Shark Attack

A couple of years ago my maternal family was shocked to learn that DreamWorks would be making a movie about a big green ogre who shared their last name.  No one knew what an ogre was, at the time no one expected him to be remotely lovable, and it quickly became known that their last name meant “Fear” in German.

Thank goodness for the Irish.

I always thought this was funny because it really brought Shrek and me closer together and I could make fun of my cousins but I could hide behind my paternal last name and it was only something that people found out about me when I wanted to use it as a fun fact.

Karma has retaliated.

I would like to thank Eli Roth for taking on the project to make a movie about a shark named Meg.  I can’t even hide from this one once I’ve gotten married.  It was bad enough getting compared to the loser sister on Family Guy, but now I’m going to be a giant, prehistoric, man eating shark?  That just isn’t fair…

I learned of the project here:

Get ready… I’m coming… Insert Jaws music here…

image image (1)

Real World Blog Slacker

I have been the worst blogger on the planet over the course of the last week.  Being young and retired has rapidly changed in to not as young as I used to be, over tired, not even close to organized, moody, hungry, irrationally stressed, Darcy-neglecting, and somehow, still poor.  My third book (since my first is going to be a memoir based on my blog and my second is going to be about my dating life called Mercury Poisoning) is going to be a comparison of working the standard 9-5 job in the corporate world versus working odd jobs around town which take up all of your time, all of your energy, are fast paced and exciting but require there to be more than one in order to make ends meet.  (Fun fact – it was recently that I learned it isn’t ‘ends meat’ – like you would get the end of a cow or something… you’re welcome for that tid-bit.)

I’ve had my first taste of this other form of working for the last week, all of which came to fruition on Friday.  I sent Darcy to camp dog wonderland, also known as my parents house, for a couple of days while I tried to figure out how to manage my new schedule.  I feel the need to mention that so my massive PETA following doesn’t think she was caged up and unfed for three days since I spent about 2 full hours at home.

Back together and it feels so good!!!!

Back together and it feels so good!!!!

On Friday, I worked at my gym job from 5:30 AM until 2:30 PM.  Afterwards, I went home, changed, and decided I should walk to my restaurant job.  I left my house at 3:15 thinking I would get there early, and showed up at 3:52 for my 4:00 shift.  Google Maps said it would take me 23 minutes.  We also learned I’m the slowest walker along with worst blogger on the planet.

Everyone has been saying to me during this entire retirement period “just wait tables – you’ll make a ton of money.”  Just wait tables.  That statement seemed so easy.  Well, this is an apology to any waiter/tress out there who I have ever underestimated.  Waiting tables is difficult.  You have to constantly be watching your customers.  You always need to be moving around.  You have to remember ridiculous orders.  You have to recommend something to people who you know nothing about.  I’m usually that patron too, asking brilliant questions like “What should I get?” to a complete stranger who couldn’t care less what you eat.


At first, I stood back and waited for direction.  I’ve since been told the other servers don’t have time to give you direction so keep doing what needs to be done.  I find myself so excited when I can answer a question that someone has that I forget what they ordered by the time I get back to the computer.  I messed up an order on Friday night – I put in the wrong type of chicken wings.  I was sent to the back to roll silverware and once the order was remedied the Chef yelled “Hey, New Girl – what table did you F*** up?!”  Talk about a change from the corporate world.  But  It was okay.  I did screw up and his response was scary and I’ll try not to screw up again.  My boss at my old job would have smack talked me to the rest of my team all the while making my life a living hell and never discussing what the real problem was.  So bring it, Scary Kitchen Guys.


I used to be really good at rolling silverware when I worked in a restaurant in college.  Apparently that’s a skill that I’ve lost over time because someone told me I looked like I’ve never rolled a blunt before.  And much to his surprise, I said in fact sir, I have not.  Another person called me Fresh Meat all night.  Deep down I was slightly flattered, but then realized that wasn’t actually a compliment on my appearance when he would bark as I walked by.

It’s amazing the difference of environment when you aren’t being over shadowed by an HR department.

