How to Write a Thing

Many people have been understandably awed by my amazing ability to write 300 pages worth of sketches that will never see the light of day. One of the slack-jawed millions (who also happens to be my closest friend) has asked that I "send some of that productivity [her] way". Obviously I can't do that. I mean, I could, because how hard could it possibly be to write a dissertation? "Foucault something something memory blah blah blah reading and retention dippy-do Foucault again (CITATION)." There's your first sentence. You see my point? But I digress (often and with great enthusiasm).

While I can't write her dissertation for her, I can offer her some of the wisdom gleaned on my epic 2 month journey, and I shall endeavor to do so. She doesn't need help with preliminary work, as she's already in the thick of the writing process. And if you're reading this, you've probably already done your idea-coming-up-with and now just need to get into the nuts and bolts. Here are the steps I followed to make my caffeine-induced dream a sad, alcohol-soaked reality:
1. Buy some stuff. This is America, dammit (NOTE: if you are not in America, get on the internet and buy stuff from America. Please. WE NEED THE MONEY.) Yes, you probably already have roughly 35 notebooks, 139 pens in various states of ink depletion, 2 computers (featuring 3 word processing programs and a paid subscription to Evernote), and a smartphone. But is any of the stuff you already own truly suited to the project on which you are now embarking? Of course it isn't! You need new stuff! Tell yourself it will help you get motivated! For reference, I bought Scrivener, a bunch of imported gel pens, and 5 Moleskine notebooks of various sizes and colors.

2. Realize that you just spent a lot of money on things that will not do the writing FOR you. Get very depressed. (Note: even though these products didn't do the writing for me, they were all instrumental in the work I eventually did. Especially Scrivener, the most amazing piece of software ever written EVER.)

3. Implement a highly regimented and disciplined writing schedule. Make sure it's doable, because you will be sticking to it like a total rock star for about 3 weeks.

4. Miss 1 scheduled hour of writing due to oversleeping, family crisis, illness, car trouble, earthquake, water leak, etc. Have a total breakdown. Approved breakdown activities include: drinking to excess, getting tattoos, doing P90X, quitting your job, streaking at a nationally televised sporting event, making cupcakes and spelling out profanities in the icing, buying a Lady Gaga album, taking up paintball, reading Kafka to the elderly, and crash dieting. Feel free to add whatever feels right to you, provided that you remember to include copious, uncontrollable weeping between activities.

*5. Have an epiphany.* This is the step that saved me; the miraculous moment I went from "total loser" to "total loser who could brag insufferably about having finished something". My epiphany was as follows: "Who the hell ever heard of an hour long sketch show written by a single person? Most sketch shows are only 30 minutes!" Armed with the realization that roughly half of what I wrote was destined for a trash can anyway, I attacked the project with renewed zeal. I stopped nit-picking for quality because for all I knew, the crappy sketch I was writing wouldn't even survive the cull! I got back on my regimented schedule and finished in a little over a week. Now, if you're, say, writing a dissertation, you may not have the luxury of throwing out half of what you write. You'll need to have a different epiphany. Maybe something like, "If I just finish writing this one massive document, I'll be allowed to see my family again!"

6. Reward yourself. I would recommend a vacation of at least 2 weeks, to somewhere you really want to go, with travel companions you really want to be with, and an unlimited budget. But if you're like me and can't afford that, I find that a single glass of wine, a chocolate bar, and MST3K works well too.

Ta-da! Easy peasy! And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to spend literally the rest of my life reveling in my triumph while simultaneously never accomplishing anything ever again.

Note to Self: How to Vacate the Premises, Part II

If you are a person who knows me personally and sees me in person from time to time, please punch me in the face the next time you see me. I deserve it, and it's the only way I'm ever going to learn.

Some of you may recall that I wrote a blog post LIKE, A MONTH AGO in which I outlined all the things that are absolutely imperative to guarantee a good vacation. You MUST get the hell out of town! There MUST be a housekeeping staff! You can NOT travel with your family! These aren't just suggestions; they are incontrovertible scientific truths, like the law of gravity and the fact that only guys I'm *not* attracted to will ever want me! Ignoring these facts is just ASKING to be tortured.

So what did I do?

