Life goals – Page 3 – Yellow Brick Missives

May 4, 2014

Dog Daze

“GIVE ME THE GODDAMN CHICKEN!”

Boa-like, Toby unhinges his jaw and attempts to swallow the entirely intact fried chicken breast he’s just scavenged from a throng of bamboo. Like a tiny, voracious panda.

So, here I am. It’s 7:00 AM on Santa Monica Boulevard and I’m performing in “That’s My Chicken!” starring Toby (as McChubberpants), Matt (as Obscenity-yelling Dad), and Fried Chicken Breast (as Delicious Morsel Certain to Give McChubberpants Explosive Diarrhea).

Me: *Unintelligible expletives while reaching into gaping pup maw*

Toby: DISIZBESTDAHYEVAH. TOBYLUVCHIKN *gulp-slobber*

Fried Chicken Breast: I can’t help that everyone loves me. Except the bastard who threw me into this fucking bamboo.

I had these grand notions about adopting a dog. That there’d be bells and whistles and angelic harps when we first brought home our furry child.

Instead, it just sort of happened that we adopted him — a boy no less.

See, we’d planned on adopting two female dogs — naming one Andrea and the other Emily, and at random moments calling out to them whilst channeling our best Meryl-as-Miranda Priestly impressions.

“Emily. Emily. There you are, Emily. How many times do I have to scream your name?”

But then Toby came along, and his name just seemed too fitting to change. Laid back and not so in-your-face as some of the other dogs, he just puttered around the activity yard while we tried to cajole him over with hot dog bits and cheese. Completely uninterested, he set to his primary task: peeing on all the things.

“We’ll take him.”

***

Flash forward a week after he’s come home. It’s midnight, and I’ve bolted upright, thrown myself out of bed, and am already in the living room by the time I actually realize I’m awake. Somehow, our little Houdini got out of his microfiber bed, tossed aside his microfiber throw, ignored his overstuffed bumble bee toy, and decided to wake the dead at the witching hour.

Over the next few days, coffee and stubble complemented dog hair-coated attire as Andy and I made our foray into being daddies. We fretted, worried, went overboard with praise when he shit outside, and couldn’t possibly stay mad at him for doing something horrendous once we heard his doggy snoring and sleep farting. And before we knew it, he was three pounds heavier and hoarding all of his toys.

***

In the end, I declare “That’s My Chicken!” a draw — he’s swallowed a few bites’ worth, but no bones.

“You know, you’re going to have to shape up when your sister gets here.”

Toby sniffs himself, then looks down the street.

Making the decision to get a second dog only six months after Toby wasn’t one that we made lightly.

With Toby, we have a routine. We know what to do — what he likes, despises, and how we can use the latter to our advantage. And his bedding and toys and other accoutrements don’t fuck up our design aesthetic.

All around, it’s a win.

But then we started looking around our apartment and thinking that we have just enough resources to make a difference in one more dog’s life. And that’s really what it comes down to in the end — effecting change, whenever we can.

So, Pearl came home yesterday.

And sure, she’s going to need plenty of help getting acclimated to her new life with a new little brother and two fathers obsessed with making her comfortable. There will be ups and downs and moments of us wondering what in the fuck we were thinking.

But there will also be moments of pure bliss.

Like yesterday, after we brought her home. She scampered around, and occasionally peed on things while I hurried after her spraying Simple Green all over the place. Toby, slightly amused and slightly disgusted at the whole situation, surveyed from his perch before surreptitiously stealing most of Pearl’s toys. Adoption detritus layered every surface — bags here, toys there, a leash or two draped over furniture. Sunlight filtered through the curtains and the air conditioner sputtered on. And everyone started to settle.

I looked around and took stock of it all. And smiled.

It’s not the perfect life. But I never wanted to be perfect.

April 21, 2014

Will Lap Dance for Luxury

I can’t dance.

If I learned anything from being called to the front of my ninth grade Physical Science class by a perverted coach-teacher and made to perform the chicken dance so that my team could earn extra credit on the next test, it was that.

Not that my team cared. After all, my tragic display gave them just enough time to tear apart my notebook whilst copying my homework.

Go team!

Anywho…

Now that Andy and I live in a big city, it’s hard not to have our daydreams of owning a home almost forcibly ripped out of our heads by cray-cray real estate prices.

But I don’t care. One day, we’ll own a cute little house. I just know it.

