Welcome To Rudeville

One of the two of my readers may remember how I used to write often about my neighborhood, Brooklyn when we first moved here and all of it's little idiosyncrasies that made G and I fall madly and passionately in love with it. Recently, we have relocated to the Bronx. While waiting for it's little idiosyncrasies to make themselves known, I have noticed great, big characteristics that make me want to pour freezing cold water down Bronx's t-shirt.

A.) Did I tell you about the move-in from hell wherein our landlord was ripping out our windows when the movers showed up with all of our crap in a torrential downpour? Let's just skip that one then.

B.) On our first weekend morning in the Ronx, G, Hunter, and me walked down the block to the little neighborhood bakery to introduce ourselves to the restaurant scene. We rope The Mag up outside and proceed in to admire the bakery delicacies and select ourselves two bagels, one coffee, and a chocolate milk (for the baby). While awaiting delivery of our toasted bagels with cream cheese, we (read: G) grabs a pastry to share. We promptly inhale our pastry, collect our bagels and are leaving the establishment. G was still inside while I unroped the beast and began covering him with affection, per usual. WHEN! This 65+ year old extremely aggressive man begins pelting me with "bad pet owner" insults. I was so confused and surprised I had no idea what to say to him. I stood there mouth agape with Hunter at attention about to kick this guy's ass when G exited the store to see what was happening. Old guy fired off a few more about how "great" it must be to have to wait outside while his owners sat inside eating breakfast, etc. Then the old bugger jumped in his car - that was incidentally parked in the handicap space when he clearly needed no assistance with walking, and took off.

Now listen up because I'm only going to say this one thousand times. Accuse me of many things, perpetual lateness, consistent unkempt housekeeping, binge drinking, detail extrapolating, or even self-medicating through over-eating. But DO NOT accuse me of abusing my dog because, People, he's the only one making out on both mine and my husbands advanced education degrees and healthy paychecks. THE ONLY ONE. There are few things that dog lives without and even fewer things he has to experience that he does not absolutely love. So if I decide to tie his leash to a pole outside the bakery I am patronizing in my full view and only a few steps away from me at all times so that he can accompany to and from said bakery, than SO BE IT. Kiss my pregnant white butt if you don't approve. And! I was sitting down because I'm SUPPORTING A GROWING LIFE INSIDE MY UTERUS and recently sitting down for breaks has come in handy while I grow TO THE SIZE OF A HOUSE.

I'm sorry.

Was the outrage a smidge thick there? She's a tad bit testy these days (read: most of her life).