You want a relationship? Ironic. So do I. Did I just say that?

It's time to get down and dirty. You'll need to pop a bag of cheap light butter popcorn and put your cellphone on phone calls only. Check, and check. And then occasionally look out the window where your sexually frustrated dog is digging a hole by a tree. Check.

And now curse me for bringing up my dogs again! in a post that has nothing to do with them.

I joked to one of my friends last weekend that if I had to secure a date to save my life, I would die, in much the same way that running for my life is an oximoron because in no universe could I ever run fast or hard enough to save myself. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't try. I would stop, assume the fetal position, cry and maybe beg for mercy. I say maybe, because my tears would probably convey begging for mercy and we wouldn't want to be renundant now, would we? Besides, who wants to deal with a crying woman? Alright, maybe a bear, or a mountain lion.

So, you know, I'm single as the day is long. And I love my life. I genuinely absofreakinlutely love my simple bleach-the-dog-bowls-fill-the-bird-feeder-water-the-garden-walk-two-miles-work-my-ass-off life. It's the one I want.

And then, maybe two weeks ago, I decided I wanted something else. A relationship. You might wonder how you decide you want that. Are you ordering Starbucks and think, "Eh, I'd like a relationship with that." Are you on Craigslist one night and it dawns on you, "Who cares about vintage lamp shades and retro dining room tables - I want a relationship!" Or are you grilling salmon and veggies and as quietly as the breeze floats by, something stirs...hmmm, it'd be nice to share this with someone.

I don't remember how it dawned on me, and before you think this has a predictable ending, I can assure you this story does not. But there it was one day. This awareness that perhaps after all these years (and yes, I'm old enough to use that expression) and all this time of growing emotionally and healing spiritually and discovering life's journey and Googling a bunch of shit that I missed out on because I was a nomad most of my life - "so you have no recollection of, like, Michael Jackson?" "My first memory of MJ was during his trial and then when he died." Shocked silence - that now feels like the right time to add another human to the mix.

That sounds like I'm having a kid. I am not.

Operation Holly Needs a Date launched a long time ago.

"Holly, there's this guy, his name's Greg. You have to meet him."
And then two days later, "Oh my god, Holly, remember that guy Greg I wanted to hook you up with? Turns out he's a con artist, he's embezzled a bunch of money, and he's gay."

"Oh, I know who you'd like. My cousin Justin." I'd prefer no one in your gene pool.

"I've got it. Todd. Great guy, he lives with his mom."

The operation's been a semi-covert one for awhile, but now I've boarded that choo-choo train.

After-work dinners with friends have turned into episodes of Tough Love.

I've been instructed. "Okay, when you're on your way to the bathroom, you have to walk through the bar area. Walk with your shoulders straight and your head up. Make eye contact."

Scolded. "Holly, that guy totally checked you out, but you weren't paying attention."

Admonished. "You have to look approachable. Be friendly."
"But I am friendly."
"You're unapproachable."

Critiqued. "The boy sitting next to you was so into you, he was doing everything he could. But you were oblivious."
"I was talking!"
"Yeah, but not the right things. The problem was you were both too shy." 

Advised. "Playing with your dogs in the river is great, but the people you might meet there are most likely undesirable old fishermen."

So I've been thumb-wrestling with myself, because let's face it. Finding a date is like digging a ditch. It's manual labor and it sucks. Plus, I'm a traditionalist in many ways; women shouldn't be digging ditches, men should. Translation: you should ask me.

(Possible) Roadblock #1: You are afraid of me. I'm bossy, sarcastic, unintentionally rude sometimes and shy.

(Possible) Roadblock #2: I am afraid of you and my lack of experience, which could quite possibly mess this whole thing up. 

(Possible) Roadblock #3: I'm not likely to 'get' any of your subtle advances. You're better off to just come out and say how you really feel or what you really want, otherwise we run the risk of me missing every possible clue and then you think I'm totally uninterested and I think you're rude.

(Possible) Roadblock #4: My eye is on the prize even if the prize is a green and red pepper which I will use to add color to my planned vegetable dish. I'm not thinking "Cute-guy alert in the veggie aisle." I'm one-track-minding my way to a plastic baggie to put my peppers in.

