Dog Training The American Male Read online

  Stacy’s smile disappeared.

  “Seriously Jacob, if Rumsfeld’s dick was that big, we’d have never invaded Iraq. Hey, Tarzan, be honest: do you and Cheetah over there pee standing up?”

  Jamie shoved her index finger in the dummy’s face. “Keep talking, Mini-Me, and the next thing you’ll be peeing is my fist down your throat.”

  “Just wash it off first. I hate the taste of man-gina in the morning.”

  * * * * *

  JACOB ENTERED THE house, the dummy’s head twisted backwards. “I tried to warn you, Mr. President.”

  “Maybe I misunderestimated them.”

  Hearing voices, he headed to the kitchen where he found Lana and Jeanne putting away dishes from cardboard boxes. A gray cat was nuzzling at their ankles.

  “Welcome to your new home, Jacob.”

  “Thanks. Where’s your sister?”

  “Making a coffee run. Jeanne, better take Madonna out back before she shits all over the carpet.”

  Jeanne picked up the cat and nuzzled it against her neck. “Madonna’s a good pussy, yes you are.”

  Jacob watched Jeanne exit out the back patio sliding door with the tabby. “Jeanne sure does love her cat.”

  “Jeanne’s pussy saved our relationship.”

  “Right, because she’s . . . Wait, what are we talking about?”

  “Jeanne and I had a rough time when we first moved in together. I never thought we’d make it through the first month.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Things changed. When you’re dating someone new you’re always on your best behavior. A month after we moved in together, the honeymoon was over. Sure, there’s always sex, but how many different ways can you strap your partner to the bedpost?”

  “I don’t know? Three?”

  “Jeanne saved our relationship when she bought Madonna. Instead of just being house mates, we became a family.”

  “I see. Then you’re suggesting I buy Nancy a cat.”

  “No, Nancy’s not into pussys.”

  “Right . . . because she’s straight.”

  “No. Because my sister loves little white foofie dogs. We had a Bichon when Nancy was little. The pup ran off one day and broke her heart. Now you’re going to get her another one.”

  “I am?”

  “Jacob, do you want this living arrangement to work or not?”

  “I do. But a dog’s a big commitment.”

  “So is moving in with your girlfriend. Trust me, when my little sister’s doubled over with menstrual cramps, you’re going to need something to change Mrs. Hyde back into Dr. Jekyll.”

  “I think we can manage without a dog.”

  “Really?” Reaching down, Lana grabbed Jacob’s testicles, squeezing them.

  “Ahh! Let go!”

  “You think Hootie and the Blowfish here are going to tame my sister’s menstrual cycle?”

  “Meds . . . I’ll get her meds!”

  “Wrong answer. Try again.”

  “White foofie dog . . . white foofie dog!”

  “There’s a good boy. See, Jeanne and I really want this to work out. My sister likes you; most important she trusts you. So don’t screw this up.”

  “White foofie dog . . .got it.”

  LIVING TOGETHER

  PHASE ONE: NESTING

  A new home is a blank canvas waiting to be painted with the history of its occupants.

  Having spent the majority of her last eight years living in pre-furnished dorm rooms and college apartments, Nancy’s contributions to her first co-ed living arrangement included a queen-size bed and end tables, a quilt, several black and white framed Ansel Adams photos, a set of dishes, fast-food cups, mugs, a coffee maker, alarm clock, blender, a set of pots and pans, silverware for three, a half dozen cardboard boxes filled with books, a twenty-inch flat screen television, and four powder-blue bath towels.

  The impressive furnishings that Jacob had purchased for his Manhattan apartment had been sold off years ago when his life had gone into a tailspin. Besides his clothes, shoes, personal hygiene bag and two cardboard boxes of “personal belongings,” his domestic contributions amounted to little more than an air mattress, a zipper-challenged sleeping bag, and a five hundred dollar gift certificate from Bed, Bath, & Beyond – the latter a housewarming gift from Vinnie’s wife, Helen.

  Other than Nancy’s bed, there was nothing to sit on, nor groceries to eat. None of that mattered to the young couple, who spent their first night in their new home eating pizza and making love to each other in the master bedroom before cuddling together to watch a repeat of Saturday Night Live.