The gym is entirely different.  There are chipper women who show up before 6:00 AM every morning to get in their high cardio and sculpting classes before heading off to their day jobs or back home to nurse their babies.  The entire place is filled with enthusiasm and positive energy.  I even have the opportunity to work out with them now and then and the classes are up beat and encouraging.  They drink green smoothies and spend full pay checks on week long cleanses and clean eating.  No one is passive aggressive, no one is talking about you when you aren’t listening, no one is miserable.


They’re both difficult jobs.  The gym because of the hours and the restaurant because of the tasks required.  Do I plan to be at either for a long period of time?  No – and maybe knowing it isn’t forever is what makes them so much more exciting.  But I’m meeting new people, they’re both fast paced and fun and it’s a nice breath of fresh air from sitting in a cubical and wishing the building would blow up to put me out of my misery.


180 Month Anniversary

Today, in honor of being retired and it being the 180th month in a row (exactly 15 years infact!) that my body has decided to remind me that I’m a female, I’ve decided to take it upon myself to make two of my favorite things – cannolis and blood orange margaritas.  Because as a woman, once a month, every month, between the ages of 12 and what sounds like forever, I deserve to be able to eat and drink whatever I want, during whatever time of day I please and assume it is all calorie free.  When you have a job – you can’t drink blood orange margaritas at noon… but guess what?  I don’t have a job.  Yesssssss.

Now when I came up with this idea last week I thought it would be the most grueling experience I’ve ever encountered.  I’m not much of a baker and I just never thought about the painstaking tears that probably go into growing the blood orange trees on my roof deck in the middle of the city in order to make the perfect margarita.  When I told my dear friend, ginger-eyes, at bowling league the other night about my plan to sacrifice my Tuesday to master the art of cannolis and blood orange margaritas, she laughed and said “those are like the two easiest things ever to make.”  Then she told my other friend, who we’ll call master baker, who laughed as well, rattled off the four ingredients I needed, and went back to bowling.

Everyone should strive to have friends who support your period cravings like mine do.  So I’m going to prove to both of them how difficult this process actually is.  There is no way making cannolis or the world’s best margarita comes easy to the Queen of Mediocrity…




Step 1: Find a recipe – There are seven million recipes out there for both things, so this wasn’t hard at all.

Step 2: Purchase ingredients – Ah ha!  Now this took me all morning.  Ricotta, sugar, chocolate chips – sure, they’re in any grocery store and there’s an entire shelf of tequila and triple sec in Wine and Spirits.  But have you ever tried to find blood oranges or cannoli shells on a Tuesday morning?  Because it’s a nightmare.  I actually got super lucky with the oranges because there was a parking spot outside of Reading Terminal Market that was radiating angel lights towards me when I drove up Arch street and the produce market inside had a plethora of them.  Cannoli shells were a nightmare to find. Termini Brothers had a huge stack of shells on both sides of their counter.  But they wouldn’t sell them to be without filling.  So I went to every other bakery in the market and everyone recommended I try Termini.  So then I started calling bakeries.  Everyone had shells but no one would sell them to me.  Just because I wanted to master the art of cannolis doesn’t mean I wanted to buy a deep fryer, destroy my kitchen and ruin the whole process trying to make the shells.  Then there wouldn’t have been a blog post.

Finally – Talluto’s Authentic Italian Food down in the Italian Market sold them.  So thank you Talluto’s – you saved the blog post and the whole day!

Step 3 – Come home and distract your dog.  When I cook, Darcy likes to sit at my feet and bark because she can’t see what’s going on and wants to eat all of the smells.  Sometimes I let her sit on the counter but then she walks on my computer and I lose the last 500 words and then we have trust issues.  SO someone is getting showered with treats all day to leave me alone.


Step 4: Clear the beer out of your refrigerator At the ripe ages of 24 and 25 (give or take a couple of years…), my roommate and I live like frat boys.  Sometimes there is food in our fridge, but it’s primarily filled with beer and condiments.  Yesterday I went to Target with a two item shopping list – solo cups and trash bags.  Since cannolis and blood orange margaritas are both cold, you should make sure the beer is strategically arranged so you can fit your two new treats.