And I hope it looks something like this Craftsman that we drool over every single time we’re en route to Runyon Canyon.

It’s the last former rental in a now thriving pocket neighborhood — full of beautiful, insanely well-maintained bungalows and cottages. I mean, I love this house so much that if it was a ~~halfway handsome~~ man, I’m pretty sure we’d have a threesome.

I mean, check out these stone…piers.

And that wood..work.

Okay, I’ll stop. You get it: I want a house. And I know we’ll have one.

Until then, I’ll be more than happy with our apartment — a fortuitous find on a nice, quiet street in the heart of West Hollywood.

And sure, I’d love it if we had a little outdoor space all to ourselves. Like a lovely balcony that we could flood with light at night to showcase to the envious gays lurking in the darkness listening to us laughing about how rich and wonderful we are.

Not that I lurk. *Creepy giggles*

But don’t we always want a little more?

Just one more big ass slice of that American Dream pie that we’ve been forcing down our gullets for so damn long? We always want something bigger and better and generally amazing.

Rather than the simple beauty right in front of us.

Like one of my anthropology professors once said, it’s all about learning to see — and see what’s really important.

It’s looking around at what we have, and what we’ve accomplished — being proud of that.

And working toward our own definitions of success and happiness. Be they made of mortar and wood and stone, or paper and ink and fond memories.

April 20, 2014

The Wonder Year

The retail clerk looks at me with such horror that I wonder if I momentarily blacked out and smacked a bunch of orphans before running off with their milk money.

“You know, the cute shorts the gays are wearing.”

He straightens his intensely starched suit and pulls his collar to the side, as if he has a puff of cartooned steam to ventilate. Then slides the slim bag across the counter with a “Sorry, no.”

Which is when I realize that I haven’t changed that much since moving to California. That I’m still the most embarrassing person to be around. Ever.

***

Not long after moving here, Andy and I started fielding inquiries from well-meaning family members — specifically about how we shouldn’t let ourselves get sucked into “the scene” and to always “be true to yourselves.” Which translated to “Don’t get hooked on drugs and lose everything and become an asshole who stops talking to your family and friends.”

But I’m already horrible about keeping in touch (sorry, y’all), and the closest I get to drugs is when I walk past one of the bazillion legal pot dispensaries along Santa Monica Blvd. I’m too old to give a damn about the thumpa thumpa going on in West West Hollywood, and I’m much more enthralled with the quiet, in-bed-by-nine East West Hollywood.

It wasn’t until our gay, man-infested destiny was realized that I learned how much people equate such a move — especially to a big city — with going off the rails and absolutely ruining your life. Granted, it does require a little insanity to drop everything and move — but it’s not necessarily symptomatic of a deep-seated issue.

For us, this whole crazy journey has been about self-discovery and starting anew. Of course, we miss our friends and family at the Center and across North Carolina, and the Boys Clubs at The Borough. But we keep ourselves centered here, in our new home. Because everyone shifts from place to place as they make their way in the world and figure out who they are in this moment and who they’re going to be. And each revelation and stride is tinged with a bit of heroism.

***

Getting settled is hard. After almost a year, we’re just now starting to settle down — the dust isn’t quite as thick, and we can breathe again.

But a year ago, we were moving.

Andy had a job. I didn’t.

We had a tiny, closet-sized apartment waiting for us in Koreatown.

And we wondered if we were going to make it.

But we started gaining steam. I got a job.

We started saving and dreaming and working toward our goals.

And then we moved again. To a place we both love.

And adopted our furry son.

And started acknowledging that we need to give ourselves a little slack — that rebuilding a social network isn’t going to be easy. But it’ll happen.

And that our dreams outside the daily grind can be brought to fruition — that they’re still there, regardless of context.

So as we creep up on the anniversary of our move, we’re finding ourselves just as energized and scared and hopeful as we were a year ago.

And just as we were then, we’re charging headlong into it all — reveling in the ambiguity, and cherishing the experiences to come.

April 9, 2014

Root (Re)Bound

Lately, life has been a little difficult.

But that’s to be expected. Work is tiring. Keeping the house in order is always an ongoing process, especially if you happen to be incredibly obsessive about how everything looks — not that I’d know. Toby keeps gaining chins at a rapid rate, despite our best efforts.

And self-imposed deadlines are creeping up (oh, haaay book-that-should-be-finished-but-isn’t).

Oh, [First World] life.

