A wonderful night for a gondola

Because your kiss, your kiss in on my...

I rolled over and slapped my phone. Hall and Oats ring tones are actually really annoying. Why was it ringing, who was calling, and most importantly... why was it still daylight?

Then it all hit my like a sack of bricks- i saw what time it was: 4:45 in the afternoon. It was still Saturday and I was supposed to be heading to a charity event within the next 15 minutes. Unfortunately, I was still wearing Maize shorts with "Wolverines" printed on the ass and my Michigan Alumni sweatshirt. My hair was matted to the side of my head. There was no way I could take a French shower.

After jumping in and out of the shower, chugging blue-razz powerade zero, and re-enacting a throw back episode of Finders Keepers with my closet (buried treasure? a black and red Theory tube dress), I was somehow almost ready to go within 15 minutes. Luckily, my friend, Julie, who i had spent the morning at the sports bar with while watching our alma mater lose, had returned to my apartment to reclaim an overnight bag and a pair of hooker heels.

Shoving my feet into my own hooker heels- patent Michael Kors with an exposed gold zipper-, I jumped into her convertible and she dropped me off at Jen's house.

"See," I said slamming Jen's car door shut, " only 10 minutes late!" And we were off to the Sheraton at WildHorse Pass to support a fundraising effort for the Boys and Girls Club of the East Valley.

As we neared the resort, we passed the sister hotel, located a mile down the road. It was the one attached to a casino and also boasted a snazzy new club. We were, unfortunately, headed to a secluded desert spa type venue, sans flashing lights and oonst oonst oonst.

We looked longingly at the tacky glittery casino light, "We'll hit that up after," Jen said as we curved the winding road to the conference center. Sigh of relief from me: it's not everyday that I get to go clubbing in the middle of no where.

Once we arrived, we hopped out at the valet.

"It's ok if I leave my car overnight, right?" Jen tossed the 18 year old valet boy her keys. He said it would not be a problem.

Upon arrival, we headed straight for Cabernet and Pinot Grigio, then began touring about the silent auction items. Not much was piquing our interests, and my interests were even less piqued by the selection of men at the event. So much for finding a kind hearted philanthropist who cares deeply about the welfare of America's youth.

We turned another corner and I noticed there were a few cops loitering about. As I got closer I realized that the event had not solicited extreme security. In fact, the cops were an auction item: SWAT for the day.

The head honcho of the cop crew, or so it seemed, was a broad, tall man with an attractive chiseled face and greying hair. We'll refer to him as Lt. Dan. Before asking Dan about the perks of swat for the day, I had this image of Lt. Dan wearing the apron from my Halloween costume and dusting the baseboards of my apartment. Next up he would be ironing the wrinkled mess on my closet floor. After that, fixing the drain on my bathroom sink (I am deeply afraid of my complex's onsite maintenance man due to a few incidents I will write about later).

"So what does SWAT for the day entail?" Lt. could also be handy with illegally splitting the cable so that I could get HD in my room.

"well, young lady," said lt. dan, puffing out his pecs, "You will go spend a 10-12 hour day with us. A full day!" I could have sworn he raised his eyebrow, "You might start off with some artillery practice," He motioned with a sweeping hand over a foray of rifles and flashed a Crest smile.

"I'm good with guns and handling assorted weaponry," I said. Yeah right, the most viable contact I have had with rifles is probably Big Buck Hunter or the rifle case I tripped over one time on the floor of an ex's bedroom (again, another story). Lt. Dan went on to tell me how the rest of our day would be spent: a trip in a helicopter, a re-enactment of a crime scene in which I would get to dress up in SWAT costumery, a simulated SWAT chase, all by the side of dashing Lt. Dan. The only thing that seemed more fun than this gig would be a never ending, all access pass to free frozen yogurt for life at Red Mango where I currently am blowing my life savings on a weekly basis.

"Wow," I said taking a swig of wine and wondering if they had my size in the SWAT pants, "how much?"

