Can I go on a minute about dogs?

Can I go on a minute about dogs?

Dogs are the best. Sometimes I think the meaning of life is dogs. When we return home, whether from an hour away or days away, the dogs go completely crazy. The overwhelming joy shuddering their small frames as they jump, hop, shake, and shimmer with relief fills me with awe. Who else has ever been this exhilarated to see me?! 

We look forward to leaving just so we can return. As we approach the neighborhood, we are all like, Oh my gosh, the dogs are going be so excited. The anticipation of the event is building in all of us and is a frequent topic of conversation in our family. This ritual is one of life’s great pleasures. The sentiment was put to poetic perfection in 1978 by Peaches & Herb:

Reunited, and it feels so good
Reunited ’cause we understood
There’s one perfect fit
And, sugar, this one is it
We both are so excited ’cause we’re reunited, hey, hey

This love is not without demands. Decaf, my male dog, insists we take it to the couch.

Hey, let’s unwind from this strenuous display of affection by plopping next to each other on a pile of cushions. What say you?

I watch him hot step it to the couch while craning his neck back to see if the pack is taking his lead. I almost never want to go directly from car to couch. Yet I frequently do even if only for a minute. He’s burrowed next to me before I even fully release my weight to the sofa.

I know he is just a mammal, but I can’t see how a mystical creature could be any more attuned to me. He is my familiar, medieval European folklore is alive and well in our house. We are bonded. We are bonded with super glue.

How do I deserve this? I don’t. I could never give them as much as they give me. Not that we don’t care for them. We consider them and think about their needs and make all kinds of adjustments and concessions. But I don’t feel like I am loved because of THAT. It’s not like:

Thanks so much for letting me sniff out that patch of grass next to Patty’s place. I so appreciate that you didn’t jerk me away. I don’t totally feel like pressing my warm little sausage body next to your side for three solid hours while you do French, play Woodoku and watch tv and but I’ll throw you a bone just this once.

He just wants to be there. And for those precious moments, I am not alone. My hand on his warmth, we are briefly one thing and not two things.

Sidewalk Face 1294on sale now in my shop.

Lesson Not Taught

Lesson Not Taught

Reoccurring problem. My husband sees an empty space and fills it. For him, domestic space is like a supermarket parking lot. If you don’t see a car there, feel free to drive into the spot. To me, our domestic space is a like an apartment building with leased parking spaces. Only one item has legitimate claim to any given area. You cannot be where you don’t belong, or you will be towed away at your own expense.

At the end of our hallway is large desk size built in shelf. This space has been doing triple duty for more than two and half years. One third is where I store my two purses, next to that is overflow food storage, and next to that are hard drives. Don’t worry, the sugar does not comingle with the technology. They are separated by bins and baskets. As I write it out, this arrangement sounds strange. I wish it were differernt but who has the time and space to make things not weird.

So yesterday, both purses are lolling around in chairs making it hard to sit down. Tidying up, I gather them, walk them over to the purse basket and find a five-pound bag of whole wheat flour sitting in their spot! UGH! I am instantly annoyed. My kid wanders by, and I ask in a rather surly tone,

Did you put this here?!


Just as I suspected, it’s dad! I am going to teach him a lesson.

My kid looks at me skeptically. Maybe even disapprovingly. I probably should heed the message in their body language, but the rush of frustration is already in full gallop, and I march the big bag of flour to his desk and deposit it in his chair. Now he will know what it is like to find a place you intend to use blocked by a ridiculous culinary obstacle.

I bide my time, waiting for him to need his computer. I am waiting for some type of outburst. Disappointed, nothing happens.

I check his chair and the flour is gone. It’s back on the shelf next to the purses where it belongs. I retrieve it and march it back to him.

Did you notice this on your chair? I demand.

I was wondering how that got there, he says totally nonchalant. It’s like it doesn’t matter one way or another. What’s so mysterious about a five-pound bag of flour showing up in your office? It doesn’t faze him. In his world, bags of flour being accidently deposited on office chairs is just a thing that can happen that needs no explanation, that jumpstarts no line of questioning, it forces no interrogation of fellow family members. This man cannot be taught a lesson!

I attempt to explain the outlandish violation and he says he has no idea that my purses go in a purse basket. He says he thought the whole thing was grocery storage.


Well, here’s what. What I think of as our systems are really only my systems. He says now he knows and will not do it again.

That should make me happy, and it’s probably true as who wouldn’t want to avoid another run in with me in this state. But I am not satisfied. I wanted to make him be like me and he is not like me.

He is not like me.

This is a good thing. He doesn’t explode out of the blue. He doesn’t need organizational integrity to be ok. And it’s okay that I do create systems. I just need to understand that I am the person responsible for their maintenance. I am best suited for that, and he is best suited for not being a critical jerk.

I am the one who keeps not learning the lesson. I need to learn the lesson.

Sidewalk Face 1230 and 1231.

Voted Best Sidewalk Face Maker in North America

Voted Best Sidewalk Face Maker in North America

Can you believe it? We were honored with this award by the North American Sidewalk Face Federation. I’m over the moon! What until I tell my mom!

What’s going to happen to the competition when they get a load of this?! Guess who will be landing all the top tier sidewalk face making gigs for the next year? Ha! It’s my time to shine. The voters have had their say and they pick me!

Alright, alright. Let me tone it down and tell you what’s really going on. My brother and I were strolling down Beverly Boulevard chatting. We walk past Shaky Alibi and noticing the giant banner they have over the front entrance; he articulates something I’ve been mentally chewing on for years. He says, Exactly how many waffle voters are there? 

The banner reads, “Voted Best Waffles in America.” It’s been there for more than a decade.

Every time I see that sign, I think, says who?! And what do they know about waffles? Waffle preferences aren’t exactly standardized. I believe a waffle loving person can tell a great waffle from a mediocre one, but do I trust they can determine the best of the bunch? How would you ever have enough money and resources to sample all the waffles and who would fund it? To what end? It’s not a reasonable thing to research. It’s simply a marketing ploy. Get someone to say you are the best and voilĂ , you are the best. So, I am now doing that here.

I am the founder of the North American Sidewalk Face Federation. Currently I am also the only member. Care to join? They are known for rewarding members with extravagant awards!