Put Your Money Where Your Dog Is

Everyday I wake up and scamper downstairs to the garage to release the hounds. Out they go, Emma first and then Gracie, her back legs bouncing down the driveway to start the day. These pups are bona fide members of the family as if we shared a blood line. I find I am one of those folks who refers to her dogs as her "kids" and is tempted to answer in the affirmative when asked "And do you have children?" right before I break out the pics of my smart, gorgeous, talented pooches.

Each day I laugh at some antic or another or just at their cuteness, lying on the couch curled together seamlessly, their deep snores in unison. These two adopted balls of fur provide hours of entertainment and cause my heart to nearly burst when they accompany me on my daily tasks around the house. Did you know my shadow looks a whole lot like a beagle - one who sits patiently and watches as I perform mundane chores like folding laundry or combing my hair?

Lately, it occurs to me that this is why people breed. I bet real human kids bring joy to a mother's heart in much the same way. This may seem like a trite sentiment coming from a mature thirty-something, but it is not meant that way. I am stone-cold serious. This feeling I get when my eyes well up with love for my dogs is new and exciting and not something for which I was prepared. To be honest, I have heretofore dwelled solely on the negatives of child-rearing (not to mention the birthing process itself - yikes!) Could it be that all the rhetoric is true? Could the maternal instinct rear its ugly head, even for the self-proclaimed forever childless by choice?

Gosh, it's a concept I have only toyed with briefly in my head. It is as outside my realm of reality as my picture on the cover of Time magazine - or so I had convinced myself. But, my birthday is fast approaching (well, in about three months' time anyway) and that is the crucial decision-making hour in my life: each year, on my birthday, I re-evaluate my non-procreation to determine if that is still my preferable course of action for the next year. So far, so good - consistency is key, so they say, and I have found many good reasons (and some iffy ones which were counted in my column nonetheless) to stay the course.

Could things be changing? Will my husband have a heart attack - literally - were I to come to an alternate conclusion this August? If I was a betting woman I would put my money on things staying much the same.

But you know, I never did like gambling that much anyway.

Let's Hear It For the Girls!

It is no secret that I am a movie junkie/cinemaphile/film geek. Most of my day is spent thinking about movies or reading about movies, not to mention watching movies - whether they be new or familiar. This is my passion in life and has been for as long as I can remember - my first movie experience at age four was watching "Pete's Dragon" at the Liberty theater in western Pennsylvania and I have been hooked ever since.

So, not surprisingly, I am thrilled beyond imagination that one of my favorite television shows is soon to grace the silver screen. Of course I speak of "Sex and the City: The Movie." The wait is almost over and I am ready: I have a new Carrie Bradshaw-inspired dress, stiletto heels, and a designer handbag poised and ready in my closet for just that occasion. My husband is also thrilled, as you can imagine, but he likes the dress and paid for the bag so he has agreed to accompany me.

But this film is more than just shoes and purses to me - though I sure am giddy about accessories. It allows me to swell with emotion about my own girlfriends. I am not as lucky as Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda because my friends are spread out around the country. But they are no less important to me. When I revel in the SATC world it reminds me of how lucky I am as a woman to have my own circle of girlfriends to lean on, cry to, drink with, and love.

And I really love them - I love them for the times we have shared when we were young and stupid and knew so much and so little all at once. I love them for the lessons we have taught each other about boys and fashion and family. Even better, I love them for our relationship today. Now, in my thirties, I value my friends more than ever before.

We understand the extreme highs and lows life can bring. We have suffered real heartaches by now, making the adolescent tears of the early twenties look tragically ridiculous. We have been through struggles and come out on the other side wearier but certainly wiser. We are closer now because we know more about ourselves and that is such a beautiful testament to growing into womanhood in the true sense of the word. Men have their buds, but they can never truly get what it means in your heart to be with your "girls" and how important it is for the soul.

Carrie Bradshaw once said that men were like a drug - they can bring you down, but sometimes they can lift you so high. That is so true. But that is also why my girlfriends are so important. They never bring me down. But they do lift me up so very, very high.

It's Just Me, In the End

It amazes me how much a small virus can affect my motivation...thus, the blog posts have slowed to a crawl. I refuse to be one of those people who shares every detail of her life, so suffice it to say I will NOT blog about being sick and how that kept me from blogging...so there!

