18 March 2002 - 6:48 p.m.

For those of you who now know that I can be a tad trying, I offer you the other side of the coin.

Saturday night, being the night before St. Patrick's Day, Gus,Dave, and others went to a par-tay, where some of us drank too much ginger ale, and others, too much tequila.

I'm not going to subject Gus to further indignity here after all the sickness and embarrassment of Saturday night, and so rather than recounting the events of the party ad nauseum (that's a pun on the fact that he blew chunks everywhere), I will start with Sunday morning.

My God, did he stink Sunday morning. But he at least realized this and undertook measures to remedy the situation before we had to meet friends for lunch. Bathing, toothpaste, Altoids, you name it, and in between each round, he would approach me contritely and say, "Do I smell any better?"

When the eau de vomit et vin had almost stopped lingering around the poor thing, he said, boldly, "You know, you don't smell so good yourself, and I'm not talking about your breath."

I shrugged. "Okay, I'll put on some deodorant."

"Um, it's not that kind of smell, either," he said meekly. "You smell kind of like... well, poop."

Blink. Blink.

"Poop?"

"I think. I can't be sure. Come here." And with that, Gus proceeded to sniff me all over like a bloodhound, and, seeing as how I had just... well, pooped, I braced myself for the worst.

"I don't get it," he finally said. "It's like it kind of comes and goes. Like, sometimes it lingers around you, but not by your butt. So I guess you have nothing to worry about."

He then thought he would make me feel better by telling me about the time he tried on a pair of pants at Goodwill, only to smell like poop for a whole day, but that didn't make me feel better, particularly now that it appears I should stop shopping at Goodwill.

"Do you realize what you're saying? That there's a draft of air that reeks of poop that may or may not cling to me at any time?'

He nooded, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. "Yeah. Or maybe it's Hatbox, sometimes she lingers around you, and sometimes she smells like poop."

And just like the good girl she almost never is, Hatbox leapt up onto the desk next to where Gus was sitting, her little kitty tail pointing to the celing, and turned her butt toward Gus.

"Would you mind?" I asked.

"No," said Gus, as he leaned in for a whiff.

"Okay, it's definitely Hatbox."

What followed was a solid ten minutes of Gus apologizing for thinking I smelled like poop, and me apologizing as well, becuase nobody should ever have to think that his girlfriend smells like poop. I mean, Jesus.

Also - it's practically a crime how many of my poop stories involve Hatbox, and vice versa. I really need to have a talk with that cat.

What I'm wearing:

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What I'm doing after this: