My dog turned thirteen in May. Stop! I know some of you are doing the “dog math” in your head (and I know which of you are doing it), and you’ve mentally concluded that she’s sev — tw — carry the — ah, ninety-one in dog years, but you are the same people who walk into stores in Italy and demand to know how much the ceramic gondola costs in real money. Trust me, this dog is a teenager, and she’s moody as hell now. She’s taken to pouting on walks if you don’t go the way she wants. She actually stopped dead in the middle of the street — no, not really dead, she’s not that old — and sat down until I agreed to go her way. Plus, she’s gotten all stupid about boys. She used to just play with them if they were around and didn’t worry about what they thought, but now she’s bending over backwards to make them like her. She actually almost let this one guy pee on her head. “Oh, honey,” I said as I pulled her away. “No man is worth it.”
And speaking of that: my romantic life has taken yet another toboggan ride downhill, and it’s all the fault of that darn Sara Jessica Parker and her merry little gang. I’m now to the point where I’d rather watch Sex in the City than have sex. I’ve been back to the video store three times in three days. Tonight I watched six episodes. People, I need an intervention. Take away my VCR if you have to. Don’t let me do this anymore.