  Sunday was a bit more sobering, the sun awakening them at seven A.M. as its unfiltered morning rays blinded the sleeping couple from a multitude of bare windows.

  Within the hour, Nancy had organized their day. With BB&B not opening until ten, their morning would begin with a quick trip to the local supermarket to stock up on groceries for the week.

  With that came their first dilemma: Were Nancy and Jacob roommates or a couple living together?

  Roommates was a term that divided the home into His and Hers, as in his and her bedroom, his and her bathroom, and his and her groceries. A couple that lived together shared these expenses.

  Nancy broached the subject on the ride to the grocery store. “When it comes to the rent, electric bill, water, and cable we split everything . . .right?”

  “Right.”

  “What about groceries?”

  “Split it,” said Jacob.

  “Good. I’ll keep a monthly ledger – unless you’d rather create a computer program?”

  “Pass. Wait, why do we need a ledger?”

  “To keep track of expenses. Let’s say you go grocery shopping and spend fifty dollars. That goes into the ledger, along with the receipt. At the end of the month we add up our expenses and settle out.”

  “What about tampons?”

  “What about them?”

  “Are we splitting them?”

  “I don’t know. Are we splitting your jock-itch powder?”

  “I don’t use jock-itch powder. Or make-up. Or razors for that matter.”

  “Fine. When it comes to groceries, you pay for your stuff and I’ll pay for mine. Just make sure you buy detergent; I doubt Helen will be doing your laundry anymore.”

  “You, uh . . .can’t do mine when you do yours?”

  “I don’t wash my roommate’s clothes. I don’t cook or clean for my roommate either.”

  “What about sex?”

  “I have sex with my boyfriend. So are we a couple or roommates?”

  “Definitely a couple.” Jacob turned into the Publix supermarket parking lot. “Hey, did I tell you that I love you.”

  “Aw, I love you, too.”

  * * * * *

  THE SHOPPING CART was three-quarters full by aisle four.

  Jacob waited, helpless, while Nancy compared prices on two different dishwasher detergents. After a minute, she placed one inside the cart, then moved on to the liquid dish soap.

  “Nance, you just bought dishwasher detergent; why do you need dish soap?”

  “You can’t wash everything in the dishwasher; some things you have to wash by hand.” She grabbed a bottle of dish soap, moving on to the bathroom tile cleaners.

  Then the glass cleaners. Oven mitts. Scrubbing sponges. Laundry detergent. Bleach.

  Jacob exercised his veto power at the toilet paper. “I like Scotts. No dingle-berries.”

  “What are dingle-berries?”

  “You know . . .those little wads of toilet paper that get stuck in your ass hairs.”

  “I don’t have that problem. You get your sand paper; I’ll get my soft stuff.”

  “I thought we were sharing a bathroom?”

  “We are. But we’ll stock the powder room with the dingle-berry-free toilet paper.”

  And it was on to aisle five.

  Forty minutes and a second shopping cart later, Jacob stood at the checkout c
ounter, sweat beads forming on his forehead. Stay calm . . .it’s not going to be like this every week. Most of these things are one-time expenses. A kitchen trashcan – we needed that. Oven mitts and ice trays . . .sure. Aluminum foil? Who uses a hundred and seventy five feet of aluminum foil? You could wrap the space shuttle in that much foil and save on the heat tiles. Freezer bags and trash bags . . .they’ll last a while. Shampoo and conditioner? Okay, but why does she need the expensive stuff? I could use bar soap and be happy.

  Nancy’s eyes watched the clerk as he loaded the three six packs of beer and four two-liter bottles of soda into the cart. So much sugar . . . all those empty calories. And why must he drink so much beer? If I can get him to switch to bottled water and a cereal that doesn’t have a cartoon character on the box, he’d probably lose twenty pounds.

  The cashier pressed the total. “Three hundred and seventy-seven, ninety-six. Any cash back?”

  Nancy turned to Jacob. “Baby, did you want cash back?”