Lt. Dan chuckled, "Well bids start at 900 dollars..." I shook my head sadly, "sorry, out of my budget. But I'm sure some lucky 12 year old will get to do it." Lt. Dan laughed again and told me he was broke, too. Wow, such a turn on when guys tell you they are broke. Not the best thing to share. Of course, Lt. Dan was probably married and way too old for me.

Jen and I moved along and rounded the corner to a table that had a pair of rollerblades on it. Jen nudged my arm, "shameless, " she said. I looked at her; I didn't think I had been all that inappropriate.

"No," she said, "that SWAT guy just shamelessly checked you out. He was not even a little bit discrete. He totally trailed you." We started cracking up.

"I can't afford Lt. Dan," I said and we headed to the dining area to meet up with Jen's sister and her boyfriend.

As it was about 7 pm, the open bar was closing and turning into an ugly cash bar. We got a second glass and headed for our seats at the table. On the way, Jen said hello to a tall African American man named Roger who she had met at a networking group. He was super friendly and mentioned that he would be going to the new club down the road later. Jen made unofficial plans to meet up with him before leaving the auction.

The table settings, I noticed, also alloted for another glass of wine. This meant that we would have plenty of wine to entertain us through the live auction and dinner.

"Would you like red or white," a fragile Asian woman was serving our table. I thanked her for the white wine and we sat down to dinner.

As salads were served, or, rather, plates with 3 strawberry pieces and a leaf of lettuce, I noticed that there were several empty seats at the table. I also noticed that my lock stock and barrel of wine was dwindling. Well, not really, but I had no idea how long this dinner would go on.

"Excuse me," I signaled the waitress, "I have some friends coming and they would like some wine. They are on their way." She walked away to retrieve some wine.

A moment later, before the waitress could serve my friends their wine, two people actually arrived. One was a man who was a previous acquaintance who I had randomly met while walking out of a bar. In all reality, I had seen him holding a copy of 944's edition that boasted Chelsea Handler on the cover and had basically stolen it from him. The other was a girl who I had never met. The waitress returned.

"Would you like red or white," she asked the girl sitting next to me while giving me the eye. Busted! The girl smiled at her and declined, saying she would just have water. The waitress gave me another look and I swear she smirked.

I introduced myself to the girl as the food arrived. It was my personal favorite, Petit Filet, and some grilled chicken thigh like thing with seasoning. I looked back at the menu: mole chicken. While the filet was wonderful, upon trying the mole chicken I knew I would be burping up its aromas all night so I pushed it to the side of the plate.

After eating and engaging in small talk for a little while, Jen and I went to the bathroom really to make a game plan for the rest of the night.

Once inside the bathroom, Jen ran into a stall, "Hold on, I have to get these spanks off!" She came out moments later with spanks in hand, "Soooo much better, but you're going to have to put them in your purse. Mine is too small." I looked at her like she was crazy but, never the less shoved the damn things in my small bag. One would think this was one of those time-to-self-reflect-on-your-life-moments: you have spanks in your purse, said spanks are not even yours, you tried to outsmart a waitress for extra table wine, and had an inappropriate exchange with a really old cop.

Instead, Jen and I decided to pass Roger's table and finalize plans for clubbing. Roger's table was located right by the door so we could easily siddle up next to it and chat with him while the live auction continued.

"Why hello girls," Roger flashed us a smile, "are you excited for the club?" I was extremely tired of table wine and definitely ready for some flashing lights.

"Say," he said while adding Jen's number to his phone, "I'll text you when I'm going. How are you getting there?" We told him we had been thinking of taking a cab.

"Cab," he made some motion with his hand, "haven't you heard about the Gondolas? I will be going to the club in a gondola- you girls should come with me!" I looked at Jen. I was a little confused about a gondola in the middle of the desert in Arizona. I also got a really funny picture in my head of Roger, Jen and I shoved into a Gondola and being escorted across some man-made body of water. Roger might even be singing to entertain us. He would even let pocket sized jen climb up on his shoulders like a 5 year old so she could see the lights in the distance better.