Well, last Wednesday, I had this conversation with my boss:
BOSS: Man, you're gonna bust your butt this week and then not have anything to do til mid-September!
ME: Hey, you're right. (PAUSE) I'd like next week off, please.
...and then Bikinius, Roman Goddess of Summer Vacays, came down from the heavens and beat me senseless with an inflatable pool toy before stabbing me repeatedly with a decorative plastic cocktail garnish sword. Because I had done it a-flipping-gain.

My brilliant (<--SARCASM!) plan was that I would have Monday thru Wednesday to write, clean up, and relax. Then I'd go to the beach with my parents Wednesday evening and be back on Saturday night, in time to do more writing/cleaning/relaxing over the last half of Labor Day weekend. If you read that other blog post, you'll remember what I said about "staycations" - mainly that they do not exist. If you are at home, you are not on vacation. Period. I said that if you stay home, a hundred bizarre misfortunes will befall you and you will not enjoy one second of it.

So yesterday the new cat sitter was coming over. And rather than give her the impression that my entire home is one big experiment in composting, I decided to clean up. This meant 4 hours of frantic cleaning, scrubbing, folding, sweeping, dusting, etc. By the time she came over, the place was passable. Also, I had injured my back in the process. Badly. We'll call this FAIL #1.

So I spent the rest of the BEAUTIFUL afternoon laying on the couch atop a carefully constructed mountain of pillows and blankets designed for maximum padding of the hurtiest part of my back with an electric hand warmer shoved up the back of my bra for want of a hot water bottle. Livin' the dream. I had done such a good job of engineering my Back Bracing Blankets that I started to think I should just sleep on the couch! I decided I felt like watching something educational, which is how I ended up falling asleep watching a documentary about the Nürnberg Trials. Here's some advice you can have for free: Never, EVER, fall asleep watching ANYTHING holocaust-related. FAIL #2.  When I woke up screaming (and having fallen off my Back Bracing Blankets in the course of fighting the Nazis), I decided maybe I should go to bed after all. And with the aid of powerful narcotics, that's exactly what I did.

This morning I awoke to the news that I will be without a car for most of the next 48 hours, so I and my bad back needed to get the hell up and go shop for supplies. I'm not exactly what you would call a "morning person" anyway, and this news was not helping. Still, I was determined to make the best of it! The shopping itself was pretty uneventful, but on the 5-minute drive home, I had this experience, in this order:
1. A guy in an SUV made a U-turn the wrong way down a one-way street, which meant he was coming directly toward me. I stopped, he realized he was going the wrong way, and started to back up.
2. A guy on a motorcycle going WAY too fast came flying up behind the SUV and just managed to stop before hitting him.
3. When SUV guy reached the bottom of the hill ahead of me, he stopped and did a weird maneuver into another lane. As I approached the bottom of the hill myself, I realized why...
4. A woman in a minivan was slowly and determinedly attempting to make her way up the hill...going the wrong way up a one-way street. Right at me.
For those of you counting at home, that's two narrowly-missed head-on collisions and the near-witnessing of a dead motorcyclist...in a 5-minute drive. I MUST be on a staycation! FAIL #3.

I have to admit, things have been better since I got back home. I mean, I had 2 bowls of Frosted Flakes, so how bad can it be? But I did lose 2 hours searching things like "gothic tiny person creature" trying to get the internet to remind me of a word I had forgotten ("Homunculus"), so it's still kind of a mixed bag.

You Are Encouraged to Quote Me On That

For the last two Christmases, one of my best girlfriends has given me little quote-of-the-day calendars featuring quotes from famous/brilliant/funny/otherwise notable women. A lot of them are truly inspirational and/or entertaining, but every once in a while, there's one that's just kinda patronizing. Or too specific - having never had a single husband, it's hard for me to relate to the "none of my four husbands have had enough money to make me happy" genre. It's dangerous to let the quality of something like that slip, because this will inevitably lead to me thinking I could do it. And that's how I ended up wondering which great Kimberly Welsh truisms will someday be on just such a calendar. Here are the first ten; print 'em out before you have to pay $6.99 to buy them on tiny sheets of rippable paper!