  Jacob looked at Nancy. “Sweetie, why don’t you pay for this and I’ll cover the towels and curtains with my gift certificate at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.”

  “I already have towels.”

  “What about curtains?”

  “Fine.” Nancy fished her debit card out of her purse, her eyes furious.

  “Are you mad?”

  “Of course not. Why would I be mad? I just thought the BB&B certificate was a housewarming gift.”

  “It was. From my brother.”

  “Really?” She swiped her debit card, nearly generating sparks. “Because Helen told me it was a gift for the two of us.”

  The female cashier raised her eyebrows.

  Jacob twitched a smile. “Well, of course it is. You just save that receipt for your ledger, and I’ll handle the next big ticket item . . .okay?”

  “Okay. Where are you going?”

  “Need air. Meet you outside.”

  Nancy smiled at the cashier. “We just moved in together.”

  “Honey, you don’t have to explain. Before we got married, my husband did all his grocery shopping at the 7-Eleven.”

  LIVING TOGETHER

  PHASE TWO: ROUTINE

  Nancy entered her home, carrying two plastic Target shopping bags. She kicked off her shoes and left her car keys on the book shelf by the hall mirror. Oozing pride, she walked down the hallway past the powder room now decorated in violet hand towels, a turquoise rug, and a gold-plated towel rack with a matching soap dispenser. Entering the kitchen, she gazed lovingly at the new oval glass table and four black leather chairs, then entered the den to admire her new black leather sofa and beige La-Z-boy chair, the copper and black area rug beneath the granite coffee table matching the two throw pillows, the smart-looking saber-gray Venetian blinds complimenting the room.

  Amazing what you could buy on interest-only payments for three years with twenty percent down. Of course, the two fake palm trees had come a week later – they simply made the room.

  She set the two bags on the glass table. From one, she removed a large box containing a wall clock, the face featuring an adorable white foofie dog. She popped in a double-A battery and set the time, then fished through a kitchen drawer until she located a screwdriver and screw.

  She had mounted the clock and was changing out of her work clothes in the master bedroom when she heard the Volkswagen’s muffler backfire in the driveway.

  Jacob entered his home, carrying the newspaper, which he deposited on the book shelf by the hall mirror. His bladder full, he hustled down the hallway and entered the powder room. Let loose a stream of urine that splattered the rim of the bowl. Shook himself twice (more than twice and you’re playing with it), flushed, then rinsed off his hands, drying them with one of the violet hand towels, which he left in a ball on the sink.

  Entering the kitchen, he saw the two Target bags on the new oval glass table and rolled his eyes. He entered the den looking for Nancy, finding only the new black leather sofa and La-Z-boy chair, the area rug and granite coffee table and the saber-gray Venetian blinds.

  What good were interest-only payments for three years if he had to put twenty percent down? Even upping his hours at work to forty a week only covered thirty percent of that nut. And did she really need the two fake trees?

  Seeking solace, he popped a John Lennon CD into the CD player and headed for the fridge to grab a beer.

  Nancy entered from the bedroom hall. “Hey you. How was work?”

  “Work sucked. I hate stupid people. The worst problem with being stupid is that stupid is forever. Next week they’ll call me back to walk them through the same problem. How was your radio show?”

  “Good,” she lied. “I’m getting edgier. I think I need that, don’t you?”

  “Edgy’s good. What’s for dinner?”

  “Burgers. Can you fire up the grill?”

  “If I fire up the grill, then I’m the one cooking dinner.”

  “No you’re not. You’re turning on the gas, plopping three patties on the grill, and checking on them ten minutes later. I’m making fries and a salad. Jacob . . .your sandals. You’re tracking dirt all over my clean floor!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Can you take them off?”

  “Then I have to put them on again to start the grill.”

  “So?”

  “So then I have to take them off again to come inside. Then on again to flip the burgers. Then off again to come back inside. Then on again to get the burgers. That’s a lot of work. All you’re doing is popping the frozen fries in the oven and dumping some lettuce in a bowl.”

  “Fine. Take off those smelly shoes and bang the dirt off the tread and I’ll cook the burgers and do the fries and salad, but you’re cleaning up dinner. And that includes the grill.”

