Part of a countdown to 50.
80. One of the things that worried my daughter most about moving out of our apartment was leaving me alone with the animals.
She wasn’t afraid that I’d neglect them, or that they’d overtake the palace. She was more concerned that I’d turn into a crazy dog or cat lady, talking to the animals, having conversations, neglecting human friends in favor of my canine or feline furbabies.
At the time, I thought the concern was sweet but needless. I understood its base: I did (do) often talk to my dog and cat, and sometimes think I know what they’re trying to tell me. Mattie, my cat, will wrap herself around my feet every morning when we get up and every evening when I get home, meowing and looking up at me the whole time. I look down at her and say, “I know, I know.” (I really don’t know. I don’t have a freaking clue.)
Ceili, my 2-year-old Lab, and I often communicate through the morning and night, too – often with her trying to get me to play and me trying to get her to understand, “In a minute.” And then, equally as often, with me ending up throwing the ball or the rope or the squeaky toy until she’s worn out.
But that’s all normal stuff, that’s what all pet owners do.
Then yesterday happened. I had an argument with Ceili. What’s worse – she won.
We were in the hall between the living room and the bedrooms and she was barking at the spare bedroom/storage room, which is closed to her via baby gate. I knew she was trying to tell me her tennis ball was in there, and I didn’t see it. The conversation went like this:
Ceili: woof
Me: It’s not in there.
Ceili: Woof
Me: I don’t see it, it’s not there.
Ceili: Woof!
Me: It’s. Not. In. There.
Ceili: WOOF!!
Me: Oh, for the love of … (moves small box) Shit. There it is.
I threw the ball, she gave me an indignant, “I told you so!” look and off she went. And I was left there, both wondering what the hell just happened and concerned that my daughter might just have been right.
I might need a roommate. Or more human friends.
Part of a fairly frequent countdown to 50.
don’t be surprised if I miss a day here and there. Like yesterday. And Friday.
Part of a daily countdown to 50.
So here’s the list – with some amended to include comments.
That last one, the anxiety, was the one that completely mystified me – as a reporter for 22 years, I felt no anxiety whatsoever talking to strangers, walking into a variety of situations to talk to sources (businesses, gatherings, events), and doing so alone. But take the notebook out of my hands and suddenly I’m a person – open to judgment, condescension and scrutiny.
93. The older I get, the better I am at laughing at myself. This has been a work in progress for the last 30+ years, starting when my good friends Mike and Kevin proved to me in college that they were going to laugh at me anyway, so I might as well laugh along. I’ve learned over the years not to take myself so seriously – stuff happens, deal with it or laugh it off and move on.
My love life – This only became a topic of ridicule after my divorce (well, duh, I didn’t date while I was married …) and with the popularity of online dating. I’ve posted about my misadventures in the past, but some of the highlights include the guy who gave me a fake last name because he was married and I found out when as a reporter I covered an event he and his wife were hosting; the guy who showed up for a Friday night date packed for the weekend (he lived 20 minutes away); and one of my favorites, the guy who said, several times, he was an “aff-eh-KON-dee-oh” of weapons. I know he meant “aficionado,” but it was really painful on the ears.
Pour Me Some Whine 