Awesome/Helpful Sayings By Me, As Made Up Right This Very Second, With No Context Whatsoever

1. "Being a female writer is just like being a male writer, except you have to make a big show out of pretending to feel guilty if you eat a whole pizza."
2. "Purse dogs have it so easy. They don't even know."
3. "I just ate a TON of watermelon, and am not in any intestinal distress whatsoever. So I'm declaring that an urban myth and ordering everyone to keep their real or imagined intestinal distress to themselves in the future!"
4. "A person's laugh says a lot about them. For example, if you laugh like Snidely Whiplash, that says, 'I should stop laughing because it's disconcerting to those around me!'"
5. "There is no problem so great that it cannot be solved by a footlong mayo and provolone sandwich on french bread, washed down with a pint of NyQuil."
6. "Do you work in an inhumane cubicle environment? Why not try stabbing your eardrums with thumbtacks?"
7. "In the battle for the Most Adorable Version of the Twitter bird, Twitterrific has pecked out the eyeballs of its competition*!"
8. "I resent the implication that just because I am staggeringly gorgeous, I cannot also be funny."
9. "Sometimes people say things and I'm like, 'HUH?!?!?'"
10. "Soap is the worst breakup consolation gift. And yet two different people have presented me with soap on the occasion of two different breakups. What is that about? I mean, yeah, I was depressed, but I hadn't stopped bathing, for God's sake!"


*But Tweetcaster is a far superior application, just so we're clear.

The Kwerky Guide to... Car Service!

I’m writing this post in an actual car service center, so you know I’ve done my research this time. For once.

Until 2 years ago, the car I drove technically belonged to my parents. And since my parents are not complete morons, they also took responsibility for making sure it got all the necessary service in a timely manner. But then I bought a nearly-new car from them, and now I have to maintain it myself. I don’t mean I physically lie down on the ground and change oil - AS IF. I mean I do this:

Step 1: Realize you are roughly 1,000 miles overdue for whatever service you’re supposed to have. This step is crucial. If you don’t do this, you’ll never get to step 2. But don't worry - even if you miss it, you'll get helpful hints like your dad saying, "Hey - what's the mileage on your car now?" And then you'll say, "You're just asking because you think I don't KNOW because I'm not paying attention and it's overdue for service! I am an adult now, dad." (NOTE: you have no idea what the mileage is, but you're pretty sure it's waaaaaay overdue for service. It usually is.) Another helpful hint will be if your car explodes.

Step 2: Make an appointment for the appropriate service. You can do this one of 2 ways. The first is to call, which means you have to talk to a person, but it also means the appointment gets made pretty quickly. The second is to go online, which means you get to avoid talking to a person AND you get to yell at a computer AND the appointment may not even go through. Naturally, I opt for the latter option every time. Take this morning, for instance, when the booking software wasn’t working properly. The only way to get through the seven-step booking process was: complete step 1 --> go back to the home screen --> return to the booking screen --> complete steps 1 and 2 --> go back to the home screen --> return to the booking screen --> complete steps 1, 2, and 3 --> go back to the home screen... I booked an appointment 29 minutes from the time I started this process. By the time I confirmed it, I had 10 minutes to get to the service center. Web-based booking + my stubborn refusal to use telephones = Convenience!

Step 3: Argue with condescending jerks who aren’t listening to you. I might need to mention here that I’m a girl, though I realize some guys get similar treatment in these situations. And in addition to being a girl, I have the further disadvantage of having a decorative Georgia Tech plate on the front bumper of my car. It’s not mine; it’s a remnant from when the car belonged to my mom. But since I couldn’t care less one way or the other, it’s still there.

For those of you who don’t live in Georgia (or indeed in the US): Georgia Tech and the University of Georgia have a longstanding and very intense rivalry that I have never understood since it seems like UGA always wins the stupid football game which, as it happens, is another thing I don’t care about. But there is apparently a strictly enforced law stating that every mechanic or “Car Service Advisor” in the state has to be a UGA fan. Lucky me.

So when I pull into the service center bay, I’m greeted by my friendly Car Service Advisor, and the conversation goes a little something like this...

HIM: Good morning!

ME: Morning!

HIM: What can we do for you today?

ME: I have a 10:30 appointment for...

HIM: WHOA! Let me guess! You came in to have that nasty Tech plate taken off, right? Heh heh heh. We can take care of that for you.

ME: Yeah, ha ha. No, actually, I came in for an oil change. I have an appointment. 10:30? Under “Welsh”?

