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29 Things I Did Not Do Last Weekend

Feet up relaxing

Screw the To Do List.

 

That’s my motto, or it would be if I made To Do Lists. Because guess what:

 

To Do Lists are not legally binding.

 

However, they are enforceable.

 

Just ask any woman who has another adult living under her roof. Especially a life partner. Non-performance may result in evil stares, passive aggressive grunts or under-the-breath invective spewing.

 

Should her other head-of-household remain out of compliance with To Do obligations- obligations which are literally spelled out in black and white –his or her personal property is at risk of destruction, and divorce becomes a distinct possibility.

 

That my friends, is why living alone is the best.

 

The B.E.S.T best.

What’s it like to be Single At THIS Age? Hint: it doesn’t suck

Single at this age

What’s it like to be single at this age?

 

Even for someone who writes and reads and thinks about single* life in America, this is a tough question to answer.

 

Not because of my age, or yours. Because, regardless of age, the question I actually end up answering is, what is it like not to be married?

 

And that, my friends, drives me BAT. SHIT. CRAZY.

Single Women are Families, Too

Boxer dog breed looking through the hole in a wall

Rocky the Boxer has a new picture perfect family.   Which sucks for Rocky.   Rocky was surrendered to a shelter by his first family because “they did not have time for an energetic dog like him.”   Apparently this family is a family of Luddites who don’t know about Google; a little bit of research on the breed would have saved everyone involved heartache and aggravation.   Dogtime gives Boxers Five Stars for Energy Level, Intensity, Exercise Needs and Potential for Playfulness. Five equals the MOST. Not good if you don’t have time.   So, I guess as sad and irresponsible as it is to get and then give up a dog, at least Rocky had a second chance at finding a lifetime of love and special attention.   That is,...

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Millie and Me

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Today is Millie’s birthday. She’s two years old. Yesterday was my birthday. Ha! As if I was going to tell how old I am. Besides, nobody is interested my birthday. Not even me.

 

Millie gets top billing today and every day. She’s a dog, after all, and dogs are better than people. They are easier to love, and they always love you back. At least eight or 10 humans didn’t love me back. But that’s a story for another day.

 

This is a dog tale. Like all canine chronicles, it is a story of a hero’s journey. But remember, it’s the journey that counts, not the destination.

 

Some dogs are born heroes. Lassie. Rin Tin Tin.

 

Some dogs have heroics thrust upon them. Lady. Tramp.

 

Some dogs have heroism buried deep within. Marley. Millie.

 

Marley?

The Swede Who Loved Me

This is the story of the Swede Who Loved Me.

 

This is not a “ain’t single life fabulous” story. I hate them.

 

Don’t get me wrong; the unmarried-way works for me. I am even fabulous on occasion. But alone and awesome tales are usually considered pathetic attempts to convince myself that I am happy, while “what we did on vacation” is all the evidence of bliss a wedded couple needs.

 

Let’s get one thing straight. I am not happy. That’s my nature, not my marital status. I’m ok with it. Anxiety is my go-to emotion. If I am trying to convince myself otherwise, you better believe it’s on doctor’s orders.

 

If my marital status makes me anything, it’s interesting. Interesting as in, “your new haircut is interesting,” or “you are so cool and do the most interesting things.”

 

This is a story about the latter.

Why I Stopped Blogging

why I quit blogging

 

Blame the first doctor who told me I don’t have breast cancer for why I stopped blogging.

 

 

 

Or the second one, though the third was the most unpleasant.  Seeing her was not my idea. I was a mere cog in the Protocol machine.

 

 

 

Ironically, Protocol did not improve Dr. #3’s manners. Doctors should not scold patients. Especially when they can’t be bothered to read the notes they took the last time you were naked and examined.

 

 

 

Blame can also be placed on the fact that even not having breast cancer puts the hell in hellth-care. That bitch Protocol says I have to do drugs for half a decade, get felt up twice annually and expose the rest of me to enough extra radiation to nuke pizza.

 

 

 

If that die-namic duo is not enough to zap a gal’s blogging ability into oblivion, let’s add that oldie but goodie, the universal place to lay blame for every 8-year-old whose writing assignments also didn’t get written:

 

 

 

“The dog ate my homework.”

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