But every now and then, we get a little kick in the gut that reminds us to check in with ourselves. Make sure everything’s in order. That we’re doing just fine and not slowly retreating from the world and curling into a nice, tight ball of nerves.

Because when that happens, you need a little something called a Mental Health Day.

Now, I was no stranger to taking these at my last job. But given that my depleted work ethic has since rebounded, it’s hard for me to take some me time to decompress. Still, we all have days that start off like this:

(Yes, that mess Toby’s comforting, who’s sprawled across the bed, is yours truly).

So, for whatever reason, I often fill my mental health days with plant-related tasks.

Whether it’s staving-off an aphid infestation or re-potting plants, there’s something incredibly cathartic about giving a little boost to the quietly alive things making our apartment look that much better. Even if the process is messy. (Like one of my favorite bloggers describes.)

And for very obvious reasons, the whole process reminds me of growing up — my roots, and how and where I’ve come into my own.

As a very late bloomer, I didn’t really find my niche, nor my voice, until a lot later in life. And I didn’t really give myself many chances to thrive. Which is probably why I’d always gravitate toward the bedraggled looking plants in the nurseries. Sort of like how, back in college, I’d always “rescue” the beta fish that looked sickly or generally gross. I’d map my own history onto these struggling pieces of existence and hoped to see something in me reignite or take shape. But alas, usually these attempts ended with a toilet flush or a wilted mess.

Now, though, I’m pretty damn sure where I’m going and how to keep myself rooted — even when we keep on the move. And from that has come a new sense of self — of better understanding my own capabilities and my strengths, and how best to use those skills to nurture new life, new opportunities.

And an unexpected byproduct of all of this maturation has been an understanding of how to deal with the future — the unknowns, the certainties, the scary stuff none of us likes to think about. The warts and tears and politics of getting older, and watching our parents start that bizarrely alien, yet natural process of slowing down. And dealing with the outbursts and bruised feelings and hard decisions children have to make when they start assuming the roles of parents and parents start pedaling backward into childhood.

In many ways, we’re all seedlings trying to conquer a massive pot of soil — make it our own, dominate it.

But before we know it, we hit the outer edge.

And we have to break up our root-bound selves, replenish, and start growing again.

March 22, 2014

Sedentary Socialites or Again, Why Do We Have Two Bars In Our House?

The older we get, the harder we fall.

Wait, no.

The younger we are, the higher our bullshit threshold.

Almost.

The older we get, the harder it is to meet people and actually want to meet people and feel like you have the time to be social and host dinner parties and rationalize why you have two bars in your house.

There we go.

***

I like to think of myself as a social person. I’m southern, which means I can talk to anyone about anything for at least six minutes, and possibly longer — especially if we’re standing in a long checkout line at the grocery store. I quickly become completely fascinated by other people and their lives and what they do (unless they flay the skin off of things and wear their creep show creations as masks). Throw all of that innate interest into a blender with an anthropological background and, wabam, socialite central. Which is why I figured that we might as well outfit our apartment with two bars.

But these days I’m starting to put a little more stock in that saying I always heard about how hard it is to make friends as you get older. I mean, I guess I figured my drive to constantly connect with people would remain, well, constant. But I’ve just sort of slowed down. I mean, I know that that’s to be expected following a big move and new jobs and moving again and adopting a dog and doing every possible thing we’re warned against doing together together. Still, the past few months I’ve found myself super drained, and have felt like I’ve aged approximately 500 years.

So, is this the new normal? Is this what happens when I pack up one decade’s worth of experiences to drag behind me as I tip into the next? Or am I really 529 years old and am just now realizing it — like that dead teenager in American Horror Story?

Or maybe this is just evidence that I’m expecting way too much to happen in a relatively short amount of time. Being the insane control freak that I am, it’s typical that I want everything to be exactly the way it should be at exactly the right time, regardless of how much energy has to be front-loaded in the process. But I’m learning that it takes me a hell of a lot more time to bounce back from stuff than it used to. And that that’s okay.

Because we’re still working to make things happen, to cultivate friendships — and acknowledging that the good stuff takes time. Time that’s well worth it.

So I won’t completely re-purpose the bars quite yet. I’ll just keep dusting them off. Until the timing is just right.

February 9, 2014

On Passing Time

Rain drizzles outside — and with it comes slight pandemonium. But all of that just fades behind a cotton curtain, veiling the iron-framed windows looking out onto Santa Monica Boulevard from the former hardware shop.