HIM: OK, yeah. We’ll do you an oil change...and we can replace that Tech plate with a UGA plate at no additional charge.

ME: No thanks.

HIM: If you leave the Tech plate on there, we might have to charge you extra! Ha ha!

ME: Actually, that’s my mom’s. I graduated from UGA.

HIM: Oh yeah? GO DAWGS!

ME: Right. I don’t care about football. I just need my oil changed, PLEASE. And I was also wondering if you could clean the air ducts? Terrifying demons sometimes come out of the vents and spit acid on my face*.

HIM: Oh yeah. Uh-huh, sure, we can do that. And we’ll put a UGA tag on the front free of charge!

*Obviously I’ve never had this exact problem - my car's maker is known for its commitment to demonic possession-resistance - but I usually have some additional request, ranging from a car wash to getting the front seats vacuumed to having them change the actual, state-issued, DMV license plate on the back bumper. My point here is that it doesn’t matter what I said, because he hasn’t heard a word of it.

At this point, it’s time to sigh loudly and follow him into the office part for the hard sell.

HIM: It says here you haven’t gotten your [insert any number here]-mile check yet!

ME: Indeed I have not.

HIM: Did you want to do that today? Here’s a list of the services included [hands me a volume roughly the length of Gone With the Wind, but mostly including things like “Test Bass Levels in Speakers” and “Polish Shift Nob”].

ME: Uh-huh. And how much is that?

HIM: $300.

ME: That’s OK.

HIM: [Makes Disappointed Paternal Face at me, even though he’s at least 2 years my junior.] Really? Because it’s pretty important. If you don’t get this service, there is a very real risk that your car will spontaneously disassemble itself in the middle of a busy intersection during rush hour. What if that happens on a day when you have an appointment to get your nails done? Or your roots touched up?

ME: I’m willing to take that chance.

I always say something relatively polite, but what I'd like to say is: “Really? This car that your company makes and sells is such a massive piece of crap that you are absolutely certain that even now it is developing a serious issue that will inconvenience and possibly kill me? It’s THAT bad? I mean, it’s not even 5 years old, it has well under 50,000 miles on it, your technicians are the ONLY people who have ever touched the engine, and even so, you have zero confidence in its ability to safely convey me from here to the street? Wow, what a horrible piece of unreliable junk! Don’t worry; I’ll notify the Better Business Bureau that your employer is knowingly selling lemons. Alternatively, you could just do what I asked you to do and stop trying to scaremonger your way into a commission.” But I digress [often and with great enthusiasm].

HIM: [Sighing with grave concern for my safety] Alright, if you’re sure. So just an oil change. That comes to...

ME: ...an oil change AND an exorcism, remember? The acid-spitting demons? I mentioned them outside not 3 minutes ago?

HIM: Oh right, and the exorcism. Oil change and an exorcism...$50. Should be about an hour.

ME: Great.

Step 4: The waiting room. I actually really like car service waiting rooms. They're generally pretty quiet, they almost all have wifi now, and there's free coffee! Sometimes doughnuts too! It's like Starbucks minus the obnoxious yuppies! I get a lot of writing done in car service waiting rooms.

Step 5: Coughing up. This is the part where the same guy you argued with before takes you back to his little stand-up desk. He could say any number of things - he might let you off scot-free, might try to convince you there's more work to be done, might try to sell you an entirely different car. Your job here is to firmly but politely extend your card and continue to hold it in his face until he swipes it through the damn reader and gives you the keys.

Step 6: Car Hunt! Your car will have been parked somewhere on the premises of this here car dealership, which is basically like a huge parking lot except that it has a much higher than average percentage of "cars that look exactly like yours". (Always wear comfortable shoes). Once you find your car, it's time to assess the work. You have to take their word for it that the oil was changed, but what about the demons? Are they gone? Get in, turn the key and find out! Ah, I can almost hear the acid burning through your face right now. But I bet you don't have a Tech plate on the front bumper anymore, do you? It's all about priorities.

(I would like to stress that my car is well looked-after, contrary to what you might think based on the above. It's just that all the real services they perform at various mileages are things I get done regularly at non-dealership locations. I do endorse regular maintenance and preventive care. I just don't take kindly to commissioned salesmen foisting unnecessary, overpriced car care at me.)

