Do Dogs Get Bored?

The other day I asked my roommate if she thought dogs got bored. Her answer was simple: "No, because they aren't smart enough to know if they've been doing or not been doing something for hours."

She's right. Every time Beep sees her tennis ball it's like the first time. And whenever I throw her pink flamingo down the hallway, she runs as if she might not catch it. The other night we played fetch while I worked, and I must have thrown that f-ing pink flamingo seventy-five times. she.did.not.get.bored.

Here's my concern: Neither did I. I was obsessed with her properly retrieving the pink flamingo that not only was my work cast aside, each time I would throw this silly thing I would think, "Will she find it? Will she pick it up? Will she run back to me?" Yes, of course she would. Even if she couldn't remember, she'd already done it seventy-three times in the last forty-five minutes.

Perhaps I'm also nervous that almost the entire reason I humored her desire to chase said flamingo upwards of eighty times is that I felt like if I stopped, I would genuinely hurt her feelings. Let's get back to the beginning: dogs don't get bored. Chances are, they also don't get offended if their parents opt out of fetch for a little while. Or do they? My dilemma exactly. What if I'm hurting her feelings? What if, when I say "No more," and go about my Gossip Girl, Private Practice, Law & Order: SVU routine, she retreats to the corner thinking, "Does no one on this Earth love me?" How could I cause that kind of pain to such a small, innocent, sweetly-dressed animal? Am I so cruel that I would knowingly reject someone (okay, fine, something) whose second favorite thing to do (after getting a treat for using her pee-pad) is greeting me at the door?

I would like to answer plainly: No, I am not.

But still, what if I am?

This reminds me of the time my three friends gave me a swirly in eighth grade. I was in the library during study hall and they came in, saying that they really needed to tell me something, but since it was private, we should probably go to the bathroom. Then suddenly my hair was in a toilet, and I had three people holding me by the ankles.

Later that afternoon, after my Science teacher perfectly justifiably asked why my hair was wet and I didn't have a quick enough response, the four of us sat in the middle school headmistress's office with our advisers. The headmistress asked if these were the types of friends I wanted. They were, I explained triumphantly, they were just playing a joke. But they put your head in a toilet, the headmistress responded, kindly. Wait a second. She was right. They did try to flush my head in the lower-school bathroom. I hadn't even showered yet. It was the end of the day. The tip of my ponytail was... oh my god.

I responded, I think, in a perfectly appropriate fashion. I decided then and there that friends don't flush friends down the toilet. Literally, at least. The four of us left the office while the adults convened over necessary punishments. They decided that the ringleader deserved a suspension, and the remaining two would be forbidden to attend the homecoming dance. For eighth graders at an all-girl school, that was far, far worse than being suspended. The three of them looked at me incredulously, shocked at my ultimate betrayal. I might have toilet-water-stained clothing, but they weren't allowed at the dance. The Dance, they said in unison. I'm sorry, I said, but still, it was kind of crappy what you did.

Expectantly, news of this scandal reached far-and-wide across the middle school, and I was confronted with multiple people asking why I was so cruel. When I explained that I was sorry, and that I actually hadn't asked the school to suspend the ringleader, I was met with, "But the dance. It's Madonna themed." How could I do such a thing? Take a fucking shower, one especially ardent classmate told me. Thankfully we were thirteen and that meant that "situations" had a half-life of about three days. By the day of the Dance, everyone was fine. By the next Monday, we were all friends again. But a few weeks later, the three girls kindly let me know that while I was a fun and engaging friend, they couldn't quite trust me. I again apologized for admitting to the teachers that they'd given me a swirly, but they didn't want to hear it. I had betrayed their trust, and it was time to move on.

These two situations taught me something: I'm drawing a connection between my seventh-month-old puppy who loves nothing more than toys that squeak and the aftermath of a swirly in the eighth grade -- I really, really need to get a life.

I Wish I Could Turn Back Time

A friend of mine said that to her boss a few weeks ago, and I think it reigns as the all-time best response after making a mistake. What's better, my friend didn't make a mistake. Her boss asked for one thing and then changed her mind.