Conversations hum around us like flies over jam, and the lights dim just enough to create an air of intrigue as wine is generously poured into deep, clear glasses — creating the illusion of darkness pouring into darkness.

And there, in front of me, is the man I’m going to marry in a few months — shoving his hair here and there in a frustrating attempt to gain control, and resting a day’s work on the leather booth back. We both sip our melon cocktails, and I watch the cucumber sliver knock gently against my tumbler’s side.

“You know, just think of where we were a year ago.” My own voice almost startles me, even among the low din of the surrounding chatter.

“I know. It’s been a journey.”

Literally. A year ago, I was busying myself with arranging a cupcake tower for Andy, mere hours after I decided to quit my job. On his birthday. (Even in retrospect, the selfishness of it all still sort of stings.)

But before my mind steeps in that emotionally tumultuous memory, our waiter tempts us with delicious treats, and I consider his face momentarily, thinking of how much he resembles Callum Bloom from Dead Like Me.

Soon enough, small plates — with entree names that’re head-smashingly annoying — pass under our noses and I savor the complex, mouth-watering tastes, all the while thinking back to my post-employment budgeting attempts for scrimping and scraping every bit of money we had just to get out here. How I’d methodically taken stock of what we had in our cupboards before cobbling together random dinners of grits and pasta and lentils, and slowly downsizing the deer-and-a-half in our freezer.

Satisfyingly full, we walk out and are immediately bombarded by a line of art-goers impatiently waiting outside a neighboring storefront. But we dart past, across the road, and into the misty darkness — toward the base of the Hollywood Hills, speckled with lighted clusters; up the block to the low-slung mid-century building with the courtyard in the city we never thought we’d live in; to be greeted by a little furry blob we never knew would be ours.

Where we unwind. With cake, of course.

We may just be beginning this new chapter — after a protracted prologue — but the pages ahead aren’t so much blank as they are dotted with aspirations and benchmarks, bubbling to the pages’ surfaces like developed invisible ink.

And while things will always be exhausting and mind-bending to various degrees, we’re still in the game — playing on: two chess pieces unwilling to be checked, together reaching our own version of victory on a constantly unsteady, shifting plane.

And that’s enough for me.

January 1, 2014January 1, 2014

Under Locks and Key Lime Pie

Curls are rolling down my bib-like salon cape, spiraling into a pile that I expect to animate at any moment, don glasses and a hat, and mutter in a high-pitched, incoherent voice before moving ghost-like out the front door and spilling onto the sidewalks of Beverly Hills.

“So, that’s what your ears look like. They’re so little!”

Andy is genuinely amazed.

“Wait. You’ve never seen my ears?”

What a bizarrely jarring revelation. Having been together this long, I’d have thought he’d have a pretty good understanding of my physical self by now. But, lo!

“And your head is a nice shape.”

“Seriously? You’ve seen my head before!”

It’s starting to sound like we’re running lines from a gay sequel to At First Sight. Rain starts drizzling outside, and I stare ahead into the mirror at my ears — naked and exposed from ye olde ringlets of years past, ready to absorb the direct California sun.

The context, the do, my reflection — all coalescing into something new that takes me by surprise.

Jesus. I do have tiny ears.

***

A year ago, Andy and I were pulling everything out of cabinets in our Raleigh apartment after returning from our gay, man-infested destiny — the only things fueling us being the residual Starbucks lattes in the car, and the adrenaline from making this life-changing decision somewhere in the Midwest. Weeks later, our walls had been stripped bare and furniture piled up and for sale.

We were committed.

We were pumped.

We were ready for anything.

Then, we hit a wall.

Worried a lot.

Hit another wall.

Patched and repaired our sinking ship of a plan.

And held fast to our convictions that, somehow, things would work out.

And this morning — the first day of 2014 — as I woke up at 2:00 AM to the sound and immediate, face-scrunching smell of Toby’s explosive diarrhea, I was reminded that, yes, things actually have worked out.

Even if it’s taken buckets of blood, sweat, and tears. Some Clorox wipes. And room deodorizer.

***

About a month ago, Andy and I sat down to a nice dinner at a restaurant a block away from our apartment. It became a moment etched into my mind — a time to reflect and remember where we were now and how we got here.

And then I devoured a piece of key lime pie.