"Yea," Jen said, "text me. We'll go in the Gondola!" Well it would be an adventure, I thought as we returned to our table. We stayed for a little while longer and then got super restless. As we plotted to leave earlier than orginially anticipated, Roger stopped by our table, set down a full glass of wine and said, "See you girls later!!!" and walked off. Awesome, he gave us his left over wine. I always get really excited about backwash from strangers.

Things were clearly getting weird so we opted to hop into a white hummer with the two kind people who had arrived to sit in my pretend friends' seats.

On the way over, Roger texted Jen: Are you going to join me in the gondola? I, for once, felt totally safe riding a white hummer with someone I barely knew. Gondola was clearly code for something else.

Once inside the casino, which, though new and clean, was basically a budget Vegas, Jen and I hopped up to the club. The man at the door tried to charge us 1o dollars cover. We declined because, in all of our glory, we thought we were the entitled ones.

As we descended from palace above, Roger texted Jen: you inside the club and then on my way. She responded that we were leaving, did not want to pay cover. Roger replied: I'll pay your cover and a few minutes later I'm probably getting a room there, you in? My mind flashed back to the gondola and the backwashed wine. Sick. It was time to run for the hills. Lucky for us, Jen's sister Becca and David were ready to go as well and they carted us back to Old Town.

Inside the car, we watched the glorious casino in the middle of no where fade into a speck of nothing and investigated a giant blue cooler and Whole Foods basket David had won at the auction. Jen's phone blinked again. Roger had texted: :(... sometimes words cannot express what an emoticon can reveal. We laughed and I thought again about how there had not been any visible water in sight.

"It's a good thing I won't see that man for a few weeks," Jen said, "because it will probably be awkward."

The only thing that might have been better than Jen, me and Roger in the gondola would have been Jen, me, Roger and Lt. Dan in the gondola.

Spanky

I'll admit it- I do route my running route past the dog park on McDonald and Hayden. Though I cannot actually go in (I do not own a dog and, not unlike playgrounds, you can't exactly go to a dog park without a canine accessory), I can creepily peer in to watch all of the lucky people who are responsible enough to own and care for a pooch. I can't help it; there's something about watching Labrador Retrievers carousing about, catching a frisbee here and there. Furthermore, there's no denying that Scottsdale has the most beautiful of Golden Retrievers, their silky, Pantene Pro-V worthy pelts glistening in the late afternoon sun.

There are a lot of reasons I cannot have a dog. Mainly, I might forget to feed it, kind of like the way i accidentally leave my laundry in the wash for a week and then have to rewash it because it smells like vomit. Well, if you forget to feed your dog, you don't get a rewash. They are not like cats; they do not have nine lives. Another thing that scares me about having a dog is that I'll come home late one night and leave the screen door open and it will run away to some better patio that has leftover barbeque on it. Sadly, if the dog runs off my patio, it also takes a 15 ft. leap as I live on the second floor. More practically, I have no desire to clean up fecal matter or run on my dog's time clock. Therefore, I must simply admire from afar or take one of two alternative routes: a) pet sitting b) visiting pet shops and pretending to be interested in purchasing pets or c) fawn over other people's pets.

So, I've gone the pet sitting route. As you've read in my previous entries, I once spent a week on Noah's Ark with possibly the most motley crew of creatures. Several years later, I acquiesced to spend two nights with my friend Tom's English Bulldog, Spanky. The dog had such low self esteem it made me depressed. You would too if you had a severe under bite and were a box on sticks. And if the highlight of your day was a stale milk bone.

"fuck that shit, spanky" I said, clipping on his leash, "we're going out on the town! Your dad might be riding some mule in the Grand Canyon but you're in Scottsdale!" And, by out on the town, I meant walking him the 5 blocks his asthmatic body could manage to the pet accessory store, All that Jazz.

The girl who ran the store had some poodle like, freaky looking dogs with mullets and black pride hair cuts (as you might realize, I am a total dog snob, I only like the classic, beauties), but she was super welcoming to our down home boy, Spanky.