The other night I attended the bi-monthly writing group I recently joined and I realized that sometimes I just don't get it - writing, I mean. I don't understand what makes someone a "good" writer versus a "mediocre" writer, how some people get a book deal while others languish in their eloquence, starving for acceptance into that prestigious world of publishing...and sometimes just starving. For real, as artists.

I also don't understand how some so-called "musicians" have their songs played on the radio five hunderd times an hour and others are left to open mike nights for a pittance of the cover charged to drunk college kids who couldn't care less whether there is a live band or not. What is going on? Is there just that big of a difference in opinion? Do people simply have such diverse tastes? And isn't there enough diversity to go around?

The conspiracy theorist lurking just beneath my surface pipes in that "the man" wants us all to like the same force-fed, media-approved blandness - that too much diversity in our tastes leads to too much diversity in our thoughts, which leads to independent thinking and making up our own minds. (Cue the "X-Files" theme song and get me a tin-foil hat...stat!!) But really, why can't we have more choices than "Fall Out Boy" or "Panic! At the Disco" when I can't tell the difference between them and neither one can sing? (And this can't just be MY opinion, can it?)

Anyway, I will meander my way back to my original track and just say that, personally, I am going to continue to write what I want and read what I like and listen to what moves me and if that happens to be mainstream, so be it. And if not, okay too. I might never get a book deal and I may not understand what constitutes "good" writing, but in the end, when it is me with a blank page in front of me, does it even matter?

Love For a Dog, Not a Fire

Sometimes I will tell a story about one thing and realize at the end of it, I have really made some other kind of point I never intended to make. This is often the same with my writing - who knows why? Maybe because I can't concentrate or am prone to distractions - all true, in my writing life and my waking life. Whatever it is, I think I will embrace it rather than try to transform it into a more linear train of thought - both because that seems creative and because that is easier. Always a bonus.

Take my one traumatic fire experience (I burned my hair and hand but remained unscathed otherwise - lesson learned: leave the cooking to the pros...or my husband.) I found that the tale was less about burnt curtains and charred cabinets and really about the powerful connection with our old dear dog, Tad.

Tad was my husband's baby and I was lucky enough to inherit him in the blessed union. He (Tad, not my husband) was pretty fat and in his older years had a bum leg due to the cancer that would eventually get the better of him. Right out of law school, my husband and I were forced to live apart through the week while I worked the crummiest job in the history of employment. I would keep Tad with me when my husband went to visit his family for holidays, which helped the dreadful situation greatly.

This was one of those times - right before Christmas. The weather outside was frightful - cold and icy and crisp, and my mood was in a similar state. (See above: world's most terrible job.) My horrible nightmare started when I tried to cook chicken wings and succeeded only at scaring myself half to death while setting my kitchen ablaze.

In the midst of confusion, dousing the fire, calling 911, and getting my friend to come over to assist in my panic, Tad somehow slipped right out the door of my apartment. A few minutes passed before I realized it. At that moment, while volunteer firemen barely old enough to drive checked for structural damage and my friend got my coat to take me to the ER, I totally freaked.

In sweatpants and my best Winnie the Pooh slippers I tore onto the ice-rink of a driveway and screamed for Tad, running and sliding my way across the shiny blackness, my tears frozen on my face and my burnt hand forgotten. Someone casually called that a dog was at the end of the street and I literally glided my way to him - he was at the opening of the driveway, pacing back and forth in a perfect line, whimpering and motioning toward the apartment and to me. I fell to him, grasped for his comfort. He stood there stoically, his head held high, while I clung to him and cried in relief and pain and guilt for allowing him out of my sight at all.

We walked back to the apartment together as the excitement died down and everyone went into the night. My friend helped us inside and we sat a minute, the 3 of us - adrenalin released and calmness descending, Tad's head in my lap.

Later that night, my hand bandaged and my fears alleviated, Tad and I lay together - I on the couch, he on the floor beside me. I slipped into slumber while listening to his even breaths, just a girl and a dog who loved each other and, at that exact moment, needed each other more than ever. Tad was a hero that night, my hero, and my heart ached with love for him.

Tad is still with us, I think, always in our hearts and never forgotten. He was more than a dog or a best friend. He was a lesson - to appreciate the goodness of life, even in the badness of a particular moment. I try this everyday and I know Tad is pacing along with me, too, content and peaceful and watching out for me even now.