Step 5: Dance with your dog – If Heartbeat Song by Kelly Clarkson comes on Pandora, sing it to your dog, because it will make her leave you alone a little.  And also it will buy you some time on starting to make your cannolis because you know if you screw this up ginger-eyes, master baker and roommate will never let you live it down.

Step 6: Combine initial ingredients-  Add ricotta, sugar and vanilla extract to a bowl and stir together.

Step 7: Taste test

Step 8: Add more sugar

Step 9: Taste Test

Step 10: Get distracted dancing with your dog to Meghan Trainor’s Lips are Moving.

Step 11: Tear your kitchen apart looking for the beaters for your hand mixer.  When the heck was the last time you used a hand mixer?  And whatever happened to your mom getting you that Kitchen Aid she mentioned?  Make a note to call your mom about said Kitchen Aid.

Step 12: Whip up some heavy whipping cream-  This process takes the exact amount of time as Sam Hunt’s version of Cop Car.  And your computer speakers will not be louder than the hand mixer.  First bummer of the day. Oh and add sugar to this.  You’ll know it’s finished when it looks like something you wish you could roll around in forever.

Step 13: Wish your dog was a child – (for the first and last time ever) because it would be so fun to give her the beaters to lick whipped cream off of.  Remember how fun that was?

Step 14: Be glad your dog isn’t a child – other than for obvious reasons, you need those beaters again.  Mix the whipped cream into the ricotta mix.  It’s a lot easier with beaters.  And without dog breath.

Step 15: Realize you missed a step… Try to figure out where the chocolate chips were supposed to be added.

Step 16: Improvise – add more chocolate chips than it says.  Just because that seems like a good idea.

Step 17: Let chill – This sucks I wanted to eat them now, but I guess this buys sometimes to make myself a marg!  We’ll continue these steps in a half hour.


Blood Orange Margaritas:

In college I was the master original margarita maker.  Once, when I didn’t have all of the ingredients I needed, I went out and bought a pre-made margarita mix and some tequila and came home and made them for my roommates.  They were SO good but SO strong.  No one could understand why we were all asleep after 2 margaritas and before the sun went down.  Later, when cleaning, we read the bottle and saw there was already tequila in the mix.  Whoops!

Anyway, 6 years later, we’re going to add a blood orange twist.  Because all of the Mexican restaurants do it, so we can too!

Step 1: Try to find the pitcher you haven’t used since last summer.

Step 2: Call your roommate to ask where it is – there’s nothing like getting a call while you’re at work from your retired roommate at 1:19 on a Tuesday afternoon asking where the margarita pitcher is.

Step 3: Realize a full pitcher is aggressive – there’s only one of you.  And now it’s only 1:21.  Maybe only making one is the right approach.  Then realize you don’t have margarita glasses.  Although I’m pretty sure my mom said she had some for me.  Add that to the list of things to call your mom about.

Step 4: Measure out ingredients – use your favorite shot glass (the one from your roommate’s frat – because SHE was in a frat) to measure out tequila, triple sec, and lime juice

Step 5: Juice the blood oranges – Ummm are these supposed to look so weird on the inside?

Step 6: Google what blood oranges are supposed to look like –  Crisis averted, we’re good

Step 7: Rim the glass – I’m the queen of doing this after I made the drink SO make your drink in a shaker or different glass.  This can also be done while holding your dog – so everyone wins.

Step 8: Shake your ingredients – don’t stir.  James Bond would be proud.

Step 9: Transfer ingredients from shaker cup to rimmed glass.  Garnish with something adorable like an orange slice or the mint I forgot to buy.


Step 10: Try.

Now let’s say you’re an hour into this blog post and the margarita is terrible.  I sure hope I didn’t lose my knack for alcoholic sweetness in college!  Maybe this is just a bad recipe.  Let’s start adding stuff!

Step 11: Add way more orange juice.

Step 12: Agave. Agave. Agave.