Note to Self: How To Vacate The Premises

It is now mid-July, the traditional time of year for getting the hell out of Dodge, and I have so far made not one but two failed attempts to do so. In both cases, I  did technically leave, but that's about the only thing I did right. If it had only happened once, I'd say fair enough, we all make mistakes. Now that I've done it twice, it's time for some tough love. I need to spell this out for myself, as if I were 5.

#1: LEAVE.
The much-vaunted "staycation", so often cited as a wonderful option in the current economic climate, is a myth. It does not exist. If you "stay", you will not manage to "cation". Period. Ants will appear in the cat food bowl and you'll lose a whole day to "staying", certainly, but also "waiting for the pest control man to show up between 8 and 5". That is not a "cation", by any definition of that half-word. Or maybe you don't have a cat, which is why your car battery will die. Or maybe you don't drive, in which case: I hope you get over that nasty case of strep throat quickly! Or maybe you are the picture of health. Congratulations! You have a week off and you're ready to take on the world! Oh - except that you had to tell some little white lies to a few people so you could get out of certain social obligations, and now you get to think twice (or many more times than that) before leaving the house, visiting favorite haunts, or saying anything on social media that might make it clear that you aren't, in fact, at a funeral. Enjoy!

All I'm saying is I've done the research in my own lab, and the only way you will manage to forget all the crap that irritates you on a daily basis is to put as much physical distance between it and yourself as humanly possible. And don't stay with friends or family either. Go somewhere with a housekeeping staff, for God's sake.

#2. Travel with no more than one (1) other person with whom you share no DNA.
I have a great family, I really do. They're funny and smart and supportive and amazing. But I don't need to bring 32 years of love, heartache, resentments, arguments, losses, triumphs, memories, and other assorted drama on vacation; that's what Christmas is for. What I need to bring on vacation is my Kindle, my iPod, and a valid ID for booze acquisition. Of course, it can sometimes be fun to travel with a friend or significant other, but it's important to do your due diligence before buying those non-refundable tickets! To help you out, I've made a handy-dandy flowchart. Follow teal lines to answer yes, maroon lines to answer no.

(click to enlarge)

I've had some major successes and minor flops following the above advice, but at least you know it will prevent any major flops. Of course, you'll still have issues of mix tapes and how much Mexican food constitutes "too much Mexican food", but you'll just have to use your common sense to resolve those. Alternatively, you could...

#3. Go alone.
I've never traveled solo, but it seems like a more attractive option with each passing year. And since my latest return from a frazzled, nonstop, crammed-car FAILcation, I've taken an interest in the corner of the travel market geared toward people like me - hip, happening, childless thirtysomethings who need to unwind! From what I've seen, the places that cater to my niche fall into three categories:
a) Healthy Low-Fat Spa Retreats on beaches or, more commonly, in deserts. If you care about this category, you're reading the wrong blog. Eating twigs in the desert is NOT a vacation. Next!
b) Couples-friendly Resorts. Ugh. As you might have guessed by the name, this place is basically aimed at baby-talking kissy-faced couples. They have a wide variety of accommodations, and they all have names like "Romeo & Juliet Suite", "Tristan & Isolde Suite", "Harry & Sally Suite", or "Cupid's Poison Arrow Lovesick Vomitorium". I mean, I probably could enjoy myself at one of these places...provided I plucked my eyeballs out with thumbtacks and crammed whole quilts into my ears before the plane made its final descent.
c) Singles-friendly Resorts. OH DEAR GOD. Judging by their websites, these places are built on the premise that all single adults have the following things in common:

• We are exhibitionist nymphomaniacs who want to spend our evenings playing live game shows with names like "America's Next Top Anal Porn Star"
• We don't much care about food, so long as there is a LOT of booze around
• When we aren't having casual sex, we need a wide variety of clichéd vacation activities like parasailing and mountain biking, presumably so we never have a moment to feel old and alone (which is the only thing we really have in common, or so think the PR people)
• We still think we're on MTV's Spring Break 1991

As with the second category, you might think I could go to one of these places and just refrain from participating in that which does not interest me. But every time I try to envision it, I see a week's worth of me sitting at a beach or by a pool, reading a book while being interrupted every 5 minutes by some person or group of persons propositioning me either for sex or to round out an Ultimate Frisbee Team, both of which sound equally unappealing. Then I would go back to my room in the evening and be kept up all night by the strange and disturbing sounds in literally every adjoining room. No thanks. 

