February 9th, 2004

Volvo

But no Christopher Guest.

My father and I decided to take a shortcut through a hotel lobby yesterday, to avoid the cold, and wound up in the middle of what appeared to be the Westminster Dog show.
And for a while I got jealous and wanted a purebred dog, but since I have neither the two bazillion dollars with which to purchase it, or the twenty million hours with which to train it, I debated bringing the dog I already have and attempting to pass her off as something other than what she is. (i.e. an idiot.) I might give her a fancy haircut and introduce her as a an upper New Yorkian Canine of mixed lineage. A Eastcoastian chow hound. She would do fabulously in the 100 meter dash for food, as well as the 'barking incessantly at the doorbell' event. I briefly considered entering my sister, Karen, as she excels in these fields as well.
Sadly, I'm not sure either of them would've been entirely welcome. Most of the people showing dogs seemed very well off and the majority of their handbags cost a good deal more than my college education. Many had fur coats, which, I presume, were created from either the hides of last year's losers, or the toupees of their rich, balding husbands. One woman was wearing enough make-up that, if unevenly distributed, could have been used to create a topographical map of Europe on her forehead.

There were many people (and dogs) I enjoyed watching, but hands down, my favorite part of the evening was seeing well-bred women in overzealous hats saying things like,
"Oh fabulous, Charlene, fabulous. Here comes Harold with my bitches."