Step 13: More lime please.

Step 14: Shake, shake, shake.

Step 15: Brace yourself, try again…


Now I think our cannolis are ready to be added to their shells.  Keep in mind, I don’t have one of those fancy squeeze bag things that they use at the bakeries (hint, hint, mom…) so let’s see how this goes!

Step 18: Add cannoli filling to cannoli shells – you can do it with a spoon the fancy squeezer thing is totally unnecessary (scratch that, mom.)  But this also probably should have been in the fridge longer it’s a little runny.

Step 19: Try… MUCH better than the margarita massacre!


So what have we learned today?

– Sugar is the key to success in all things

– Cannolis, as predicted, are not that hard.  But finding their shells is.

– We should let the experts stick with the blood orange margaritas.

Now I’m going to go eat this bad boy, wrap some up for my friend, frozen peanut butter, who I know will love them regardless, and come up with my recipes for next month.  I’m thinking Sangria and something lemony.

I can’t wait for my roommate to come home and clean up this mess! God speed ladies!

They Do Exist

I’ve never met a celebrity.  I worked for the Orioles out of college and met some pretty cool athletes, but it isn’t the same as someone you watch on television or visit on the silver screen.  You can go to sporting events and see Chase Utley whenever he’s in town but living in a place like Philadelphia you don’t walk outside and run into Brad Pitt.  Sometimes, when I think long and hard about this, I wonder if celebrities really exist.  Sometimes I wonder if they’re just really impressive cardboard cutouts or robots and there is a conspiracy theory against unknowing fans and these people that allegedly live such lavish lives don’t even really breathe.  I don’t know anyone who knows anyone actually famous.  AND sometimes I think when people do say they’ve met someone famous they’re just making it up because they know you haven’t because they’re in on the facade.

The good news is, I’m wrong.  And I can prove it.

As an avid annual Fantasy Football loser, I am a huge fan of the FX program The League.  Steve Rannazzisi, also known as Kevin McArthur, was going to be doing stand up in Philadelphia on Thursday night, so my girlfriends and I grabbed last minute tickets and went to check him out.  They were the ideal two people with whom to go; one knows nothing about football, and the other has never watched The League.  But they’re also the two friends who always seem to be there on the nights when you look back the next morning and say “….did that actually happen?”  So I try to keep them close by whenever possible.

The show started with a sub-par, local, amateur comedian who had too much of a stoner delivery for me, but made some great points about the brilliant colonist who decided the steel Liberty Bell would be best protected by four walls of glass.  The second opener was a 6’8 ginger who writes for the Tonight Show, liked to tell jokes about times when he was naked, and made my ginger-chasing friend fall desperately in love.  She looked like the heart eyes emoji for the rest of the show.

I’ve never been to a stand up comedy act before.  I’ve heard great things and I’ve heard awful things.  As far as I’m concerned, this show was great.  Steve Rannazzisi was a trip.  He was funny without being foul.  His jokes weren’t offensive and he could relate to his audience.  He told stories about his wife and kids and made fun of drunk people and had us hysterical for the entirety of the set.  If you ever have the opportunity to see him, do it.

When the show was over we went to leave and who did we spot sipping a beer in the bar but the giant ginger opener.  My friend, Ginger-eyes, was elated at the opportunity that was presented  so we decided to play it super cool and stay for a beer and maybe drop a casual line to get his attention about how we really thought being naked was great too – just something that would spark casual conversation.

As luck would have it, the giant ginger had zero interest in us and moved on to the stoner guy and some other stoner looking friends.  It’s so hard when people can tell you don’t do drugs at first appearance.  We decided to cut our losses and head out when Steve Rannazzisi walked up to the bar.  There was a huge 180 degree role reversal as Ginger-eyes was relatively disinterested and my Roommate and I stared at him like the Queen had just asked us to dinner.

