My new reality smells like Dominicans and urine

       The Macanudo Maduro Vintage 1997 is a cigar from the Dominican Republic that should be enjoyed on a beach, a yacht, or on a mountain top overlooking a beautiful lagoon. Imagine the smell of coconut oil wafting in the air as the sun beams down on your face. Your eyes are shielded by a mesh safari hat like the one worn by Panama Jack. Imagine the taste of that cigar in one of those settings. Imagine the serenity. Now, imagine the drifting smell of dog urine emitting from pee pads that are placed at your feet on the porch of an apartment that was not part of your master plan.

      Lucy, our sweet Wheaton Terrier, is taking a crap in front of me as I write this. She missed the pee pads.
      The Macanudo tastes wonderful as the crickets chirp in the background. The putrid smell is almost as intense as the cigar is robust. I am drinking a Michelob Ultra Amber. This is not my beer of choice. However, when beer left by your lounge chair at the apartment pool winds up in your fridge, why not? I consider myself an IPA guy. But, it's free and I didn't want to stop at the store on my way back from a storage unit that tells the story of my new reality.

      I currently have three addresses, but a series of events that include my wife's dream house, and a house that sold (and didn't sell) landed me here on the pee pad covered porch. 

     I moved Lucy's turd to one of the pads. The Macanudo is wonderful. My battery powered radio is playing Barry Manillow from my playlist. I am a Rock n Roll guy. Don't ask why Barry is playing. Just know that my mother would be proud.

     So, here I sit with Lucy, urine, pee pads, a dog turd, and Barry. Life could be better, but life could be worse. It's all about perception. There are Keebler Fudge Stripes in the pantry, a free beer at my side and a nice cigar parked in my mouth. Metallica begins playing. Life is getting better.

     There are five Hamiltons (not counting the thousand or so fruit flies that are on the other side of the door haunting my wife) living here. Our two sons, our daughter and myself are enough to drive my  wife crazy. Throw in two dogs, a cramped apartment, two houses that we can't live in, and fruit flies. Let's see what that would do to your sanity. I'm enough to handle. I add the complexity of cigar smoke, an unhealthy toenail clipping habit, a popcorn addiction, and the ability to constantly misplace debit card receipts. She obviously loves me because I am still married and I am still alive. She loves to watch those crime documentaries. As long as she doesn't start taking notes, I feel that I am not in any danger. I'm going to hide the notebooks and pens, just to be safe. You never know when a stray toenail found on the sofa might become a trigger moment.

     Damn, this is a good cigar. I used to smoke them on the back deck of the house where I mowed the lawn earlier today. Our other Wheaton Terrier, Charlie,  used to crap on that deck. Familiarity. I used to complain about Charlie's bowel antics. He's an old dog and can no longer control himself. My wife says that one day I'll be old and crapping on the porch and I shouldn't bitch.

     Is it too much to want to crap on the porch of our dream house that is being built Over Yonder?