Now, here’s the thing: I actually don’t like key lime pie. Or I thought I didn’t. But I gave it a go. Because, hey, why not? And it worked out. It was delicious. I was fortified and satisfied.

Much like I am with our new life out here, in a place that’s become much less alien than that first time we set foot here.

And with a new year ahead of us — a blank slate ready to be filled — I’m ready to make the best of it. There’re so many things I want to accomplish, and it already seems like time is flying past. But with a little imagination, a lot of gumption, and plenty of tenacity, I’ll fill that empty frame with something great.

(Which is why I keep an actual empty frame above the computer — to remind me of the possibilities.)

Because plenty of fantastic fantasies — fairy tales and story lines — have been translated to reality.

So why shouldn’t ~~mine~~ ours?

December 22, 2013December 22, 2013

Accidental Adults

When life gives you lemons, put them in a vase. Then pour yourself two fingers’ worth of single malt scotch.

This is what it means to be an adult.

***

A flamboyantly fabulous hiker is nearly knocking shoulders with me. So much so that it disrupts my concentration, which — up to now — has been dedicated to our riveting 401k conversation.

“So then I…uh, six percent is, durr uh…”

Andy looks at me expectantly, awaiting something other than my zombie speak. But I can’t focus, what with the day’s drivel quotient just reaching its maximum courtesy of this unexpected interloper’s wide yap.

“And so I was like, ‘All of your friends are my friends, bitch.’ And you know that’s right!”

No, I really don’t.

I shoot a glance to the passersby, the most fabulous of whom is bedecked in what we’ve dubbed the WeHo uniform: American Apparel tank top, cute shorts, and Toms (sparkles optional).

Then channel my inner 85-year-old, whispering to Andy.

“That’s not a very practical hiking outfit.”

“I don’t think it’s for hiking.”

The drama tornado continues downhill, and we slow our pace to avoid as much of its debris field as possible. I stare on, thinking of how different I was 10 years ago, before returning my attention to the matter at hand.

“Now, about the 401k.”

***

Like most little boys, I wanted it all: a haunted, historic house; a hearse; a three-legged dog; and a hot man. In that order. But rarely does anything happen the way you want it to, much less in some sort of orderly fashion. Sometimes, chance occurrences lead to new avenues. Or translate into teachable moments as you sneak out of someone’s house at dawn.

And while I haven’t shimmied out a window any time in the past few years, I’ve realized that, for things to happen, I have to be able to mix opportunity and gumption and work with the results. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what I’ve learned from my twenties.

So, as I steel my nerves for a new year and a new decade, I’m ready to carry that little self-truth around like a pocket square — pairing it with everything I do, and always remembering that it’s more than a mental accessory.

***

Lots of people say we stay the same — that, deep down, we’re each still the same person we were in high school or college, just older and with more defined crow’s feet. Others, like me, are of the mindset that we’re constantly changing — like a wave, or Carrot Top’s face.

Had I discovered time travel at age 25, and paid a visit to my shy, slightly macabre self in 1989, I would have made the little me mess my Oshkosh overalls — telling my younger self that graduate school is horrible; that I live in a dank basement apartment; that I have no benefits through my job; that I barely make ends meet; that I drive a sensible sedan; and that I have a facial scar from a cancerous blob.

But what the 25-year-old me wouldn’t know is how much crazier the next few years will be, so much so that the me of today would probably make the 25-year-old me mess my wannabe Emo cargo pants — talking about experiencing the Great Recession’s smack across the face while crazily searching for another job; bouncing around from place to place trying to find out what home means; settling into my safety net job, only to realize it’s a horrible ruse; getting involved and activating my dormant activist; randomly meeting a great guy; realizing life doesn’t cut anyone any breaks; taking a big chance and moving across the country; establishing our roots in unfamiliar soil; starting a new profession; slowly growing and learning and blossoming again while giving a furry little being another lease on life.

Like a lot of things, we just sort of fall into being adults. And, as it usually goes, we quickly realize it’s not about keeping up with everyone else — wanting more than what we have just to have it, rather than using our drive (our it) to achieve something.

***

One by one, each of the things I thought I wanted changed a little. And my hard-and-fast deadlines quickly became much more flexible.

Do I still want a house some day? Sure. But only when the timing is right and a small fixer-upper cottage is available. Bigger is not better — just more to clean.

Until then, I’ll be a serial renter, and will remain more than happy right where I am.

