fred has had it with my bullshit. I'm sleeping late, spending too much time with my uppity nose in a book or my fingers zing-a-linging along the keys of this computer hoping I might have another chance at watching a line form with the sole purpose of obtaining my autograph. I'm tempted to tell him what a swell job I've been doing and what a nightmare my life has been of late. Jiminy Cricket, I've fed the boy, taken him out, fixed him special treats and even "played" with him on occasion. What more could he want? There were three fig bars left in the cupboard and I gave them to him. Oh Sykeus, am I not worthy of more understanding and temperance than the Gods and dear Fred have bestowed upon me? Can't I make him understand that it's not all about him? That sometimes a girl just needs a little time to get right with herself and the world.

Apparently not. He's in the next room pouting and I'm being equally stubborn by outing the both of us in this less than modest fashion. If this scenario felt the least bit unique and not deserving of a Gold Medal in the Olympics of "Relationship Clichés 101 Revisited Yet Again", I might be moderately comforted. As it is, I'm just sort of disturbed. You take a shot of guilt, a dose of indignation, a sprig of unconditional love, an ounce of sanctimony, a quarter cup of martyrdom, a fistful of selfishness and you get your classic Long Island Iced-Meg. As much as I realize this concoction no longer works for me, I'll go stand at the trough ready to throw my entire being in over and over again.

Which, in an admittedly equally obscure and obvious kind of way, brings me back to Fred, bless his heart. He appears to have forgiven me. No longer in the next room licking his wounds, he's sitting next to me and, at least, feigning interest in what I'm writing. As high strung as both of may be, we both possess the ability to "own" our short-comings. Given the fact that Fred has chosen to be such a sweet pea, I suppose I should cut this off and go take a walk with the guy. I know that's what he's been after for the past two days. His interpretation of that ridiculous term that became all the rage in the go-go 80's -- "quality time" -- the concept of enjoying the pleasure of one another's company in the absence of other distractions and, get this (!), supreme self-interest. Go figure. I wonder if Fred has heard that even the US Congress got in on the QT mania, establishing the Baldrige National Quality Program in 1987 to recognize U.S. organizations for paying homage to their own versions of this precept.

The way I see it, I've got nothing to lose (it's not all about him, it's all about me). It's a beautiful day. I need to stretch my legs. My relationship with Fred could use a little mending. He's lonely. I'm lonely. As much as I hate to admit it, it's generally a good thing for me when I get called on my "bullshit". I'm a little hard to argue with. Maybe something wonderful will happen. Being that Senor Fred is just about the cutest Springer Spaniel in town and I've got a new column in the independent monthly with my picture attached, a purposeful line might greet us at every corner demanding the pleasure of my autograph. Will my escort be understanding? Will he get bored? Or worse yet, will he steal the limelight? Oh wait; I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? First off, if this happened I guess I'd be distracted and become self-interested thereby striking the whole quality time dealie to begin with. Secondly, I live in Iowa for goodness sake. Even if someone did recognize me, they'd be too damned well-behaved or, worse yet, shy to approach me. And third-off, I seem to have driven my temporary mate (I'm house sitting) into the next room yet again with all this useless speculation. I hear it's been known to happen. I'm coming, Fred. I promise.