Last year when on vacation in the Caribbean, I bought a pair of 11 dollar sunglasses that I have miraculously not lost.  Oh sure, they're on their last legs, as one of the tiny screws that hold the frame together is 72% popped out. But I still have them in my possession, and that may be a new record.

One special feature of said white plastic framed sunglasses, is that they are designed to guard one's eyes from the equatorial sun.  And that sun is bright as hell.  Back up in the Northeast I still rock these bad boys, but the extra UV protection tends to darken out a significant amount of the details in the world around me.  Granted, I often don't give two poos about those details.  But sometimes I do.  If, let's say, there is a street sign that spells out where & when it is legal to park, I can't make out the small lettering with these nightshades casting dusk upon my all day.  So, like Adam and Chris in the Schmitts Gay commercial, I lower my glasses down the bridge of my nose and read the fine print from above the frame of the cheap sunglasses.  Very sensual, very erotic.  I can park here from 6pm to 9pm on Tuesdays.  Hot.


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On my 40-minute commute home, I pass the correctional facility in our area.  In order not to sully the natural splendor of the area (not sarcastic -- it's beautiful), the jail is invisible from the street.  The building proper is set well back from sight over the crest of a steep hill with a winding driveway leading up to the top.  In order to facilitate any capture, were that to become an issue, the land on the opposite side of the street has been left undeveloped and, in summer, becomes a hotbed of wildflowers.  The wildflowers throw tiny flashes of color across the green grasses like tiny fireworks descending into a Baby's Breath smokescreen.  Between the field and the road, there is a well-kept and smoothly paved sidewalk that stretches out flat in both directions.  For dog owners in the neighborhood, this is an ideal place to walk their pups.

Only one gratuitous picture of my pups.

For me, the best part of driving home is when I get to slow down and enjoy the wildflowers while searching for local doggies to coo over.  I've given into the fact that I am a puddle of baby babble and interspecies love whenever in the company of furry friends (not to be confused with Furry friends).  My favorite dog in the neighborhood, not that I play favorites, is a massive Rottweiler that weighs at least 120 pounds, walks calm and pretty on leash, and seems to be an absolute love of a dog.  One day last week, I was so exciting to see the big bruiser that I excitedly waved to the dog and owner out of my window even though I don't know them in the slightest. I just creep on their dog so consistently that I feel like I know them.
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On the surface, these two utterly factual statements about my everyday life seem unrelated. However, I've found that the combination of these seemingly erratic factoids creates a erupting volcano of funny.

So here I am, cruising home in the melting sun of the orange dusk, rocking my sunglasses to refract the high rainbow frequencies from penetrating my eyelids. Once I find an equilibrium, it begins to feel like I'm inside that old California Dreamin video game, minus the hot convertible and expendable blonde.

And then, in the distance, cruising down the smooth pavement, is what appears to be a spotted white and black bulldog puppy, hopping along next to her owner.  What a cute little puppy-poo. Schmoogie putam munch ball.  I want to eat your smoosh face you cute edible creation.   

I pull down my shades, they are simply too dark to appropriately appreciate such a delectable sight. I need to take in the full glory of the roly-poly goodness.  So, glasses down on the bridge of my nose, I brazenly stare out from above my mirror lenses at the glory that it youth for dogs.  With my window open, my neck is practically protruding out of the car -- craning to maximize my gaze.

And somewhere during this process, my eyes trace their way up the leash to the hand holding it.  She's in her late 20's, maybe early 30's, wearing yoga pants and the most disgusted look on her face.  And she's looking directly back at me.  I realize, to my immediate horror, that she read the previous paragraph assuming I was leering at her.

No no no no no no no no.   I want to explain. There has been a mix up. A miscommunication. I was just adoring your dog, I want to tell her.  I was only objectifying your animal companion, you've got to believe me. 

But of course, I'm long past that stretch of pavement by the time I've sleuthed the parameters of what just transpired. To her, I'm just another cis-white guy rubbernecking at some girl in tight pants.  And there's nothing to be done.

"I'm checking you out, checking me out, checking you out."

Hilariously, the pup turned out to not be a baby bulldog, but rather some long-haired small bread dog masquerading as a larger dog's baby offspring.  Again, I don't play favorites, but I'm just not as into   small breed dogs. Therefore, I had mistakenly offended this women just to ogle a dog that I didn't find particularly adorable.   In the end, only the care-free football-sized fluff ball was viewing the world through an accurate, albeit it colorblind, lens.