The Reluctant Housewife Walks The Dog

Task:
Set out on a -17° C morning to walk neurotic standard poodle, Iris, around the block without being spotted by other housewives in the neighbourhood who are likely to mistake me for a homeless man.


Ensemble:
Once a woman who prided herself on her keen fashion sense and collection of eyeshadow to match every outfit, this morning finds me in sweat pants and t-shirt, bra less and make-up less, scrambling into salt-stained puffy winter coat and pair of husband's boots bought in a moment of machismo when he fancied he'd take up snowmobiling. Ski gloves and and dollar store toque complete the look.

Outcome:
Halfway into walk Iris decides that it's "her time". Being of a refined and genteel nature (Husbands take: "The damn dog is just stupid"), Iris requires privacy in order to do her business. She sidles up the driveway and positions herself just under the window at the home of the PTA president.

As I hurriedly pick up after her and turn to leave, I see el Presidenté staring at me quizzically through her clean bay window. Momentarily stunned ("Did she get new drapes?"), I stare back.

Then embarrassment sets in and I formulate a plan. Do I smile and wave or just pretend I didn't see her? Opt for the latter and hurry on.

Half a block from home spot sexy, rich, stay-at-home mom L. on her way to the gym. A quick calculation of distance to home vs. distance to L. gives me hope I can make it inside without having to chat.

Experience "Aha" moment as I finally comprehend the value of Grade Four math ("If John got on a westbound train to Toledo going 60 mph and Toledo is 65 miles away, what time would John arrive?") and make a dash for the door.

Iris however has chosen this moment to showcase her bulimic tendencies and is throwing up in the snow. Like the Britney Spears of the dog world, Iris is not content to puke and quickly move on. Instead, she opts for an over-the-top performance, heavy on guttural sounds and full-body dry heaves.

Just as Iris finishes and appears to be contemplating whether or not to eat her vomit, L. passes me.

We exchange weak "Hellos" and continue on, both pretending not to notice the stain in the snow. It's the polite thing to do which is, after all, the Canadian way.