Why isn't there a 4th category? Like The Quiet, Child-Free Resort for People Who Just Want to Read, Sleep, Get Drunk, and Be Left The Hell Alone? Instead of a name like "Hedonism", you could call it "Retired Librarians"! I guarantee you I would go there every year for a month.

NVNQ: Is it not me, but you or not you, but me?

Breakups are always difficult, whether you're the dumper or the dumpee. You lose your free meal ticket, you have no one to watch TV with, and worst of all: no more built-in designated driver. But the dumpee does have one unique issue to grapple with: the question of whether it's his or her own fault they got dumped. We've all had the sleepless nights where we stare at the ceiling and wonder where, or indeed if, we went wrong. Fortunately I've devised this quick quiz, based on years and years of unsuccessful relationships, to help you sort it out.

1. How often did you tell your partner how you felt, in explicit, vivid language?

a) daily

b) weekly

c) every time I had gas

d) once when I was drunk

2. When watching TV with your partner, where did you sit?

a) in his lap

b) closely snuggled up on the couch with a glass of wine

c) in the next room, where I couldn't hear her breathing all the damn time

d) in the closet, where his wife wouldn't see me

3. How did you and your partner resolve conflicts?

a) by way of rational, feelings-based communication, sometimes with the help of a counselor

b) as calmly and quietly as possible, once the police left

c) cage match

d) I dunno. I just left immediately.

4. When your partner was out of town, how did you entertain yourself?

a) by writing poems and emails to my partner

b) reading, catching up with friends

c) 2 words: porn marathon

d) no idea; I was blackout drunk for the whole relationship

5. Did you get along with your partner's family?

a) absolutely! I shopped with mom, golfed with dad, scheduled regular spa days with sis...

b) for the most part.

c) hell yeah! I got along REALLY well with her sister, if you know what I mean! High five!

d) nah. They were in a different cell block, so I never met 'em.

6. Did you ever struggle with jealousy in your relationship?

a) all the time. Not trying to be unreasonable, but that checkout girl was SO after my man!

b) All of my exes died mysteriously shortly after we met, so it was never an issue.

c) nope. We just cheated on each other every time to even the score.

d) nope. She was locked in the basement. Jealousy problems resolved!

SCORING: The moment of truth! Is it you, or is it them?

Mostly A: It's you, you clingy psycho.

Mostly B: It's you. You aren't ready for this jelly. 

Mostly C: It's you, you insensitive jerk.
Mostly D: It's you, you thoughtless moron.

The Kwerky Guide to...Dog Ownership!

I've been working on an "About Me" page for 4 weeks now, but making no progress whatsoever. Had I been a little more dedicated to that project, you would already know that I have a cat, and that I used to have a dog...until she passed away 2 years ago. To give you some idea of how nauseatingly much I loved my dog: her name was Sunshine.

You are my Sunshiiiiiine, My only Sunshiiiiiiine...

I make a point of telling you how much I loved my dog because you will probably doubt my love for her when I tell you that throughout her life, I consistently and continuously made the heartless, soulless, horrific, abusive choice always to keep her on a leash when she wasn't in her own yard.

Oh wait - did I say "heartless, soulless, horrific, abusive..."? I meant to say "responsible, safe, potentially life-saving, entirely-BECAUSE-I-loved-her...".

Let me walk you through my thought process on this: "Hm. Sunshine is very sweet, and pretty smart, but she does not understand how cars work, or that there are evil people in the world who might want to hurt her, or that some other dogs are not friendly and well-intentioned. As I do understand these things, and don't want her to fall victim to any of them, and live in an urban area where all are plentiful, I need to find some way to tether her to myself so that I can be in charge of any car-, person-, or other dog-related decision-making. BUT HOW?!?!?"

Me 'n Sunshine at the beach, 2005. I'm the one holding the LEASH.

Sunshine in the snow, 2008. Sorry if the LEASH ruins the picture.

Obviously, some dogs don't need leashes, depending on their level of obedience and/or where they live -  if you live on a farm in the country, that's one thing. But here in the land of highways and shopping malls, there are leash laws. For a reason. Even so, my neighborhood has recently seen a marked increase in people who buy wallet-sized dogs and categorically refuse to restrain them in any way, shape or form.