"I wish I could turn back time." I just like to practice saying it.

Sometimes I wonder if powerful people forget that while us young grasshoppers are willing to learn anything and do most things in hopes for successful careers, at no time are we capable of predicting, controlling, or resolving Manhattan traffic. Or any city traffic, for that matter. But perhaps this is part of the joke: if we could, we probably wouldn't be asked to sit in the same seat for so long.

Bridging the Gap

This past weekend I was lucky enough to sit next to my grandmother for dinner. It should be noted that while she joined our family only a mere thirteen years ago, she is absolutely part of the family, and thus I pay the same respect to her as I would anyone from the grandparent generation.

However, it should also be noted that she tends to avoid - at all costs - ever paying me a straight, direct, just-so-you-feel-good compliment. For instance, last Christmas, instead of saying that my haircut looked nice she said, "I love your haircut because your last one really fell on your face at all the wrong angles." Oh, okay, thanks.

Or, earlier this summer at a family BBQ, instead of saying I looked nice she said, "You look great, you must have lost weight because your figure is finally beginning to show." Er, I've been the same weight for three years, but yes, thanks.

Last Saturday was no different. Except this time I must give her the credit and mention that our conversation was extremely positive, and she did, ultimately, say some very nice things. But this was my favorite:

We were talking about how my politics and lifestyle may, er, deviate from the rest of my family. I was a little confused as to what she was talking about because we haven't really had "the talk" that would merit this statement, but I went with it. I agreed, and said, yes, I was a bit more liberal than the others but I really didn't think family needed to revolve around vice-presidential nominations. She responds,

"You're absolutely right, and I really respect your ability to bridge the two worlds. I have every confidence that if you started dating an affluent boy from Newport, you would absolutely hold your own, despite your not understanding his background."

She was right. I mean, just that afternoon my family had taken a cruise on my uncle's yacht to check out the palaces that skimmed the Newport coastline. What simpletons we were, sipping white wine and nibbling crab cakes, reaching for our cable knit sweaters and country-club-specific fleeces when the wind picked up just before sunset.

I wondered what my boyfriend in Newport would look like; if his house was on the water, or simply at the end of a private drive. Would his parents both work, or would one stay home to tend the household? Maybe he would have an older sister, who was brunette, and single, and enjoyed long walks on the beach.

"You're right," I finally responded. "I just hope the boy I finally end up with is able to embrace our many differences, and appreciate our similar interests."

Ten Stages of Drunkenness

1. Witty and Charming
2. Rich and Powerful
3. Benevolent
4. Fuck Dinner
5. Clairvoyant
6. Patriotic
7. Witty and Charming Part II
8. Let's Fire Up the Enola Gay
9. Invisible
10. Bulletproof

Baha Oklahoma

I'm Blogging on a Train!

I've always wanted to do that.

The Ex-it Strategy

Apparently there is something about me in a black dress that turns my ex into a "frat boy." Of course, this metaphor only stretches so far, as I have numerous "frat boy" friends, and my being in a black dress actually makes them substantially nicer to me. Unfortunately for this lucky individual, by "frat boy" she means "teenage boy" and thus reacts to said outfit with an edge of distaste and fear of cooties. This is all fine, we've been doing this dance for a few years now, and I try not to take it personally. 

Last Saturday I was so lucky as to be both wearing a black dress and in my ex's company, and it took only me arriving for the ridicule to start. I withstood these smirks for about forty-five minutes before it just got plain uncomfortable. That, and I'd finished my whiskey soda, so it was new drink or new party. I decided that as fun as frat boy was making my evening, I missed my similarly dressed friends on the lower east side.

Another comment hit me like a tennis ball and that was it! I'd had enough! No more comments! No more making me uncomfortable for looking nice! And I was very proud as I announced this to the room - with most of its guests not giving a shit if I was in a skirt or a towel - that I was Leaving! Goodbye! I turned to make my theatrical exit (take that, frat boy) when I walked into the wall.

I had a choice: show that my nose may or may not be bleeding or deal with it in a taxi.

Theatrical indeed.