So what do you do in this situation?  Do you stand there, mouth gaping open and assume he’s going to strike up a conversation with you?  Seize the moment and hope whatever you lead with doesn’t make you sound like a psychopath?  Run for the hills and make up a great story about how he invited you to have Thanksgiving with his family?  Like I said – I’ve never seen a public figure like this, let alone had the opportunity to interact with someone.  Ginger-Eyes was good enough to do the dirty work and asked him to take a photo with us.  AND HE DID!!  Which I guess is standard procedure if someone has the guts to ask you for that – but it was so cool.  Roommate and I were so star struck.  I asked him if he really played fantasy football and he said yes… And from there we talked for another hour.  Like – almost two beers worth of time.  He gave us the inside scoop about co-stars and celebrity friends.  He told us about the show coming to and end and what his next ventures will be (Note: New Girl – tune in this Fall.) He explained some of his jokes further and told us what he thought of different people in the audience.  I told him I didn’t appreciate the jokes he made about his wife not having a job (which was not true at all but I had to bring my blog into the conversation somehow) and he said I should just get a job playing fantasy football and then blogging about it.  If only dreams really did come true…


It was truly the coolest thing.  We told him he should watch Dexter and he said he would.  We had a very long debate about comedies vs. the show Parenthood.  Our Fantasy Football leagues are really similar in the way they’re set up and how they bet $10,000 a team and in all of my leagues it’s $20 a team – sometimes $50 if we’re being wild.  It must be so cool to have actual money.

After a while the bar started to close up and it was time to say our goodbyes.  We all went out separate ways – Steve Rannazzisi back to his super cool life of hilarious celebrity and having fans-  Ginger-Eyes, Roommate and me to our lives of Instagram memories, middle class salaries and what seems to have come together an online diary entry.

The moral of the story is that famous people are real.  And they have cute family lives and enjoy a cold Stella Artois on draft just like the rest of us.  Except they’re well paid and when they spend an hour talking to people such as my friends and me, the moments will be forever remembered.  So thank you, Mr. Rannazzisi for taking an extra hour to make our nights.

Also – I got home at like midnight and called to wake my mom up and tell her.  Never sleep with your cell phone on when you have an over excited adult child who is retired and has so many thoughts.

Mary Poppins, You Have No Friends

I just had one heck of a Mary Poppins moment.  I’m sitting on my roof deck, over looking the city, drinking a glass of wine, eating cucumbers (read: cheese) and pondering what my next blog post should be about while my dog lays at my feet torturing an ice cube.  ALL OF THE SUDDEN there is this huge breeze – no, not breeze – it was a vicious gust of blustery wind, that comes through and starts to pull the umbrella out of my patio table.  So I held it down and decided to take it out of the table.  BUT – when I did – another life threatening gust came through and started to pull the umbrella, and me, along with it. And it was just like I was Mary Poppins.  Clearly I have my Long Champ sitting next to me filled with everything unnecessary and imaginable. And then my chimney sweep showed up to dance on my roof.

As I floated in the air, clicking together my ruby slippers and falling back to reality, I got to thinking… I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mary Poppins.  Bits and pieces here and there, but if you haven’t already guessed, I was more of a cartoon movie buff when I was little.  She just seems to be like one of those people who has things too good to be true.

Let’s start with the basics…

Her bag carries everything:  That’s not fair.  Even my precious (and officially pee-free) Long Champ can’t carry all of my unnecessary necessities as well as an extra pair of shoes and my dog.  The average American woman goes into work every day with at least four different bags.  You have your purse – obviously – because that’s what carries your wallet and seven tubes of lip gloss and VIP Panera card.  Then there’s your lunchbag, the adult version of a lunch box – which is just cost efficient and makes you look healthy.  Then you have your computer bag – because it needs it’s own bag and combining all of those bags would just be silly.  And then there is the bag that carries the shoes: The flip flops or Uggs (weather depending) for walking from the car to the office, the heels for your desk, the sneakers for your afternoon stroll at lunch and the flats for the drive home.  Nordstrom does not sell a bag that is insulated, with card slots, that has a protected computer compartment and four spaces for your shoes, and a freaking lamp or whatever else you pull out Mary… Get real!

