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For the love of dog …

Blog - MiaI’m a dog lover, there’s no question about that. I can’t remember a time in my life – other than the year or two we were in an apartment in Minneapolis when I was 4 – that there hasn’t been at least one dog in my life (the actual canine kind, not the male human kind – that’s another post altogether). I didn’t have a dog with me when I was in college, but there was always a faithful pal waiting for me when I’d go home.

And these dogs weren’t just any dogs – they were big dogs. Always. Growing up we mostly had German shepherds or German shepherd mixes, and then when I got married we had Labs, Lab mixes and Newfoundlands.

I love dogs.

It’s no surprise, then, that I also love those sappy videos you see on Facebook, how this dog was saved from homelessness, or how this dog abuser got schooled by a group of old ladies who defended the dog, or how this dog found his way home when he got lost on vacation. I can’t help it – I always watch them, and I always cry. And I always think, “What a great story.”

This morning Mia and I had one of those stories of our own.

Mia is my 8-year-old Newfie, and our morning walks are typically about a quarter of a mile – she needs to walk a bit to “get things moving,” and Lord knows I could use the extra steps. So we went out for our walk, a little before 7 a.m., and as we’re coming back a semi pulls up to the stop sign and kills the engine. The driver leans out his window and asks about Mia’s age, then just climbs out of the truck – it was stopped in the northbound lane – and comes over to chat.

We’re kind of used to this, as I’m sure many people with giant breeds are. People stop all the time, asking if they can pet our dog. Even more people drive by and keep their eyes on the dog. I’ve had several people call me “the lady with that big dog.” They’re kind of a novelty to most people, and it’s that difference that brought Mia to us. We had lost our first Newfie to old age six years ago today, and in March 2010 I just happened to see an ad that read, “Free to good home, 3-year-old female Newfoundland.” I called about the dog – the owners apparently thought it would be neat to have a giant breed until they actually HAD a giant breed. They weren’t really prepared for the space she needed, the food she ate, the poops she took – any of it. So they decided to get rid of her. If I didn’t take her, they said, they were going to put her in a shelter.

I had a Lab mix at the time, but we made it work. We had to.

So back to this morning and the truck driver.

The driver knelt down and petted Mia as he asked me where I’d gotten her. I told him she was a rescue of sorts, and related the story. He then told me that he and his wife used to breed Newfoundlands. They had had two females and a male, and loved the gentle giants, but when the girls died and they sold their home, they decided not to get a new dog until they got settled. That’s still not happened, he said, but it’s something they still talk about. For someday.

He asked how old Mia was, and where her first family lived. For the life of me I couldn’t remember their last name, so that didn’t help him place them.

I was kind of struck at the patience Mia was showing. She’s an attention whore, to be sure, so she loves being petted. But usually she’s trying to give kisses or is moving around or showing other small signs of minor anxiety – as if saying, “Yes, this person can pet me, but only for so long.” With the truck driver, however, she was calm, just sitting there basking in the attention.

Then it happened. The driver asked me if I knew what her first family had named her. (At this point I still hadn’t told him her name.)

I shrugged and said, “Well, sure, we just kept the name – she’s Mia.”

His eyes grew wide and teared up all at the same time. He choked up a bit, then asked, again, how old she was. I told him she’s 8 this year.

“She’s one of my pups, I just know she is,” he said. He and Mia were now looking eye to eye. “We had a Mia about that long ago – she’s one of Myrtle’s pups.”

About that time traffic started to come up on his truck and he needed to go. I didn’t get his name, he didn’t get mine – but we didn’t need it. He and Mia reconnected – I could see it in her when he was petting her – and then we all went back to our regular days.

Our steps were just a little bit lighter.



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The difference between sarcasm and sleaze

I had a particularly, oh, let’s call it awful date recently, mostly because the man involved opened his mouth and spoke. He was fairly decent looking, educated, owned his own business. We apparently knew some of the same people.

But when he spoke, it was awful. He was lewd and crass and just plain disrespectful. For the first time ever, I ended a date early.

sarcasmA few days later he actually sent me a text that said, “I really don’t understand what happened.” When I explained to him that telling a woman you want to put your “skin boat” in her “tuna chute,” or suggesting that we “go back to my place and f*** before (your headache) gets really bad,” aren’t things that are appreciated on just the second date, he took offense.

“You really need to look up the definition of sarcasm,” he said. “Good luck in the future, but you’re really going to need to lighten up if you think someone is going to be serious long-term.”

Oh, really?