  “I can’t clean up dinner; I have to practice my act.”

  Nancy gritted her teeth. “Can’t you practice your act while you cook the burgers?”

  “How do I do that? Pretend the bun is the dummy’s mouth?”

  “Fine. I’ll do dinner and clean up; you go practice your act.”

  “Thanks, Nance. Oh, remember, I like mine well-done.” Jacob headed off to the garage to get the George Bush dummy.

  “Take off your shoes!”

  LIVING TOGETHER

  PHASE THREE: WHEN DOES THAT LEASE EXPIRE?

  Nancy had intended to celebrate her first month living with Jacob by serving her boyfriend breakfast in bed. That plan had gone awry when she woke up Sunday morning with menstrual cramps. Seated at the kitchen table, she downed her last aspirin with her morning coffee. Still in pain, she opened her laptop to check her e-mail.

  Jacob staggered into the kitchen in his boxer shorts and Miami Dolphins hooded sweatshirt at eleven o’clock. Heading straight for the oven, he cranked the dial up to 425-degrees, then opened the freezer door and removed a frozen pizza.

  Nancy looked up from her laptop. “Pizza for breakfast?”

  Jacob placed the frozen pie on an aluminum tray and shoved it inside the oven. “Call it an early lunch.” Opening the refrigerator, he grabbed a beer.

  “Jacob, it’s eleven in the morning.”

  “It’s Lite beer. Half the calories.” Jacob shuffled to the chair opposite her to read the morning paper.

  “I got an e-mail this morning from my producer – the quarterly Arbitron ratings. I’m drowning, Jacob.”

  “You’ll figure it out.” He glanced at the front page of the newspaper. “Did you see this? It says a Deerfield Beach woman was raped and assaulted last night. The neighborhood’s not far from here.”

  “You know what I think? I think I need to do something completely off-the-wall to generate ratings. Maybe I should simulcast my broadcasts on the internet topless?”

  “Maybe you should run on a treadmill.”

  Nancy looked up from her laptop. “How will that improve my ratings?”

  Jacob lowered the newspaper. “How will what improve your ratings?”

 
“Running on a treadmill.”

  “I meant, instead of jogging in our neighborhood. Nance, this guy raped a woman not far from here. It’s not safe.”

  “I’m fine. Although I wonder . . . if I was assaulted I bet that would get listeners to tune me in.”

  “Come on in the bedroom and let’s see if it works.”

  “Forget it, I just started my period.”

  “Would that prevent a rape? Wouldn’t that be cool if they invented a tampon with a spike in it? That would teach these maniacs.”

  “Maybe I should do a week interviewing rape victims? Or I could bring in a few martial arts guys as guests . . .teach women how to defend themselves. What do you think?”

  Jacob expelled a colon-reverberating belch. “Sorry.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “It’s all in the diaphragm. I could teach you. Then you could teach your listeners.”

  “I wish I could teach you to put the damn toilet seat down after you pee. I almost broke my back last night.”

  “Hey, I said I was sorry.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry. You’re sorry when you track dirt in my clean house, you’re sorry when you destroy the powder room hand towels, you’re sorry when you leave your clothes all over the bathroom floor. And when are you going to settle up on this month’s rent? Or pay for groceries again?”

  “I told you, my extended hours are two weeks behind.”

  “It didn’t stop you from playing poker Thursday night with your brother and his depraved doctor friends. How much did you lose?”

  “I don’t know. Not that much.”

  “Was it more than you spend on beer every week? Or should I say, more than I spend on your beer!”

  “What about those two trees in the den?”

  “It’s interest only for three years!”

  Jacob was about to respond when the oven timer went off. Using his sweatshirt as an oven mitt, he removed the hot tray and slid it onto the counter. “Want some?”

  “God, no. What I want is more aspirin. There's another bottle in the den.”

  Jacob left the kitchen and searched the den -- his eyes momentarily locking on to the front cover of the Good Housekeeping magazine lying on the coffee table, the photo featuring a white foofie puppy curled up by a fireplace.