Exception to the Rule: You should ask me, but that doesn't mean you will. So I'll fill in the blanks for you. I don't do that for everyone.

Exception to the Exception to the Rule: I still think you should ask me, and the fact that you don't makes me think that me asking you could be a waste of both of our time, because don't forget - I'm shy. Asking you for a dance (because I really, really love dancing) is by far the scariest experience of my life, and I've glided before. Do you know what gliding is? It's flying in an engineless airplane. So humor me with a dance.

(Your) Solution #1: Hit me over the head with a 2x4. That's likely what it will take to get my attention.

(My) Solution #1: Read the naughty books some of my friends have. I might learn something.

And then fundamentally, at the bottom (or is it the top?) of what I've made a convoluted mess, is my mantra: live your life right now. Not the one yesterday or the one tomorrow, but the one you have right now.

The truth is that although I might be kinda/sorta ready for a relationship, I'm not in one. My life right now is single as the day is long, it's beautifully simple, and crafted to fit me. It's not that there isn't room for one more, it's that there isn't one more right now.

So, I'm ready.

Eye contact. Check.
Attention on men who check me out. Check.
Approachable. Check.
Flirty. Half-check.
Play somewhere else besides the river. Developing check.
Dig a proverbial ditch. Check.

Despite all that, you're probably still going to need a 2x4. Or at the very least, be prepared to stand in my full-steam ahead path and flag me down.

Don't worry. I'll come to a screeching halt for you, the right one at the right time to live our right-now kind of life.

In the meantime...well, I think you can probably guess.

sexual tension

Hormones are raging at the Cottage, the least of which are mine.

Actually, mine shouldn't even be mentioned in light of the breed-me-NOW! debacle I'm managing. And by managing, I mean crating-everyone-and-leaving-the-house ASAP, because I can't hardly handle the sexual tension that's exploded in the Cottage.

So yes, as you might have guessed, Skye's in heat. Well, she's in the horny-I-thought-you-were-an-annoyance-but-now-I-realize-you-have-a-penis stage of her heat cycle, the same cycle that started nine days late and threw off my breeding plans. It's also the one that sparked dog-sex education discussions between me and nearly all of my friends.

Actually, I don't think one friend has been left unscathed from the "Okay, so a dog's heat cycle is three weeks long. The first week you don't know about it, the second week they're bleeding and the third week their vulva becomes swollen and engorged and that's when you can breed them" conversations that have been exchanged in multiple states and via text, cell phone, and over lunch in the break room.

There has probably never been a more publicized period.

And this one, like all the others, will come and go and result in no puppies. That's right, no babies for us anytime soon. That's what happens when you're late, Skye. No hanky-panky for you.

Convincing her of this (and Tuck, no less!) is a chore, and today was the first day of separation.

I could tell last night (as all responsible dog-moms can) that if puppy love were to be consummated, it would be this weekend, and since Cupid isn't shooting any arrows near our Cottage, I knew I'd have to enforce division starting today. And lasting about a week.

Let the torture begin. For all of us.

For Skye, because she's a little bit of whore and unlike some whores, she physiologically can't help it. Here's your dog-sex education fact of the day: bitches want it as bad as studs. And in the cases of every female I've owned, they want it worse.

For Tuck, because everything in him is telling him to do one thing. And he can't.

For me, because my job is to mitigate sexual emotions and make sure no accidents happen. I'm not wallowing in dog-pity because I'm a hard-ass and saying, "No, you shall not have sex!" is just another day in the life of. What I am wallowing in is self-pity because for all of their awesomeness and intelligence, no amount of screaming German commands can deter what nature's begging.

And we've come full circle. I crate everyone and leave the hormonally-crazed Cottage as soon as possible.

frustration in a shower rod and lovers in a river

My shower curtain and rod are laying on the floor of my shower mocking me. I couldn't get the damn thing back up after it fell after I tried to drape a towel over it after I'd rinsed off after taking the dogs to the lake.

I cursed and then dropped it. I don't need a shower tonight anyway. I'll worry about it tomorrow.