She flies: Do you know how much of my life has been wasted commuting?  My friend sent me an article about it once and it was something absurd.  Like 40 years or 40 hours or something.  Maybe 1 year.  I can’t remember.  All I know is that the normal person starts their day by getting into a vehicle – whether that is a car or a bus or a train – and sitting in it until it arrives at their destination.  Of course Mary Poppins is going to love her job if she doesn’t have an hour in the morning and an hour and a half every night to sit and think about how much she hates it and wishes she was back in her bed.

She is served the perfect job on a platter:  Those kids were perfect.  No one goes into a job knowing everything – I don’t care how much experience you have.  Not to mention, those children would never have been so well behaved.  I’m pretty sure their parents were too rich to have time for them and in reality the girl would have been dating Aaron Hernandez (too soon?) and the boy would have been dealing heroin.  Unless Mary Poppins had a hell of a therapy background, she was not winning them over with a spoon full of sugar… unless it was the kind you snort.  No one has ever gone into an ideal situation at work – whether it’s because they fired the guy before you and you have a mess to deal with or because the company is in shambles.  No one believes your lies, Mary!!

Cleaning with a snap of her fingers:  This is where I get really worked up.  This doesn’t work.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  When my roommate and I moved into our apartment it was a disaster and we kept saying we wished we could just Mary Poppins the place.  But despite what that bitch wants you to believe, Mary Poppins is not a verb.  Every time I have to pack or clean or organize I think about how much I hate her.  It’s like she never had to bend down and pick something up a day in her life.  The rest of us have standing monthly chiropractor appointments and thank God for deep closets and their doors – and she sits in her spotless living room and whistles with the local pigeons.

SO – what have we learned today?  Mary Poppins was an over pretentious jerk.  Set out to make all normal people look bad.  Am I jealous of her? Yes – slightly.  And you are too!  She was always well dressed, didn’t have car payments and could fit her juicer in her purse.  But she was definitely an overachiever who had no friends.  The wind didn’t pull me away – there’s not a creepy, dirty man dancing on my roof (be honest – Dick van Dyke has let himself get creepy) and my room is decently organized (don’t look in the closets.)  And after my third glass of wine I am going to have just as beautiful a singing voice.

So there, Mary!

Damn the Dog Park

I have a super cute puppy named Darcy.  She is an 11 pound chihuahua/miniature pinscher/dachshund-mix with high anxiety, cat like attributes and no back feet.  I’ll get more into her story in another post – it’s pretty much the longest story I can tell – but this is more about the day in the life of a dog owner.

I always envied those happy-go-lucky people who frolicked around the dog park with their puppies on sunny days.  Throwing sticks and bouncing balls and watching their pets respond so ideally to their commands.  They would fetch their plush toys and run back and sit perfectly waiting patiently for the next game.  Sometimes, dogs will leap and paw and roll around with other dogs in a playful fun fashion.  Their people chat and laugh and exchange hilarious stories about their remarkable pets.  It’s like a productive singles gathering or neighborhood block party.  And I would watch from afar as I circled the block on my daily run (read: weekly stroll) around the neighborhood wishing so badly I had a reason to enter this exclusive clique.

When I got Darcy, I couldn’t wait to go to the dog park.  It took us a little while to get there – she was transitioning from a 14 acre farm in Vermont to Old City Philadelphia and leaving her crate was overwhelming for quite some time.  But once we worked up the nerve to give it a try it was VERY exciting.  I think she even enjoyed it too.  Unfortunately, the experience was not at all what I expected.

It is a rare occasion when a whole pack of dogs is at the dog park.  There may be one or two at a time that just swing by to poop, but this group of forever friends that I had always seen is actually non-existent.  When there are dogs there, they drag their owners towards each other, sometimes growl, sometimes bark, every time sniff each other’s butts, over… and over… and over… Darcy tries to get the small ones to play.  The big ones try to eat her.  Some of the small boy ones try to hump her.  All of the leashes get tangled.  It is a blast.

