I’m being shaken down by my pimp.

On Wednesday, I got home from Florida to a slew of messages on my machine.

“I still haven’t received the check, okay?” says a voice in a thick Brooklyn accent. It's Peter L. “Last time, you only paid me 15%, but it should be 20%, okay?”

Peter ends most sentences with "okay?" He's one of those people who chronically sounds worried. He should have been a psychiatrist instead of a dog pimp, although psychiatry might have been less lucrative. Whenever I see one of the innumerable T.V. commercials for nervous bowel medications (which invariably come before & after the ad for "New! Ranch Bacon Chocolate Pockets!") I imagine Peter asking his doctor if it's right for him.

In recent months I’ve become a sort of governess for the pampered, well-bred dogs of Manhattan's Upper West Side. Like a Mary Poppins of the canine set.

Peter hooked me up with my current charge - a two-and-a-half pound Yorkie named Lilli (as in, "lilliputian"). It's reasonably lucrative work, even when you take out the 20% that goes to the dog pimp. Twice a day, I visit Lilli in a luxury building on Riverside Drive, while her owner, Bob, is at the office, working to maintain his wee terrier in the lifestyle to which she has grown accustomed. It’s not a hard job - she doesn’t even go outside (it’s too cold; she’s too small). I usually just sit there having high-pitched, one-sided conversations, mostly centered around a squeaking plastic hamburger. Bob suggested that I teach Lilli French, which was funny, until I realized he wasn’t joking.

Alors, ca se passe tres bien.

Unemployment is great, but it hasn’t been quite as productive as I’d hoped. When I stopped working back in November, I had a long list of things I hoped to accomplish during my first few months on the Dole. These included:

Read the complete works of Tolstoy (before moving on to other notable classics);
Write a poignant (or at least, highly marketable) novel;
Design and sew all my own clothes (including hats and socks);
Churn out a screenplay or two;
Become a black belt in some pseudo-martial art (tai chi, tae boe),
OR, better yet: Invent my own pseudo-martial art (Jazz Boxing? it has a ring to it. Get it? A ring? Okay, that was bad);
Volunteer for charity.

I’m not quite finished reading the compete works of Tolstoy, possibly because I haven’t started yet. But I have watched Season Four of “Sex and the City” in its entirety, so, same diff.


- posted by Marguerite @ 1:10 PM