THIS DRIVES ME INSANE.

They are forever darting out of open gates, racing across busy roads, and evacuating their digestive tracts all over the place. This is not how we own dogs, people. It just isn't. And my patience with this reached its ultimate end last night, when I found myself charged with an unexpected houseguest.

Who you callin' Scruffy?

Scruffy here was wandering around along a busy street when I went to get my pizza last night. When he narrowly missed being flattened by the car in front of me, he was invited to join me on the pizza run.

Who DOESN'T want to go on a pizza run?

Fortunately, Scruffy is very well-looked after, has a tag with a phone number on it, and is so well-behaved it's absurd, so I'm sure he will be home safely as soon as his family calls me back. In the meantime, I am back in the dog-owning game! I couldn't bear to part with Sunshine's LEASH after she died, so I've been using that to walk him. And I find it ironic that even though I am technically not a dog owner at all, I'm still the most responsible dog owner in this neighborhood. But now I have better ammo against the idiots. Take last night's pre-bedtime potty run, for example:

A dog comes running into the dog walk, seemingly unaccompanied, and races at Scruffy and I. A few seconds later, a drunk, half-naked frat boy wanders out after him, half-heartedly apologizing and saying, "Stop. Peanut*. No. Come back. Seriously, come back. Peanut, come back." To the surprise of absolutely no one whatsoever, this was ineffective. It seems Peanut needs to review his lessons for the slurred "Seriously, come back" command. He was supposed to think, "Hark! My Master has summoned me back to him, and is apologizing to this unfamiliar human for reasons I don't yet understand! I'd best return to his side and await further instruction!" Instead, he thought, "I'M A DOG! THIS IS ANOTHER DOG! I SMELL PEE! LET'S BARK!" But he and Scruffy were getting along fine, so I didn't create any drama that would upset them. When Frat Boy finally realized his drunk ass was gonna have to come over and GET the dog, he walked up and said, "It's OK - he's really friendly." I put on my most vacant expression (ACTRESS POWER!), looked him in the eye and said, "He seems like it! I just found this dog on the road, so I don't know if he's friendly or not. Actually - you're a dog owner and I'm not, so maybe you can help me? His fur is so white that I can't tell - IS he frothing at the mouth? I noticed he didn't have a rabies tag..." Exeunt Frat Boy, pursued by the thought that his irresponsible behavior might have consequences.
*Dog's name has been changed, as it's not his fault he's with Stupid.


Of course this also illustrates my other point, which is that obedience training has come a long way since Sunshine was a puppy. We only taught her (OK fine: tried to teach her) the usual boring stuff like "sit", "stay", "come", and "heel"*. But based on what I've seen lately, today's dogs are learning PhD-level obedience, featuring commands such as:

"CHILL."
"Where are you going? Don't go over there. I said stop. Come on!"
"Leave that dog alone. You don't know that dog! Why are you doing this?"
"Get out of my face; I'm on the phone."

If only "CHILL" had been a command while I still had Sunshine. Things would've been so much easier.
*Note: she never truly mastered any of these, but it wasn't much of a problem since you can make a dog do whatever you want...so long as it's on a LEASH.


But I can't say I've ever seen any of these commands work effectively. The dogs just seem really confused. For that matter, so do the people. Their dogs literally never do what they're supposed to do, when they're supposed to do it, where they're supposed to do it. And these people are at their wits' end! How can they guarantee their pets' safety and security if they can't keep them from darting out into traffic, or frolicking with potentially rabid playmates? If you are struggling with these issues, then this post was for you. I have the answer you've been looking for:

$2.14 on amazon.com. Seriously. I will buy the damn thing FOR you.

If you get one of these handy contraptions, all of your problems will be solved! Peanut CAN'T dart into traffic without your permission! You can maneuver him out of the path of rabid strays! And you can funnel your beer, break up with your girlfriend on the phone, or puke drunkenly into the bushes without worrying that you might turn around to find that your pet/accessory has vanished! And perhaps most importantly: you can avoid unsightly welts. Because once Scruffy's family has fetched him, I'm going to start carrying the LEASH around with me all the time. And if I catch you pulling this unleashed-dog nonsense again, I might just whip you with it.

