As you probably know, B is a tennis pro at a rather fancy country club in the Philadelphia area. And in case you didn't know, fancy country clubs attract fancy rich people. And at this particular club, there are quite a few members of the local Philadelphia elite. And when you are the wife of one of the Philadelphia elite, you flock to the tennis program. Just like in that movie. The one with the rich people. And the tennis pro? With the dancing? Also I'm pretty sure there was a lot of sex. And possibly a fight scene in the middle of the woods, but that might have just been the drugs. Anyway, I can't remember. But the point is, B spends his days correcting the backhand of many of the region's most well known names.
And when these women gather to play matches, they bring with them trays of homemade food. Since many of these women usually drink their lunches with an olive and a side of Prozac, B has taken to bringing home the leftovers, which is awesome because now as we pick through the trays of homemade goods, we try to guess if the women who brought them actually made them or if their minority house servants did. But really, it doesn't matter, because the fact is, we're eating their food. And eating rich people's food is awesome. Because it's almost like being rich. Or not at all. But it's at least a few steps up from eating out of their dumpsters and don't act like you've never eaten anything out of a trash can before.
Speaking of dumpsters, I hit my head on one today, which is worse than hitting your head on pretty much any other hard surface, because most other hard surfaces don't smell like shit. I was jogging with Rooney early this morning before work. And because Rooney loves being a dickhead, he wiggled out of his collar a few blocks from our apartment and started sprinting up and down the street like some kind of lunatic. And the worst part was, he was smiling the entire time, like a little asshole.
He ran circles around me barking and jumping and ducking out of reach every time I got near him like some kind of wombat on crack. And when I finally cornered him behind an apartment building, he did this bob and weave move that I'm pretty sure not even Lebron James could have shut down, and my head went into the side of the dumpster. It didn't even hurt, it was just fecking disgusting and I'm pretty sure when I'm chasing my dog around the neighborhood the last thing I want to feel on my face is trash juice. And can you get an STD from dumpster juice? Because now I'm kind of paranoid because I don't always know how these things work and I'm still totally wigging out over the fact that there's more germs on my desk than a public toilet seat. Also, I know Lebron James probably isn't that great of a defender, but there is a possibility he'd be better at catching a dog than I am, and also when I Googled "best NBA defender" I didn't recognize any of the names so I figured you probably wouldn't either, and LAY OFF ME I don't even watch basketball and anyway I'm too busy wondering if I have VD now. On my face.