Better than fuzzity, way better
So what if she wears ass-pancaking beige capris with white socks and puts her make-up on in the dark? I like her. This woman was ahead of me in line at Videotron, renting Sandra Bullock's entire filmography (which I'm willing to overlook in this context only), when she took a few selfless moments to make my day.
Lately, I've been feeling invisible, as though I exist only to field non-stop, unvarying questions about what is apparently, by neighbourhood consensus, "the-cutest-puppy-in-the-world". I've been fostering her thanks to a local assistance-canine training program.
People are drawn to her like crazed, moronic zombies. They stumble toward us, their arms extended forward and hands grabbing at air, babbling unintelligibly. All I can make out are words like "toutou-ou-ou" and "fuzzity-wuzzity" and "puppy-wuppy". It's so disturbing, I started taking less-populated side streets.
My puppy's been stalked and fondled by many a Montrealer this past month (including members of most Montreal bands you know), mentioned in "Missed Connections" on Craigslist, even serenaded by the schizophrenic busker outside our neighbourhood budget grocery store. More than anything, people wanted to know her name, but never mine. Twice, I was asked for her phone number, for dog dates. Truer than ever before (and I have significant experience with the phenomenon), I'm the pretty girl's best friend. She gets all the attention, even though she's a bitch.
So, when the woman in the unflattering pants at the video store overlooked my puppy and asked me if my "gorgeous hair" was natural, or, to please tell her where I'd gotten it done, I was willing to overlook her poor taste in clothes and movies, take her compliment and run.
"So there," I said to my puppy on the walk home, with a sneer. "My hair is way better than fuzzity-wuzzity."