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August 02, 2005

now I know how typhoid mary felt (for A.)

In the middle of the day I went to the grocery store and bought some Gatorade, came back home and drank three glasses of it. By late afternoon I felt pretty good and my head seemed more firmly attached to my body than it had in the past few days, and by 5:30 I thought I was probably okay to put in my two scheduled hours at the gym. I felt fine standing up and when B., with whom I was working, took out the grilled chicken salad she'd gotten for dinner at the Greek restaurant next door, it made me hungry. I felt, if not completely myself, at least like somebody I knew.

We were cleaning up after we closed, getting ready to lock up and go home, when B. said to me suddenly,
"Oh no, I just drank from your bottle of water! I thought it was mine!" She looked panicky.
"You did? How much did you drink?"
"Oh, man, I gulped it! Please tell me I'm not going to get sick."
I opened my mouth but couldn't manage anything very reassuring. "Well ... I didn't spit in it or anything, so maybe ... uh ..."
"Okay, okay, okay ... okay, so ... what were your symptoms? No, no, I don't--tell me what was the diarrhea like, was it ... was it ... watery?"
"Um ... well ... yeah."
"Oh, I hate that kind! That's the worst kind! Oh, no..." She stared miserably off into a spot in the distance, probably imagining the bacteria taking up residence in her intestines. "Oh, I'm going to get sick, aren't I?"
I said finally, trying and failing to think of anything light hearted, "Why don't you call me in 48 hours and tell me how you feel. You'll probably be okay." I locked the door while she sighed, and we both went home.

Jack hadn't been for a decent walk since Thursday night, so I leashed him up and took him out. He was very happy, trying in his doggy way to make me feel better about contaminating my friend and coworker. We began to walk our usual evening walk, and I was bagging Jack's first contribution to the experience when I heard a commotion and a front door bang open.

"You!" a loud, shrill voice called, "What are you doing? Stop that! How dare you? Get that dog away from there!" I looked up and there she was. Tiny, angry, her voice seemed to reverberate in the quiet evening air as she got closer.
"You pick up all that dog crap!" she yelled, as I continued to do just that.
Maybe she's loud because she's blind, I thought.
"What's wrong with you?" she said, standing right in front of me. "How dare you let that dog poop right there? I've seen you! You don't pick up after your dog!"
Where Jack had pooped wasn't anywhere on her property. We've walked him in the neighborhood for the seven years we've lived in it, and have always cleaned up after him.
Jack wagged his tail at her. I tied the plastic bag closed and said, "I always clean up after my dog."
She looked at the bags I held. "Well... well..." she sputtered, then recovered. "You'd better pick it all up!"
"You know what?" I said, "You are a very rude woman."
"I am not; I'm a wonderful woman!" She turned and stalked back into her house, where no doubt Bette Davis waited behind a curtain, watching and laughing.

Posted by JudyLa at 11:00 PM | Comments (0)