Perhaps this is as sexist and subsequently as offensive as a man saying, "Gosh, I'm hungry. I wish a woman were here to cook something for me," but I'm going to say it - I wish a man were here to hang my shower rod for me.

I'm tired. I'm hungry. I don't feel good. Hell, I'd even take a handy woman at this point.
And so now I'm officially whining.

But I don't wanna hang my shower rod.

And then I would tell my two-year-old self, "Life is really rough, isn't it? Suck it up."

Before the shower rod frustration, I was reflecting on what a great summer routine the dogs and I have established for ourselves.

For the past week after I've arrived home, I've donned my water shoes, shorts and a tank top, outfitted them with collars and leashes and packed their toy, and struck out for the river. Now that Tuck has learned to swim, he can't get enough of it. I tuck my phone in my bra, wade in to about thigh-deep and watch them romp and swim around me.

I have to alternate between the two of them fetching their toy or else all hell will break loose in the water. Tuck sits watchfully by my side while Skye retrieves the toy three times, but when I switch them out and she's restrained and he's fetching, you'd think I was killing her.

Tonight it was just us and then while the dogs were out swimming, a young couple walked by.

"Are they lovers?" asked one of them.

Um, heck yes, my dogs are lovers. Why else are they swimming together in the river at near-sunset?

By the time we get home, they're a bit more tired. I stake them out in the yard so they can dry off a bit, I step in the kitchen, strip my shorts off, shower off my legs, and go outside to pick my first batch of green beans for dinner. Before long dinner will be over, the dogs will be inside eating theirs, and we'll fall asleep sooner than later because this dog-momma's tired.

These are good summer nights.

Shower rod and all.

the art of raising

I can't say I've raised children, because I haven't. Well, not in the cradle-to-the-grave sense of the word "raising." But I've done a lot of nurturing, we'll call it, so parents, don't be offended when I draw some comparisons between my 10-month old 80-pound German shepherd and your 2-year old 25ish-pound kid.

Everything Skye likes, notices, does is 150 times more interesting than anything he could be doing at any moment.

Peeing in private is nearly impossible without worrying about what he's chewing up, or having a big German shepherd head peak around the corner, or in Skye's case, come in and jump on my lap.

Little victories are occasion for magnificent celebration. "That's a good boy to come when you're called!" and you would have thought he was the first man on the moon. Or, dog. And then in the very next breath, an exasperated, "really?!" and I try to reattach the sprinkler head to the watering can that he just drug off through the yard.

There isn't a lot of down time when Tuck is on the loose. I become a human vacuum, following behind his every footstep and picking up the messes he makes.

I say "no" a lot.

I also say, "Tuck, that is TOO rough. She doesn't want you on top of her and you're hurting her."

When I think about it, I say a lot of things to him.

"Tuck, there are two bowls in this house and you can't eat out of both of them at the same time. Let her have one."

"Tuck, I know you're excited, but jumping on me is not acceptable."

"Tuck, you're such a good swimmer!"

"Tuck, do NOT chew the dustpan."

"Tuck, get that out of your mouth. And do not take any more books off the bookcase."

"Tuck, if you start that, you can go in your room."

Every dog has challenged me in different ways, and he's no exception. He's a lumbering oaf, he's (accidentally) bitten me, knocked me over and chewed a Blackberry and two pairs of glasses.

But he's a quick learner who wants to please and the bond between him and I is physically noticable. Yes, he's brash and rough and he doesn't know how to control his puppy energy inside his massive body, but when he's sleeping, he's adorable. And when he's tired, he's calm. And when he nuzzles my hand to be pet, I pet him, and when he wants to lick my face, I let him. And when he grabs a stick, which is attached to a tree branch and takes off running with it, I laugh.

And when he disconnects my Internet I might yell a little bit. And for the umpteenth time: leave my flip-flop alone.

Please.

Book Review: The First Husband

Reading The First Husband by Laura Dave was like reading dialogue between my best friend and I. Dave's ability to capture the exchanges between two women is impeccable, and I can only hope that every woman is as lucky as I am to have those kinds of relationships as exemplified by Annie Adams.

OK, so I know that's not the point of the book, but it's worth noting.