First: I shared my Date from Hell story with a friend who has an online forum on which she posts questions or situations and asks her more than 4,600 followers for comments and suggestions. My date story netted 55 responses in the first two hours, probably 80 percent of which were from men who were mortified that this guy was representing their species.

A few days later, I shared his text comments with my own friends – most of whom laughed at the idea that I needed to look up the definition of sarcasm.

“Wait … did he meet you?” one friend asked.

“Clearly he doesn’t realize you are the queen of sarcasm,” said another.

One friend won the Internet with this response:

“That’s like someone telling Kim Kardashian to look up “social media” and that she needs to “promote herself more strongly.”

You get the idea. I know my way around the sarcasm block.

But to prove my point, and my true understanding of the art of sarcasm, I’m putting his comments to the test with what I really should have said.

Sleaze, not sarcasm: “I want to put my skin boat in your tuna chute.”

Sarcasm: “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Did you get that from Keats?”

Sleaze, not sarcasm: (To waiter in restaurant) “We’re going to drink some here, drink some somewhere else, and if I’m lucky we’ll go hook up after.”

Sarcasm: “And if I’m really lucky he’ll pass out and the only ‘hook-up’ he’ll get is from a tow truck as he’s sitting on the side of the road.”

Sleaze, not sarcasm: (After hearing about my growing headache) “We should just go to my place and f*** now then, before it gets too bad.”

Sarcasm: “Well, since you’re the one giving me the headache, I’m not sure that will help.”

The fun part of all of this is that I know he truly believes he’s quite the catch. I know this because he told me so – twice.

I wished him luck finding any woman who would appreciate his brand of humor, to which he replied that maybe he should “try out for the other team.”

“Good luck with that,” I said.

That was sarcasm.


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Why didn’t I think of this?

A few weeks ago, one of my best friends and fellow wine lovers (she was an admirer long before me – I’m still in the “getting to know you” phase of my wine relationship) introduced me to this guy (well, via his videos) and I love it. Matt Bellassai works at Buzzfeed, which has got to be one of the coolest jobs ever, and then gets drunk at his desk one day a week and posts a video of him whining about something.

Um, hello?? Totally what I should be doing.

I’m incredibly jealous of his job. Why didn’t I think about this? I clearly used the whine/wine reference when naming this blog oh so many years ago. It probably has much to do with my fear (?) of being on camera – including webcam. And the fact that I just didn’t think about it.


Anyway, enjoy Matt – maybe we’ll get lucky and have a guest merger – Pour Me Some Whine About It.



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Hello? Is anyone there?

“I’m sorry, but the number you have called has been disconnected or is no longer in service …”

Looking through past blog posts, I can almost hear the blogosphere operator saying that. Wow, three months – THREE months – since I’ve posted anything? Really?

It’s not like I haven’t had ideas – I’ve had several. I’ve even said to friends, “I’m going to blog about that.” And then … nothing. Nada. Apparently my blogging fingers have been on strike.

Well, here’s to hoping the strike is over. Lord knows there’s a lot of snark out there yet to be shared.

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Because my online experiences aren’t strange enough …

A few days ago I posted a blog about Cupid being a jerk. Apparently he wasn’t ready to end his antics just because it was Valentine’s Day, so he gave me another story to add yet that night:

As if my online dating experiences weren’t strange enough: A few hours after I posted this, I received an email on one of the online dating sites I use. It was from a profile I’d not seen – there was no photo, but it had been filled out somewhat, more than many, actually. The email said, simply, “No longer with [insert ex-boyfriend’s name here], I see.” Except WITH the ex’s name – something I think I included in one, maybe two blog posts at least a year ago, if not farther back.

I responded, “Nope, I haven’t been for a while. Who is this?”

The person said his identity didn’t matter and wished me luck in my search. I asked again who it was, he responded again that it didn’t matter.

The next morning the emails – and the profile – were gone. Deleted by the original sender.

And, for now, so is my own profile. Hidden by me.


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Hey, Cupid, back off

It seems somewhat fitting that I would choose today, Valentine’s Day, to end a more than two-month absence from this space. While many of my friends are getting ready to go to dinner, or spend a romantic night at home, I’m sitting in my chair, feet kicked up, ignoring my pouting Newfoundland, who thinks she needs attention and writing a blog.

And I’m perfectly OK with that.

Actually, given the messages Cupid has been sending me lately, I am more than OK with that.



Yes, I’m going to go on another rant about online dating – but before I do, I’ll concede that it’s not all bad. I’ve met some seemingly decent guys online in the past, and I know an awful lot of people who have found and maintained very good relationships online. I think that’s awesome.