Do I want a fancy car (or hearse)? Nah. Anything with four wheels that runs and can be paid off relatively quickly will work.

Am I devastated that Toby has all of his legs? Slightly. Kidding!

Did I totally actually land a hot guy? Yes. (How did that happen?) Life is surprising.

***

Up until the past year, I’d been trying to avoid imperfection rather than reveling in, and experiencing more of it.

But the best laid plans will always form a crack or two. And that’s alright.

Because that’s where the good stuff hides.

December 19, 2013

Nesting, Y’all!

Anyone who knows me — hell, anyone who has met me once in a bar — knows that, when it comes to nesting, I nest hard.

And I’m not a minimalist.

Which is why I’ve been on a crazy-long writing hiatus. (Alright, I’m also lazy.)

But, I like to think that I stand a better chance of getting some quality writing done when the house is a home, and this magpie is all finished prancing about the nest, adding bits and baubles and sparklies.

(And if y’all didn’t catch that reference to The Secret of Nimh, shame on yourselves! Go rent it now! I mean, buy it. I mean, download it. I mean…)

As I was saying, I love design. I love interior spaces. I love marrying all of it into something cohesive that reads like a place where I want to spend a lot of time. Or at least someplace where I can get completely bombed and maybe pass out on the floor.

And that’s exactly what we achieved in Raleigh.

But, it’s been a while. And Toto, we’re not in Raleigh anymore.

***

Suffice it to say I was more than a little nervous when we rediscovered a lot of our stuff — y’all know, all of that fun decor that’d been stored away for six months. Most of which was last seen getting loaded onto a semi in Raleigh.

And then unloaded on the other side of the country, into either our storage unit in a galaxy far, far away (Gardena)…

…or into our cramped Koreatown closet — a.k.a. our six-month studio. (Remember that adventure?)

But now, we’ve somehow managed to shoehorn ourselves into the neighborhood we’d coveted from afar…

have moved in…

…and have even adopted a little ball of joy — Toby (a.k.a. Jabba the Pup).

Still, stuff has to get stowed. Furniture must be moved. And you can only stand that cardboard smell for approximately three minutes before it becomes maddening and you’re running around in a cucumber mask demanding someone clean up this mess!

Slowly but surely — and with a few vodka chasers — we’ve managed to pull things together.

And rip down those horrendous vertical blinds.

And while we still have so much art stored in closets, we’ve decided that — since we can’t coat the walls in paint — we’ll cover them with paintings.

Because if we’re going to go all out — be one piece of furniture away from descending into “cluttered” territory, or one painting away from cray-cray studio wannabes — we have to do it up right.

So, bring on the oddball pieces — like Andy’s childhood desk. I had no idea where this was going to go until I just owned it — shoved that sucker at a diagonal, pulled it out, and made it something useful again. (Side note: being completely dazed by sinus infection medication helps.)

All in all, we’ve thrown everything into a pot, set it to boil, and created something that’s not too cold, not too hot.

But just right.

November 14, 2013

Sheltered

My ass is in the air, and a blind poodle is smooshing its face against my inner thigh.

This is my reality.

Caged.

***

Staring ahead at the barking dogs, I inhale, propel myself — face down — through the narrow passage leading to the other side. Then slip, and kiss the cold concrete floor — my cheek mere inches from a steaming turd.

The poodle follows.

I step back.

Assess.

And realize I’m screwed.

*Poodle face-smoosh*

Everything had been going according to plan.

***

A lot of people wonder what my new job entails. And by “a lot,” I mean my parents.

Working for a nonprofit, everyone has to wear at least five hats at a given time. And, sometimes, coordinate them with five outfits without notice. So, one such wardrobe change I frequently make is for two news segments, each of which helps us find homes for the featured animals we take on the air.

And this day, I have a date with a Shih Tzu. At 6:00 AM.

There’s primping to be done, scarves to be tied, bowel movements to be made on the sidewalk. And y’all, time is rarely on our side. Especially when the dreaded highway of hell, the 405, awaits.

But today, I get in early. I have everything ready. This should be a dog walk in the park.

***

A click of the lock later, and I’m walking into the shelter, rousing the curiosity of its barky residents, one of whom will soon be making his TV debut.

Three Shih Tzu’s later, I’m empty handed. Sweat beads on my forehead.

Where is he?

Was he already adopted?

Am I insane?

