Might I Interest You Fine Fellows in Some Snausages?

I've got this long held belief that in order to succeed, a person needs to get out of his "comfort zone" every once in a while.

If that's true, I had a really, really successful day yesterday.

It started when I decided to drive to work in Manhattan, instead of taking the bus as I usually do.

FBB decided that since I was driving, it would be a good idea for me to stop by the American Girl doll store, located about three blocks from my office, to exchange something one of my daughters had received as a gift nearly a year ago. After much moaning and groaning, I agreed to do it.

Shortly after entering this multi-story mecca of pre-adolescent femaledom, I noticed that I was the only male of the species in the entire store.

The other thing I noticed was that this place's customer demographic is incredibly homogeneous. Every person shopping there was white. About 90% of them were blond. The melting pot had been replaced with a fondue pot. There were more "Muffys" in that store than there are "Marias" in Spanish Harlem.

Watching these future members of the Delta, Gamma, Pi (mmm, pie...) sorority walk through the store in a trance-like state, I wondered: Did my brother and I have the same look on our faces when we visited the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown years ago?

It was strange. I felt as though I was in a place where I did not belong. Fortunately, I found what I was looking for, and executed the exchange in swift, painless fashion, thanks to the efficient and brightly-dispositioned employee I encountered at the cashier's desk.

On my way out, I actually saw a sign denoting a men's room. After briefly considering using this facility, I decided to just move on. It was probably a trap.

My trip home also involved a departure from my comfort zone, although under significantly different circumstances.

There's a kosher steakhouse located just down the block from my office. This restaurant also has a full-service butcher's counter in the front of the store, featuring some very nice cuts of meat. For a while now, FBB and I have talked about getting some steaks from this butcher, and grilling them at home. Since I was driving back home, I figured that yesterday would be a good day to purchase the steaks and bring them home for dinner.

I bought a nice rib steak and a couple of slices of rib eye, which the butcher wrapped in wax paper for me, and placed in a shopping bag. I then walked to the parking lot to retrieve my vehicle.

Unfortunately, it was prime time at the garage, and by the time I arrived, there were at least half a dozen people waiting for their cars. This was going to take a while. I paid at the automated machine (a pretty efficient system, actually), and stood in the designated area to wait for my car. About three minutes later, this woman walks in, with not one, not two, not three, but four dogs, and stands next to me on the line. She quickly struck up a conversation with a couple of other people who were waiting for their cars, and I was able to gather the following intelligence: One of the dogs was a rotweiller, another was a German shepherd, the third was a black labrador. I don't know about the fourth dog, and I'm certainly no expert, but by the looks of things, he seemed to be some sort of a cross between a pit bull and an aircraft carrier. All of these beasts, in fact, were quite large.

Now, I've never liked dogs, and while I'm certainly not afraid of them, they do make me a bit uncomfortable. Fortunately, these dogs seemed to be pretty well behaved, so it really wasn't a big deal, and I was simply playing it cool (the only way I know how to play things), and patiently waiting for my car.


Then I remembered the bag I was holding.

Not my briefcase. Not the bright red American Girl bag. The other bag.

There I was, standing less than three feet away from four enormous, panting, large-toothed dogs, holding a shopping bag containing a whole lot of raw meat.

Despite the cold, I began to break out in a sweat. "Calm down," I told myself, "They don't know you've got meat in the bag."

Then, as if on cue, this Mediterranean-looking fellow came over and starting petting the dogs, who clearly had taken a liking to him. "Of course they like me," he said. "I've got dogs, and they can smell it on me. Dogs can smell anything, even from a great distance."

At this point, I had three thoughts:

(1) It's got nothing to do with the dogs, Basil. I can smell you, as can everyone else in this joint. Try a little soap every once in a while.
(2) Dang. They know about the meat.
(3) Where'd these idiots park my car, in Connecticut?

Looking at the dogs out of the corner of my eye, while making sure not to make eye contact, I slowly inched further away from them. But, there wasn't anywhere to go, as there was a line of people on the other side of me, waiting for their cars. I was trapped.

If my car didn't come soon, these dogs were going to pounce on me, eat the steaks, then attempt to tear me to shreds, just for sport. Making matters worse, I realized that I was wearing one of my favorite shirts. I pictured myself lying on the floor of the parking garage, with two dogs eating the steaks, and the other two on top of me, while I yelled "Not the shirt, not the shirt! These hardly ever go on sale! Not the shirt!"

I continued to look hopefully in the direction of the two elevators which brought the cars to the street level from the parking levels above. Every time the door to one of the elevators opened, I hoped that it would contain my vehicle. The same pattern repeated itself several times. The door to the elevator opened...and it was someone else's car. It was like I was the audience member dressed in a bee outfit, or some other outlandish costume, on Let's Make a Deal, hearing Monte Hall say "Let's see what's behind Door #3," only to find out that I had won a year's supply of Jiffy Pop popcorn (and the never-ending taunts of my friends back home).

It was like that. Over and over again. About 10 times in 15 minutes, to be exact.

With all of that, the situation still hadn't deteriorated to the point that it wasn't at least a bit humorous.

Until I saw the droplets.

Still glancing at the dogs out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few droplets of something hitting the pavement right near where they were standing. Instinctively, I looked up at the ceiling, assuming that it was some sort of a leak. There had been a decent amount of rain in the area over the past 24 hours, and perhaps the garage was experiencing some drainage problems.

All of a sudden, the terrible truth dawned upon me.

The dogs were drooling.

It was only a matter of time.

Now, I'm no "dog whisperer" or anything, but I was pretty sure I knew what the biggest dog was thinking:

"We're going to eat your steaks. And use your shirt as a tablecloth. And your tie as a napkin. And we'll probably tear you to shreds in the process. Also, I can't believe you had to go to the American Girl store. What a loser."

Fortunately, my vehicle arrived right at that moment. I've never been so happy to see a Puerto Rican driving my car. Zipping past the dogs, I jumped into my car and drove away, not even pausing to take off my coat or suit jacket. (As FBB can attest, that's extremely rare. I never wear my suit jacket when I drive). I drove like that all the way home.

Before long, I was back home. FBB and I ate the steaks, which she expertly prepared. They were delicious.

I was finally back in my comfort zone.