Margaret 1 (detail) It was, at times, Wagnerian in its histrionics. It began with an encounter in the park. It's my second meet up with a woman who is the embodiment of cluelessness and her dog, who hates my dog, and vice versa. But twice now she has let her dog advance on mine, all the while assuring me, as she follows behind her dog (who is crouched down like a lion in the Serengeti, hackles raised, ready to pounce) in a leisurely fashion, that her dog just wants to say hello, or some stupid fuckery to that effect. The first time it ended in tears. This time, same scenario, with me shouting with greater and greater fury to 'get your dog', and variations thereof. 'Get your fucking dog or I will kill it and then I will kill you' being one of them. I also inquired as to whether or not she was retarded (the owner, not the dog). Well, second verse, same as the first. Her dog attacked, me (and I'm a singer: I have lungs) yelling all the while. When the episode was FINALLY over and she had run off to get her dog, which had run off, she yelled in a squeaky voice: You have anger issues! No shit, Sherlock. You have intelligence issues, I yelled back. Not my finest line, but neither was it my finest hour.
Part Deux.
I'm having a fence constructed to keep the chickens out of one of the perennial gardens. By a big sensitive butch (would seem an oxymoron, I know) who immediately picked up on my aggravated vibe and personalized it, so after she did some impromptu pruning of a butterfly bush in my driveway, we proceeded to miscommunicate to the point where she departed in a huff in her truck. She returned later, with a slightly better, less aggrieved manner. Jesus wept. As of this writing, the project is about 65% completed. I just want it to be over. So that was my Saturday. Oh, and I got to dig post holes (I know!), too, so by the end of the day I was almost crippled. I tended to the critters, took the dog for a drag (hoping I wouldn't run across the retarded woman) and then collapsed on the couch and watched a Ms. Marple mystery. Which, swinging 60s harpsichord music aside, was delightful. On Sunday, I worked on Ms. Rutherford, and am proclaiming it done, done and done. Next painting project: back to the chickens.
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