I begin searching frantically. Then blow through a door, turn the corner, and walk through another one, with a momentary thought trailing after me like a potent fart.

I hope this door doesn’t lock.

I turn to catch it.

*Click.*

I turn the knob.

Jiggle it.

Pull it.

Push it.

Before my heart sinks to my toes, and I come to the crushing realization.

I’m trapped.

Like the last brick sealing Fortunato’s fate, the click of the door ushers in an all-consuming denial — incredulity that demands remedy.

This. Is. Happening.

Like most panicked animals, I scamper within my confines while entertaining racing, irrational thoughts.

My eyes dart here. There. Every damn where for salvation, escape.

Maybe I can squeeze through that four inch space.

Maybe that barbed wire isn’t as sharp as it looks.

If I had shape-shifting powers, I could totally get out of here.

But then, I remember something — a real super power.

My phone!

I reach into my back pocket. But only grab lint and dental floss.

Oh. Balls.

***

As the doggy din subsides, I shove two large shelter keys in the door and kennel locks, trying to make something work — like a lock-picking Tim Gunn.

No luck.

But there’s one more key — a tiny, imp-like piece of metal. So I turn to an empty kennel, push in and turn the key, and alakazam!

I’m in. Kenneled.

Now comes the tricky part: getting from Point A — inside the kennel — to Point D — the other side of the locked door.

I assess the small passage separating the inside-outside kennel halves and push myself through, emerging into the other fenced half facing the stray section. With another lock conquered, I have only one option — trying the same thing with one of the inhabited kennels.

So I walk the kennel line, determining which of the strays wants a temporary roomie. And that’s when I see him — the little blind poodle.

And Bingo was him name, oh!

***

By now, the whole kennel block is one loud bark. Inside, facing my fellow strays, I know I’m just one little flip of the key from victory.

*Face-smoosh*

I take a few steps to the kennel door, and reach for the lock.

Only to realize that this particular door is slightly different from the others — the lock is bolted to a wooden post, out of view. And the only way to get to it is to shove my hand through the chain-link fencing.

The canine cacophony is deafening — reverberating off the walls, almost shaking my hands — and I can’t help but think their barks are more critical in tone than supportive.

But then, as sweaty rivers cascade down my face, I get a little, literal nudge of encouragement from my kennel mate.

With my hands contorted and smashed through the fencing like some arabesque marionette, I glance down to see him — quietly determined — smooshing his head into my pant leg.

And, exhale.

I turn back, twist my hands — scraping off more skin — jostle the lock, and feel it give.

Success!

I push, and smash my face into the immovable fence. Crucial minutes pass before I realize I have to push yet another lock out of my way. Which I eventually do.

Freedom!

***

Only after a coworker arrives do I find the one.

So my furry friend and I jump into the car, race to the interstate, and sit in gridlock traffic — watching the segment time inch up, then pass.

Fifteen minutes late, I swerve into the studio lot, hear a heave, and turn around just in time to see puparoo puke all over his crate.

Marvelous.

And then we sit. For an hour. Until we’re shoehorned into another segment.

We go on, I smile and chat with the anchor, and the pup gets adopted a few days later.

This is my new work life. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

Nesting in a new home is always punctuated with an I-can’t-take-this-mess-anymore culling period. And this time around, old field clothes, notes, and just about everything from my past job as an archaeologist went into the dumpster.

Still, I find myself struck by the fact that I need absolutely none of it for my job now. My professional slate is more than clean — it’s rebuilt.

But a few days ago, I got a little reminder — a sense of the past creeping up and tapping me on the shoulder.

***

Silent auction items for an upcoming event lay strewn across the desk. And a pocket watch takes center stage.

“Hey, Matt. You might know something about this. Do you know how old this is?”

The historian-researcher in me suddenly springs out of hibernation. Within minutes, I have the serial number called up on a database, and a use-date onscreen. And fueling that keyboard clattering and image searching is a bit of enjoyment, with a hint of nostalgia.

Because not everything about what has been has to be painful. There’re plenty of ways to pay homage — nodding to a past life knowingly, thanking it in my own way, and acknowledging that it had its time, its place.

And that it’s time to move on.

“Well, never mind, I guess we don’t really need it anymore since we have these.”

I smile down at the opened, gold lid — the watch’s cracked glass and yellowed Roman numerals, the hands stopped at some random moment in time.

“No, I suppose we don’t.”

Then close it.

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