Me Tarzan. You Jane?

I write this post assuming that the rental office is never going to read this blog. In a valiant attempt to sneer in the face of canned tomato industry I have taken to pot-gardening. Since my apartment is not conducive for the all-round development of a tomato plant, I sneakily camaflouged the pot outside. Like little Ms. Red Riding Hood I sneak through the forests of unknown peril to water my plant. On one of these gay jaunts I chanced upon a afro-american man (I am still never sure what it is to be politically correct. Can I just say black?) who looked like Hulk-Hogan. In addition, his monstrous size was offset by an adorable puppy.

All dogs love me. Note that this feeling is not reciprocated. This might have something to do with a childhood incident - a dying pomeranian tried to bite me when I affectionately stroked it. When I look back I understand that it is best to leave dying dogs alone. However, erring on the side of caution I avoid all dogs.

So this puppy runs around my ankles, yelping. Since running away from something so tiny would seem cowardly I try to talk. The conversation is as follows:

Me: How old is the puppy ?

Hulk-Hogan: About 6 weeks.

Meanwhile, I search for a quick getaway without seeming like a wimp.

Hulk-Hogan: How old are you ?

I was not sure if I heard him right. Is that a permitted question ? Can I not ask how old a dog is without revealing my age ? Maybe this guy was from the rental office and so was checking if I should be booked under juvenile misdemeanor or felony for growing illegal tomato plants?

I used my favorite tactic and pretended to not hear and continued playing soccer with the puppy.

Hulk-Hogan: Are you even married ?

If his first question was unexpected, this second one completely threw me off. And what does he mean by "even" ?

The coordinates of my diamond rings are (middle finger, left hand) & (ring finger, right hand). May be he was a victim of the Child Left Behind program and was confused by the unconventional location of the jewellery.

Me: Yes!

My orange-alert kicks into gear as I suddenly recall horrifying stories about physical assaults. I make a break for it. And they say I can't run fast.