Woof

     Man’s best friend, for me, is more of a peripheral acquaintance. I have no problem running into him a few times a year, but balk at the idea of meeting for a long walk.

     I agree that this soulless disposition is a red flag. I wave my white flag in surrender.

     My propensity to jump at the smallest disruption makes me fundamentally incompatible with pets in general. On top of this baseline anxiety, I rarely find intriguing a living being with whom I can’t have a bilateral conversation about the news or, even better, my feelings. The cost-benefit analysis of maintaining an additional canine life simply doesn’t add up. I can’t afford to spend that much time outside.

     During finals week in college, young puppies would be brought to campus from the local shelter in an effort to relieve student stress. The value in this practice eluded me, as being surrounded by restless newborn animals seemed like one of the most stress-inducing environments I could imagine. I often pondered the potential alternative of bringing in newborn babies for us to hold, wrapped securely in swaddling clothes with pacifiers to keep them occupied. I was sure a plethora of health and legal protocols would prohibit such an event, but it still made more sense to me.

     All griping aside, there are a few times when I can see the light.

     Walking down the street one day after therapy, I noticed a man paused beside a building, stalled by his golden retriever. The dog was leaning forward, neglecting to raise a hind leg in classic fire hydrant fashion. Slowly, unenthusiastically, she was relieving a clearly full bladder. She looked pitifully lethargic, and I loved her.

     If I were a dog, I would capitalize on the unique privilege to invest minimal effort into every task while continuing to reap the full rewards of belonging. I would lie down whenever possible, feel no pressure to smile, and take my time returning the tennis ball. I would certainly never trouble myself with raising a hind leg to pee.

     The implicit freedom enjoyed by pups is the subject of both my envy and repulsion. Their ability to move through the world void of guilt is a feat incomparable to my existence. Their wagging tails and my oscillating self-doubt are irreconcilable. I love them, and I want them to go away.

     I think of my childhood dogs, Sheba and Duke, who I picture now galloping through a field of tall grass, tongues flapping in the wind, a solid red barn sitting stoically in the background.

     I want to be just like them. By myself.

Capricorn

     I find it every weekday printed on the back page of amNewYork, the subway paper.

     Capricorn

     Relax, and let controversy pass you by. Focus on what’s really important: family, friends and love. Let go of a misconception. Keep an open mind.

     The gentle instructions come as both definitive verdicts and empty promises. They are printed plainly in black and white, but the cheap ink rubs off onto my thumbs. And while amNewYork may be Manhattan’s Highest Daily Circulation Newspaper, it’s also free.

     The business of manufacturing personality traits and daily fortunes out of planetary alignments is a field in which I am admittedly undereducated, but much like a Roth IRA, I don’t have to know exactly how it works to participate. Astrology is just another playground of authority figures, inviting risk and investment with few marshals on duty. I have come to embrace this ambiguous territory of cosmic storytelling as a prime arena for experimentation.

     In an attempt to cultivate a new social connection, I will commonly use an entirely contrived understanding of zodiac signs as my own artificial growth hormone. It is a delicate operation, but one I have come to refine over time. Gin and tonics, unsurprisingly, tend to encourage the situation.

     I take the floating lime as my cue.

     “What’s your sign?” I ask her, raising my chin slightly, brows furrowed.

     “Aquarius.”

     “Ah, that makes sense,” I nod, as if to affirm my suspicion.

     “What? What makes sense?”

     I lean forward to offer my conclusions. They are always the same.

     “You tend to put others first, neglecting your own needs to the point where you sometimes lose sight of yourself. You are wary to let people in, but once you do, you’re very loyal. You’re like a golden retriever. And sure, these skills have allowed you to survive up to this point, but they’re also the very things holding you back from your destiny.”

     Their growing eyes confirm that I have touched a nerve. They are seen.

     Is there a wrong way to make a friend?

     Another day, and I am back underground with amNewYork. Invariably, my eyes meander through the pages until they find their way back home. Capricorn. I read the words, honoring their insights and absorbing their essence. The doors open for my stop. I exit the train. And walking down the platform, I unceremoniously throw the issue in the garbage.

Open Concept

     “Wow, I was really hoping for granite.”

     “Well I was really hoping your husband had a better job.”

     “I know we were looking for character, but this new construction is really growing on me.”

     “Oh really, Cindy? Maybe you don’t actually have any preferences at all, and have just always done what your mother says like when you married Jim!”

     Few pleasures compare to the catharsis offered by shouting obscenities at House Hunters while hopelessly couch-bound. The silent invitation to offer constant, critical feedback to seemingly innocent couples looking for a sweet three-bedroom in suburban Cincinnati is one I accept with enthusiasm. The view from the sidelines is always the clearest.

     The romantically ambiguous couples are the most enthralling to witness. They appear every few episodes, rare diamonds in the rough, ripe for scrutiny and speculation. Stephanie is looking for the perfect home for “herself” to live in, and her “friend” John is “tagging along” to “help her.” I take a sip of my wine.

