So - one hour to go before I pick Dido up.  No, he’s not a dog.  He’s way handsomer.  Yes, I know it sounds like a dog’s name.  You’ll soon see why.   

Yes,  I’m picking him up.  I won’t get into it.  I like this guy, whether he’s got a car or not.  I met him in an acting class.  Something could happen tonight.  

I’m showering, lost in a heaven of suds and steam, steaming myself to clean, perfumey perfection.  I’m even washing my hair for the guy.  I’m shaving my legs - my armpits.  I get out of the shower, cleaner than pink.  I’m excited.  I’m putting perfume on.  I never put perfume on.

Half an hour to go.  I’m blow drying my hair.  A squirt of perfume in it.  I never put perfume in my hair.  A little more blow drying to set the fragrance.

He calls - he’s sick.

I take a deep breath, yeah, sure it’s fine.  Yeah, I’m sorry too.  I hang up politely.  Then I let out a blood curdling scream.  God - what have you got against me?  What have I done????  I’m going to die without ever having sex again!

Just when I’m about to swallow the bottle of perfume or take the dull razor blade out from its plastic razor compartment - I get a brilliant, lifesaving idea.  A lightbulb of a brilliant idea.  

He’s sick!   

I’ll bring him chicken soup - served with a side dish - a soothing, sensual neck rub.  It’ll be so sick, he’ll forget he’s sick.   Oh yeah.  Brilliant.  Thank you, God.  You’re genius.

I show up at Dido’s door, refusing to take no for an answer.  With hot, hot thick, creamy chicken soup, the smell bursting out of the paper bag.  Expensive “chichi” chicken soup, from Whole Foods, some sort of chicken-wild-rice medley.  A big quartful of chicken soup.  The cream of the cream of chicken soups.

He’s really sick.  Not too sick to gobble up the chicken soup, though.  He stands  there, not even bothering to sit, gobbling, slurping.  Like this is all about chicken soup.  Hello, hi.  It’s not about the chicken soup.  I’ve got perfume in my hair.

The studio-sized living room has a love seat - and a one-seater - with a coffee table  between them.  We stand there, awkwardly, while he gobbles his chicken soup.  I awkwardly move towards the loveseat, making room for him.   So he’ll know he can sit with me.  My body language says I’m moving over for you.  I don’t think he speaks this  language.

He leaves me hanging and sits on the one-seater.  How am I going to give you a neck rub now, you idiot!  Hello, it’s not about the chicken soup!

Slurp.  Slurp.

The silence between slurps is deafening.  Now it’s really awkward.  I’ll have to climb over the coffee table and manouver myself behind his chair to give him a neck rub.  In between slurps.  It’s too awkward and contrived.  I couldn’t pull it off.

I ask for a glass of water instead.  Just to say something.  To stop the slurps.

While he’s in the kitchen getting it, I see his poodle - or his roommate’s poodle - or somebody’s poodle - scampering around.  Fluffy, poofy thing.  I slyly pat the one-seater, inviting the pooch to sit.  He does.  Hah, Dido will have to sit with me on the loveseat now.  Good pooch.

The poodle seems to have made himself at home on the one-seater.  But just as Dido comes back, he hops off.  Damn that pooch!

I’m feeling crazy.  Crazy with frustration and awkwardness.  Why am I sitting here in this living room, watching a sick guy slurp chicken soup, alone on a loveseat, while he doesn’t even try to smell the perfume in my hair?  Could things possibly get worse?

I soon find out - yes, they can.    

He sits on his one-seater over there, quart of half eaten chicken soup still in hand.

And then... this is so sad it’s funny and so funny it’s sad.

He jumps up yelling and spilling chicken soup.  “Awww, dog shit!” he screams.

For a moment, I wonder if he’s figuratively saying it to me.  No one’s ever called me dog shit before.  It’s jolting.  But no, it’s worse.

He’s screaming about real dog shit.  Not figurative dog shit.  Real dog shit.  On his pants!

Well, that just about kills everything.  How can you give a neck rub to someone with dog shit on his pants.  It’s not possible.  

I feel like laughing, crying, cussing, screaming, and jumping on him all at the same time.  Strangely, I don’t have the energy to do any of the above.  

He’s in the bathroom yelling his head off as he tries to rub it clean.  Which makes it worse.  Somehow, it’s now gotten on his nice leather belt.  

“My leather belt!” he screams, as if this is all about leather belts.  And jeans.  “My nice jeans!  I just washed these last week!  They’ve got a good two or three months to go!”  

Wait a minute.   You don’t wash your pants for two or three months?  Is that possible?

Yeah, it’s all about leather belts and jeans needing months to break in before washing - and oh yes, dog shit.  There’s no room for me in here.

I leave Dido screaming about dog shit.  Yes, under the circumstances,  Dido is an appropriate name.

But really, it’s not even Dido’s fault - or the dog’s fault.  

Maybe it’s mine.

Maybe I didn’t ask for a date right - and God somehow heard dog shit.