oliver

Reveling in my happy place.

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It’s January, and Oliver and I are wrapping up our last day at the beach. That may sound pretty incongruous, to spend a winter weekend at a summer destination. But this beach, not just any beach, is my happy place.

Sure, I’ve spent every minute huddled inside, save for an hour-long walk in the sun a few days ago, but that’s what makes it the most relaxing place I know. It’s quiet even at the height of the summer season, which to many would be quite boring. I find that I don’t rest and relax at home simply because there’s always something to do. When I find myself elsewhere, with no projects or places to go, I truly let my hair down. And that’s just good for the soul. Plus, where there is no obvious fun, you can bring your own.
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Reflections of the way life used to be.

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I have just realized, as we head toward Christmas and another turn of the year, that 2011 has been quite a transitional year. Most of my pursuits and priorities in December were actually unfathomable to me back in January.

I mean, Oliver joined me in March.

I went to South Africa in May — and if you had told me that I would cross the equator twice to Australia and South Africa in one calendar year, I would have rolled my eyes at you.

I got a new job in July.

Then a couple of weeks ago I (finally) finished my MBA after 3+ years of nose to the grindstone and personal sacrifices. I will desperately miss the learning and the family I found there … but maybe not for a few more months.
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A year in the life.

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I need to pause for a moment in the middle of the (incredibly slowly told) South Africa story to mark a grand occasion in my life. Today, Oliver is 1!

It has to be true that people who own dogs are happier and live longer. Since O joined my household in March I’ve received markedly less sleep, but I’ve also laughed, loved and even socialized more. It took me three years to meet any of my neighbors, but I know them all now only because of the little man. Dogs bring folks together. Kumbaya.
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Animals dressed as humans.

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One of my favorite TV shows of all time is “Friends.” I’ve seen every episode a ridiculous number of times, and my friend Ann and I used to quote it so much we basically had conversations in “Friends” dialogue. When it started syndicating in college, roommate Kristin and I established a ritual:  Wendy’s drive-thru run before rushing home to catch it at 7 p.m. I just had to hold the rolled top of the food bag tightly so “Wendy’s fumes” wouldn’t bleed into the fabric of her new Jetta.

Then I lived in New York, toured my visitors past the “Friends” apartment building in Greenwich Village and came to realize how outrageously unlikely it was that any of those 20-somethings could afford to live in such apartments. But willing suspension of disbelief is much easier when it’s so entertaining.

“Friends” was special because it captured so well the urban family that forms, especially in NYC, and the needling and squabbling yet love and support among friends. I think we all could relate. Plus, it aired over the course of my important formative years — when it premiered, we discussed it on Fridays in high school, and by the time of the finale, I was out of college and had been living in New York for 5 years. Keep reading »

I am chopped liver.

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I totally get it. I have a cute dog. A really, really cute dog.

But ever since Oliver arrived about two weeks ago, I’m just the anonymous handler behind the phenom.

Let me set the scene for you. I have lived in my complex for more than two years, and I may have nodded once at my neighbors next door as we passed on our way in or out. We’re not a friendly, mingling kind of bunch. Actually, when I moved in, a neighbor across the way greeted me but told me not to “expect brownies or anything. We’re not that kind of neighborhood.” Well, okey dokey.

Now that I walk the world’s cutest dog, everyone comes out of the woodwork. Like we’re incapable of exchanging pleasantries unless there’s a canine attached to us by a string. Keep reading »

To all the dogs I’ve loved before.

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I really do mean canines.

(Though there’s only been one, so far.)

Last week at lunch I was reminiscing with my dad about my first dog, a beagle named Missy who a) bit me on the foot, b) ate my dad’s last Snickers candy bar (he’s still not over it) and c) ran away, never to be seen again, as soon as we arrived at my grandparents’ farm. I don’t think any of us were too upset. Keep reading »