As for the people – I haven’t met anyone I would actually want to talk to.  I’ve seen two cute guys, but they both have well groomed girl dogs, and are clearly just walking Fluffy to check it off of their honey-do lists.  There are girls who are afraid of the other dogs.  There are hispsters.  There are a lot of lesbians.  There are people who are filled with useless information with which they find imperative to enlighten you.  The worst is when you realize you didn’t bring your cell phone and may have to engage in awkward social interaction.

Two days ago was my one year anniversary with Darcy.  To celebrate, both anniversary and first nice day of the year, my girlfriends and I took our dogs for brunch.  Afterwards, we embarked upon a beautiful, mimosa’ed up walk to the dog park.  Upon arrival, we set our psuedo-children free to to play, while we sat on the surrounding benches and watched like some Upper East Side housewives – giggling about our husband’s Cialis prescriptions and newest Louis Vittons.  Granted, said housewives are married and actually drinking champagne while we guzzle buy-one-get-one bottom shelf double bottles of sparkling wine like we’re reentering prohibition, but it was very similar otherwise.

As a quick aside, for Christmas this year, my mother gave me a Long Champ bag, which I just love.  I’ve wanted one for years and it is the most logical bag/purse/whatever you’d like to call it I’ve ever owned.  It’s amazing.  So, on the morning in question, it was filled with dog treats, a water bowl, a $3 bottle of water which was probably filled from the river, a scarf, two layers of cardigans in case I was hot or cold, my wallet, 16 various flavors of chap-stick, my cell phone, two pairs of sunglasses that I can never find, a bottle opener, a can opener, three cell phone chargers, 11 pens- all the standard brunch necessities.

The over-priced bottle of Schuylkill water was a hit with the kids, err dogs, at the park.  I was like the soccer mom who brought Sunny-Delight instead of orange juice.  Dogs came from near and far across the sod for water.  Did any of them belong to attractive, single, age appropriate, successful men?  Of course not.  But maybe they’ll tell stories about me.

As I relished in my ‘cool mom’ glory, the screams began.  It started with “BUSTER NO!”  Then “OH my gosh WHAT is he doing?!”  and finally “STOP HIM!”  I thought this was all an overreaction to the Yorkie emptying his bowels in the middle of a game of fetch, but then turned to see the real travesty…

Buster was peeing on my Long Champ.

At first I didn’t react.  It looked like he had just spilled the miracle Schuylkill water on the bag, which is fine, since it is so durable yet lightweight and easy to carry.  But no – it was urine.  Nasty, dog that isn’t my dog, urine.  I stood in shock.  Did I run to it?  Did I pee on Buster’s favorite accessory and see how he liked it?  Did I slap his owner and yell “CONTROL YOUR ANIMAL”??

One of my girlfriends had to take her mimosa to another bench because she was so furious.  When Buster’s owner did approach me her exact words were “Oh I am so sorry – I am so embarrassed.”  Then she picked him up and muttered something to him in an Asian tongue that I did not understand, and moved to the other side of the park.  They didn’t leave.  He wasn’t punished.  No one peed on him.  They literally just acted like it never happened.

Listen, whether they’re weird or not – dog people get other dog people. We all have some code – it probably comes along with the ESP through which we think we know what our dogs are saying when they stare at us.  But as a part of that code, you do something when your dog vandalizes someone’s belongings.  I would have yelled at my dog, given the girl my number, offered to dry clean her bag, and taken Darcy home.  But Buster didn’t learn any lessons and I’m home now with a pee-stained bag putting off the cost of dry cleaning.

Take this as a warning – if you go to the Schuylkill dog park, and cross paths with a little black dog named Buster – run.  He will strike again. And I guess don’t put your belongings on the ground surrounded by an over hyped group of wild animals.

The moral of the story is – the dog park is much more glorified than I had realized.  I actually hate it.  It makes Darcy happy, so we deal with it, because when she’s happy I feel happy.  I just continue to keep my eyes peeled for my sexy, successful, volunteer firefighter, dog rescuer man who moves to the neighborhood.  And just maybe, with some patience and effort, after I find him, Darcy won’t be the only one of us getting so lucky at the dog park!