Apologies for grouchiness and/or disjointed writing. Unfamiliar dog = very little sleep, no matter how well-behaved he is.

I'm Just Not That Into You

You know what really honks me off? When guys try to give me unsolicited relationship advice. I'm sure it sounds like a very unlikely problem to have, but that just proves you know nothing about my life. Because I get a lot of unsolicited relationship advice from guys. A lot.

I first noticed the problem a few months ago, while talking to a guy I had known for roughly 10 minutes. We were going to be working together, so we were chatting and trying to establish a rapport. And then this happened...

ME: It's hard to meet people, though. There aren't that many good guys out there!

HIM: Yes there are! You're just too picky, that's your problem. You have guys falling all over themselves trying to get with you, and you reject them because they're too this or too that. All your dating problems would be solved if you'd just give them a chance!

ME: (stunned silence)

I'd like to stress that I'd known this guy for 10 minutes. Literally. And in that 600 fleeting seconds, not one guy had interrupted us to throw himself at my feet, nor had there been a single instance of me waving my hand dismissively at a perfectly good prospect while yelling "BLECH! Get him out of my sight!" So I will be forever baffled by this perfect stranger's ability to get to the root of a years-old problem in a matter of seconds and with no evidence to support his position whatsoever.

Except of course that I'm not baffled at all. Because he was doing what all guys seem to be doing: projecting their relationship issues and every rejection they've ever suffered onto me. There are women all over the world walking around without a care in the world while I listen to the charges against them being read over and over. It's the same reason I've been told I should give fat guys, old guys, smokers, convicted felons, frat boys, guys 10 years my junior, divorcés, and Republicans a chance: because invariably, the guy doling out these pearls of wisdom is (or perceives himself to be): fat, old, a smoker, a convicted felon, a frat guy, 10 years younger than me, divorced, or a Republican. And that's fine. But he has to understand that him thinking he knows why I'm not interested is not the same as him knowing why I'm not interested. For example:

Let's say there's a guy who's overweight, watches Jersey Shore, collects football jerseys, and listens to Jason Mraz. And he says I should "give fat guys a chance". Fine, maybe I should. For all he knows, maybe I do. But I can think of three other Very Good Reasons not to date this particular guy, and his extemporaneous persuasive speech on Why I Should Sleep With Him has failed to address any of them. Naturally, he will walk away thinking I am biased against overweight people. And if that helps him cope with the rejection, that's fair enough. But I'll tell you this much: excess weight can be lost. Jersey Shore is forever.

Why is it not OK that I'm just not interested? I've certainly had my share of rejections, and 100% of them have been related, on some level, to the guy simply not being interested. That's not fun or pleasant, and sure it hurts, but it's a sufficient excuse. I don't have to make it into a deep psychological issue on his end. And I certainly don't go up to every subsequent guy that turns my head saying, "You know what your problem is? You reject a girl even if she's only been charged with prostitution once, and even if the charges were dropped on the grounds of entrapment!"

The thing is, attraction is a very inexact science. In my case, I find that if I look at a guy and say, "Wow. That is a WEIRD-looking dude," I can safely estimate that I'll have a crush on him within a week. I don't know why. And yes, "nice guys" of the world, it is entirely true that just being a nice guy is not enough to get you a date. But as a public service, I'll also let you in on a little secret: the more you use the phrase "nice guy" to describe yourself, the more suspicious women become that you are in fact NOT a nice guy at all, but rather a very very bitter guy who feels that you are entitled to the undying love of a supermodel on the grounds of your "nice"-ness. It has not escaped my notice that most guys who list themselves as such on dating sites also have the same ridiculous list of "What I'm Looking For" requirements as their presumably less-nice counterparts: Slender, at least 8 years younger than they are, never married, no kids, preferably blonde, etc. Call me crazy, but I'd bet that he just eliminated an awful lot of "nice girls" in one fell swoop.

And that's the thing, guys-who-want-to-give-me-unnecessarily-aggressive-dating-advice: you've probably been guilty of passing over someone for a superficial reason at some point. We've all done it, we've all been the victim of it, and we've all continued to do it anyway. It's not you, it's me. No wait - it's not me, it's you. No wait, it's not you or me; it's just that I don't like you like that. Move on.