     There’s no countertop hard enough to hit you in the head and tell you he’s not going to propose, girl.

     The most abhorrent displays of human impulsivity are laid bare in the program’s international edition, where people who have built entire lives decide to “leave behind everything they know” and pursue “new horizons” with “just their savings,” crafting masterful plans to “home school” their children and “finally find time again.”

     All that money could also go towards some very, very high quality therapy, Stella. I’m not saying…I’m just saying.

     The television-engineered bleach-washing of the process is the most deceivingly reassuring element of the show. A lovely couple is introduced to us, statistical needs laid bare, and presented with three appropriate housing options. And in a civil conversation over mimosas and scones, one property is selected. Before the half hour is over, we witness people go from periods of varying discontent to a singular state of staggering certainty.

     There is no addressing of their self-destructive behaviors, no attention paid to underlying resentment towards their spouse, and no suggestion that maybe they’re just buying this house to prove childhood foes wrong. There’s no reckoning with inner demons, no reference to plaguing world issues, and no acknowledgment that Brenda never even wanted to move to Milwaukee in the first place. For half an hour, it’s really about the granite, the open concept, the stainless steel. That’s all they’re looking for.

     I look on, speculating.

Disarmingly Consistent

     I lumber across the aged parking lot, delicately navigating the landscape of cigarette butts and empty ketchup packets. The small bowling ball I just consumed sits comfortably in my lower abdomen, and my mind falls gently into that familiar comatose. I did it again.

     There are few feelings that compare to the cost-effective satisfaction of a meal eaten under the glow of the golden arches.

     My better-informed brother will have you know that America’s most popular fast food restaurant is actually a real estate company, although I would liken it more to a morally void yet disarmingly consistent church. Many of its patrons are tired and poor. The iconography is unmistakable. And I only find myself there when the turbulence of life demands a return to relentless sameness.

     Rules are clear and expectations are met. Orders are taken, and attention is paid. Learn the choreography once, and repeat. Don’t try to move the tables. They’re bolted to the floor.

     I hold a particular fondness for the woman who works behind the counter smelling strongly of floral perfume and cheap hairspray, pounding artificial nails onto the register as orders are spat at her through the air. I like it when she is short with the customers who deserve it. I make eye contact with her. We are both better than this.

     Sitting in the clinical dining area, my eyes wander to other tables, noting the family on a road trip, the couple in the corner, the person dining alone. They must feel the same internal conflict between comfort and contempt that I do, right? We all know this isn’t right, right?

     The hot, salty fries melt in my mouth as if it’s been years since I’ve known satisfaction. I look at the woman again behind the counter. We are both getting out. One day.

26

     I handed my license to the weathered yet cordial cashier in quiet anticipation of her response. “Oh wow, Happy Birthday! All the way from Maine, huh?”

     “Yup,” I rehearsed. “Just passing through.”

     “This for a party or somethin’?” She would surely say.

     My response would be witty, concise, and unapologetic. This was my chance. I was finally becoming the independent woman I had always wanted to be. “Yes, a party of one! I actually decided to book a room across the street and just have a night with my favorite person,” pointing to myself.

     Her eyes would widen, and for a fleeting moment she would reflect on all the times she, too, would have liked to run away and have an evening alone with a bottle of moderately priced champagne.

     “Well alright! Nothing wrong with that I suppose.” Then the credit card reader would honk, the register would clank shut, and in a coddling yet sincere tone she would offer, “You have yourself a nice time, now.”

     Instead, she immediately turned my license over and attempted several unsuccessful scans of the back barcode. She passed it back to me. “It’s not scanning, but don’t worry about it.”

     I would not.

     Downtown Easton, Pennsylvania is wanting for a standard bodega with pints of Ben & Jerry’s Cinnamon Buns. All you’ll find instead is a row of smoke shops on the main drag with sparse selections of candy, soda, and beer. Your best bet is the one on the corner of Northampton and 2nd Street, where there’s a lonely Blue Bunny cooler in the back with strawberry shortcake bars.

     After nestling my new treasures in the hotel ice bucket, I had a silent debate about ordering in or going out. I decided that bringing a book to a restaurant was an appropriate way to usher in a new era of risky sophistication. My server at the surprisingly chic pizza establishment had soft eyes and spoke highly of David Sedaris. He said the espresso was on him because he never saw someone dining alone, and my to-go containers were placed in a thick brown paper bag labeled with calligraphic Sharpie.

     Baths take a longer time to fill than you think.

     I exhaled in the boiling water, pondering everything and nothing.

     “This is so nice.”

     “Did I lock the deadbolt thing on the door?”

     “I should do this more often.”

     “How long am I doing this?”

     “Wow, to think, Oprah does this every day.”

     I thought of all the gay boys who didn’t make it to 26. I poured a little bit of champagne into the water. I cried and laughed. When I felt the stopper unplug, I let the water drain out. And laying in the empty tub, I listened to the chorus of tiny bubbles popping like a round of applause.