But I’ve got to be honest – I think I may have done something once upon a time to really anger Cupid, and he’s just not letting go. At. All. I mean, really, you know it’s bad when you relay a story of Cupid throwing things around on social media and a friend of 20+ years responds by saying if anyone else had told him the story, he’d know they were talking about me.

Yeah. Cupid’s feud has been that long.

First, there’s the activity I’ve been getting on the online dating sites. I’ve actually had quite a few conversations lately – and I know it’s probably partly due to the fact that Valentine’s Day was on the horizon and no one wanted to be alone. Many of the guys have been decent, I’ve not gotten together with anyone yet because none of the conversations have gone that far.

But those aren’t the guys Cupid is trying to derail me with. Oh, no, those are the ones I’m sure snuck past his watchful gaze and managed to get an email out. The ones Cupid has sent my way include:

  • A two-time convicted felon who got out of a life sentence for international drug dealing by turning on another inmate.
  • A two-time convicted felon release just months ago after two sentences for burglary.
  • A man with a foot fetish who is constantly asking for pictures of my feet – with my nails painted – because they’re so large and he loves big feet. (I swear, I’m not making this up.)
  • A guy from one of my chat groups (whom I’ve never met) who wanted to get together for a threesome. I told him I wasn’t even interested in a stranger twosome.
  • A man who was 5’6″ and living in St. Paul, Minn., who got offended when I told him first that he was too far away and then, when he persisted, that he was too short.
  • A man who, when I asked what his idea of relaxing is, said he dreamed about brushing my hair.
  • The guy who asked if I owned Molly’s Cupcakes, because he wanted to taste the frosting from my lips (seriously, dude, get a better line).

And that’s just in the last few weeks.

I know it’s not just the guys – I did a freelance story on the 40+ crowd turning to online dating, and was told by two men, both in their 50s, that women are just as bad. One of them went to pick up a woman for a dinner date, and she invited him in and took off her clothes. The other talked of women who were having a hard time keeping their story straight from day to day – their lives seemed to change with the turning of the calendar page.

Cupid is on a roll.

Then there’s the things that are happening in real life, not on the computer. Running into reminders of old relationships. Still having to tell people – six months later – that we broke up.

And this. This takes the cake, Cupid, and has made me not only draw the line, but begin to prepare for war:

The other day I was walking in to my doctor’s office – just a follow-up from a small procedure I had done over the holidays – and was checking in at the receptionist’s desk. There were four clerks seated for the two clinics located on that floor. As the clerk I was working with was pulling my file up in the computer, I looked down the line.

There, at the end, was an ex-boyfriend. Not just any ex-boyfriend, but the one ex-boyfriend who makes my skin crawl just thinking about him. The one who was writing a book and, I found out later, got together with me because he thought my connections could help him. The one who, when I introduced him to a very good friend of mine who has written more than a dozen books herself, created a fake name and email account to send her messages, flirting and even asking her out. The one who tried to apologize, and then decided he could become a life coach, and asked for my recommendation on LinkedIn. Twice.

OK, Cupid. Game on.


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I won’t be the first course when the zombies come

zombieI am not a runner.

I’ve said it for years. Sometimes I wouldn’t mind being a runner, occasionally it even looks like fun. But it involves one thing I really don’t like: running.

I love to walk – I could walk for miles. My regular walking route when the weather is nice is 2-3 miles, and sometimes I’ll push it to twice that without even really thinking about it. I love to ride my bike – not RAGBRAI-style riding, but taking a leisurely 5-, 10-mile ride. I like using the elliptical, stretching, Zumba – it’s not that I don’t like exercise.

I just don’t like running.

Lately, though, I’ve found myself on my walk and fighting the occasional urge to just … run. I quickly talk myself down from the ledge – I’ve never been a runner, not even when I played softball or basketball, and that was 25-30 years ago. I’ve got bad knees. I’m a former smoker. Walking is just fine.

But tonight …

Tonight I ran.

Don’t get excited, all you marathon runners out there. I ran – but it was only maybe an eighth of a mile. I was out walking with Mia and she had a bounce in her step because we’d just been wrestling in the apartment a few minutes before. Her pace picked up, then picked up some more, and suddenly I just ran.

It wasn’t far, and it wasn’t fast. But it was a run. I was a bit out of breath, but not horribly. Honestly, I probably could have gone a little farther. I imagine this is how the “Couch to 5K” program works. I felt good.

And I now know that in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I may not be the last person caught – but I also won’t be the first.

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