"Aren't you a beautiful boy,' she squealed as a 5 inch strand of saliva dangled from his mouth. What a boost for Spanky's self image.

"See!? the nice lady likes you! Someday you'll get a girl of your own," I whispered to him while she went to get some gourmet dog bone samples, "but stay away from that shit," I said motioning toward the bichoodles sitting behind the counter.

Spanky sampled several dog treats: one sprinkled with carob chips (no go), another one that had some sort of peanut butter supplement (no go), and yet another that was of some oatmeal cookie variety with delicious looking icing. Quite frankly, I was breath away from asking the girl if they were an appropriate snack for people. I couldn't understand why this dog was so choosey... geeze... clearly a diet of milk bones had left him with an unsophisticated palate.

The girl ended up giving him some sort of organic jerky that he inhaled in two bites. It was the most expensive of the treats. I had no idea Spanky would turn out to be such a little whore.

Instead of buying him a bag of treats, I decided it would not help his physique to feed him beef jerky, I opted to buy him a new handkerchief print bandana with a red jinglebell on it.

"Handsome," I said to Spank-ster as he clodded along, wheezing heavily. En route home, several attractive men stopped to admire my dog. Despite how ugly he was, Spanky was making me more approachable or, at least, helping my game. In my mind, Spanky was no longer a fat fuck but an excellent wing man. We pranced around town for another twenty minutes or so and then, because the dog was in need of an inhaler, we headed home.

Later that evening, I took Spanky to the dog park with a few of my friends. When we arrived, I desperately wanted to take him into the "high activity" dog run so I could play with the goldens and labs.

"MAG," Erin said warily, "don't you think that will be a bit much for him?" She motioned to a black lab leaping over a collie to snatch a frisbee. She then nodded to the "low activity" dog run, where, clearly, there were only geriatric dogs wearing dumb sweaters.

"Oh, fine," I pouted a little, but then felt bad that I had not been looking out for his best interests, "Low activity it is." Maybe we could find him a cougar (is that what you call old, female dogs? I'm not really sure!).

We entered the retirement community and looked around for the shuffle board courts, handicap rails, and jello. Meanwhile Spanking hobbled over to the side and began puttering around in the rocks.

"Spanky," I yelled, "get over here, I got a girl for you!" I motioned to a tiny, 6 pound nuggety little black dog in a hot pink sweater. Kind of cute, though probably not logistically possible. He turned his head slowly toward me and looked more depressed than usual. He even looked like he was about to cry. Was Spanky completely socially retarded? Was he afraid of girls?

Something twittered in my heart and then I realized it: I was attached to the little fucker.

"Spanky," ran over to the pee rocks, "come here!" I petted him and brought him over on his leash to socialize with other dogs. Curiosity got the best of him and he started sniffing around at the yippy little nugget. Pretty soon, Spanster was romping around and sniffing grass fervently and intermittently with nuzzling Tiny's fuzzy pink bolero. He was almost acting like a normal dog. For a minute, I thought he was a little bit cute. Total Quasimodo syndrome.

After Spanky romped around for a bit, it was time to go. My roommate Noreen had just gotten back into town and was ready for a big night out in Scottsdale.

Back at the apartment, Spanky ate and drank like a real man. The dog had a new swagger. Noreen, nearly ready in a hot pink dress (same color as Tiny's sweater) started blasting that Jai Ho song from Slumdog Millionaire (she would) and dancing around her room while putting lotion on her leg.

Seeing another vision in pink set the little man off. He went running (sort of) down the hall to Noreen's room. I heard her exclaim, "Spaaaaannnkkkkky" in her shrilll falsetto voice, "Coommmee dannnnce with meeeee!!!!"

Well, don't they say ask and you shall receive? Spanky lunged at Noreen and knocked her off her feet, literally. She bit it and fell hard. I heard shrieks from her room and ran down the hall to find Noreen sprawled on the floor and the last chords of Jai Ho playing. Spanky sat on the ground as if nothing had happened.

I looked from fallen Noreen to Spanky sternly. I pointed at him:

"No more organic beef jerky for you, little man."