This book is an easy read and perfect for a summer get-away, but don't expect to solve great mysteries or unravel an unpredictable plot. It's classic in the way that you would expect love stories to be- girl gets heart broken, girl meets boy, boy saves the day, girl and boy fall in love, ex-boy is lurking, and an eventual (predictable) choice is made.

What saves the novel is Dave's savvy writing and her ability to paint pictures with words. You're not just reading; you're in the scene.

I could relate to Annie Adams and the challenge issued to her by her best friend (be the opposite of you!) because I challenge myself to the same thing...sometimes. What if I took a chance? What if I did the opposite of what I've always done? Will the results be the same, different? Will I be more satisfied? Sometimes I think it's worth checking out.

To join in the Blogher discussion, visit: http://www.blogher.com/bookclub/now-reading-first-husband.

I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.

Family drama, cleaning closets and no meat



It's been three months since I stopped eating meat and I don't miss it. I haven't noticed any super changes in my body or in the way I feel (good or bad), but I do believe not introducing the process chemicals into my system is good. I'm up to walking nearly 2 miles every day and eat a lot more fresh things.

I'm blessed and fortunate to have friends with great fashion taste who clean their closets. Don't ever think you're too old for hand-me-downs (you're totally not). I Facebook status'd the other day about a great dress I was wearing and someone wanted a picture. This isn't the dress, but an outfit I wore the other day. When people say, "Oh, that is sooo cute, where did you get that?" I definitely don't say, "My friend's closet."

Family drama is moving at the speed of family drama. I'm sad, resigned and glad to be in the place I'm in - as far removed as I can get. That's a different place for me to be in. I'm always the fixer, the mediator, the negotiator, but not this time. My reaction is the same one I'd have to road kill ("I'm not touching that with a ten-foot pole.") It doesn't mean I don't feel the losses or the ripple effects. It just means I'm under no obligation or illusion that I can make any of it better.

I wish I would've counted the times I said "Tuck, no! Fooey!" this morning before 7. I got tired of hearing my own voice. And then I start pleading, "C'mon, buddy, we had a good vacation together. Let's keep it up." But not when there's flip-flops to chew and food to grab, Skye to wrestle too rough with and table legs to chew on. Everyone wanted to know how he did on the 2,028 mile trip. He did great! I'm lucky that all my dogs have LOVED to travel and view the back of my car as their space. 

Skye missed me. She didn't miss Tuck, though.

I brought home some really great vintage things for the Cottage. Some have already been spread throughout. Others need a little work.

Life is exciting right now for a lot of different reasons. I'll divulge when I can, as I can!

For now, let's get this party started.

I’m no road warrior. Who am I kidding?

Two hours into my 13-hour drive home Monday, I wondered if I’d really make it. I think I actually thought a thought along the lines of,“What if I ditch my car in Memphis and Tuck and I fly home?”

But I popped some pills (Tylenol), tossed out a Facebook status about how I wasn’t sure the condition I’d arrive home in, and I settled in for the long haul. The really long haul.

A really long haul with no AC and 96-degree heat because what's a road trip without AC in 96-degree heat?

But in all seriousness, I'm getting too old for that shit, and it's probably time, after 22 years on the road, to hang up my road warrior hat and don my paranoid old-lady driver bonnet.

Because that's what I've become.

The symptoms are all there. Blinker on 45 seconds before merging so everyone in a 2-mile radius knows I'm comin' over. At least two car lengths between me and the car in front of me, allowing enough room for people to pass me on the right and still squeeze in between me and the yahoo in front of me. Honking and cursing at people who cut me off (OK, maybe I've always done that). Frantically scanning my front seat and grabbing my purse to make sure I didn't leave my wallet at the last gas station. Walking at the rest area for 10 minutes at a time.

And then the pain.

The magnificent pain in my knees, hips, femurs, my collar bone, shoulders and long bones in my arms. The numbness in the tops of my legs, the ringing in my ears, the trembling in my hands.

I'll embrace the old lady in all her old lady demands until the next time I want to travel. By then I might have forgotten the pledge I made all the way home from Kentucky that I would never (ever!) do that drive again.

It's the open road after all. And I'm in love with it.