Behind Blue Eyes (and Black Spots)

Yesterday my sister-in-law told me that I was insane. It’s not the first time. It’s not even the first time this week. (I could mention that some people have 30 + goats, three dogs and five cats, but I digress.)

The point is, she’s not the only one. Since I got a third Great Dane that sentiment has become a chorus.

I did have a plan when I acquired JP, the five-month-old rescue. I thought Jasper, the 14-month-old Dane needed a playmate. He loves playing with Dalai the Dane, but at seven, Dalai no longer has the stamina to play for nearly as long as Jasper thinks is appropriate. That is, constantly.

Jasper loves his regular visits with Blue, a lovely, patient three-year-old Dane who just flops on her stomach while Jasper pesters.  Naturally I assumed he would literally leap at the prospect of having a new playful friend.

Like most crazy people, I am a little delusional.

The afternoon I picked up JP I had to literally unload him from the SUV. He didn’t know how to jump down, and when I helped him out, he slid onto the ground in 87 pounds of puppy mush. After a few seconds he popped up and started to bound around the yard in search of something interesting.

Then he spotted Poppy. JP thought she was fascinating. He gallumped up to her, brimming with dopey joy. In response, she snapped at him. He was shocked and tumbled over in surprise. (He tips over a lot – his feet are the size of soup plates.)

By then Jasper had shoved his way over.  JP was ecstatic to see another normal-sized playmate. Jasper, somehow knew JP wasn’t here for a playdate, but rather was staying.  Jasper was not pleased.

In response to JPs delight, Jasper knocked him down and growled. Again, JP was shocked.  

By the time Dalai joined the grumbling crowd, JP was confused and befuddled. Dalai just sniffed him and stomped away in a disgusted fury.

For the next day, that’s how it went. Dalai and Poppy ignored JP’s clumsy overtures, and Jasper snapped and groused loudly. Just as I was starting to think that this wasn’t going to work, Jasper and JP started playing. Hard.

They zoom around the back yard at top speed, leaping in the air and colliding as they hit the ground. Inevitably JP lands with an earthshaking thud, and before he registers what happened, he’s be on his feet chasing Jasper. 

Later when they are exhausted, they collapse on my bed, their feet tangled together a mass of spotted legs. They are inseparable.

I immediately signed JP up for puppy school. Other than housebreaking him, his previous owners had taught him nothing. Zip. He came with no boundaries. He counter surfs. He steals toys, often from Jasper’s mouth. Anything and everything in his path goes into his mouth.

It’s like living with a really huge, adorable, drooling, snoring toddler.

Since this isn’t my first Dane puppy I’m already in the habit of keeping food in cabinets, the refrigerator or inside the microwave. Needless to say, my shoes go in the closet with the door tightly closed.

For the first few weeks everything was easy. The weather was great, so the dogs blew off steam chasing each other around the horse paddock for hours. I walked each of them a mile a day.

Then it got hot. Surface of the sun, hot. For nearly three weeks in it was 90 degrees before eight am and topped out around 109. The dogs would charge out of the air-conditioned house and freeze as they hit a wall of heat.  They never stayed out for long and always returned panting, their eyes glazed with heat. 

Walks were out of the question; their paws would burn on the pavement.

We were all bored ,crabby and getting on each other’s nerves. 

Once I came home to the shredded remains of brand new package of poop bags scattered throughout the house. The ones that were ripped were draped across the furniture like streamers. At least the redecorating exhausted them.

During the heatwave, there was one day I had to be gone all afternoon and evening. I came home just long enough to feed the dogs and put them out. When I herded them inside, they were visibly vibrating with energy. But I had to leave again.

When I finally got home, I knew there was going to be trouble. But I wasn’t quite ready for absolute devastation. My mistake.

The first thing I spotted was the remains of that week’s New Yorker. I hadn’t even had a chance to read Talk of the Town . My bed was littered with scraps of book I couldn’t identify. Bits of a mouse trap were scattered in the living room. The guest room held the remains of a sponge. Tucked into the couch were my expensive sunglasses, the glass and arms gnawed beyond repair. Even my hairbrush was chomped.

Then there was the box of envelopes. It used to hold my checkbook, two books of stamps and a bunch of those return address labels charities send out. 

The box was shredded, the envelopes were missing and the check register was limp with drool.  The checks and stamps were gone. Completely eaten.  The address labels were untouched.

I surveyed the mess from the door and shouted, “Oh. My. God! Bad dogs! Bad! Bad! Dogs!” 

I stood stock still for a moment. JP blew past me into the yard in a full-on gallop. This was obviously not his first rodeo and he was getting out of Dodge and smacking range.

As I went room to room assessing the damage, Jasper followed me with an expression of complete surprise. He would have been more believable if a stamp wasn’t stuck to his forehead.

As I was picking up the wreckage, JP crept in and put his head in my lap. He was equal parts terrified and sorry.

It was far too long after fact to punish him, so I cursed and patted him. He sighed and climbed into my lap and fell asleep.

It’s not easy being a puppy. Especially one who is the size of a mini-horse at five months, and on his third home.

It’s not much easier being his person. But being nuts does help.

Holiday Photoshoot, Cursing Included At No Extra Charge

Fall is my favorite season. For one thing, it has an almost perfect holiday: Halloween. There’s no family to visit, you don’t need a date and there’s lots of candy.  Tons actually, because although my neighborhood doesn’t have many kids, I buy enough treats for an invading army.  Mmm, snack-size Snickers!

There is only one downside to this season: Holiday photo shoots. 

It’s my own fault. When I moved to Los Angeles I thought it would be funny to dress up the Keeper the Perfect Dog in goggles and a scarf and position her in my bright red convertible. It was easy to do and the card was a huge hit.

After that, every year I upped the ante. One year the Brittanys wore Santa hats and pulled a red wagon full of toys and other Brittanys. After that came the Halloween costumes. Over the years Murray the Dane was a fireman, Quattro the Brittany wore a yarmulke and Morgan Brittany was a Pilgrim.

I became a victim of my own success. People started looking forward to my cards. A few friends actually saved them. The pressure is enormous.

The pictures inevitably turn out great. How can they miss? My dogs are extremely photogeneic. 

But the process isn’t easy. Friends with an artistic bent serve as photographers. They rarely volunteer more than once. Perfect Keeper was a once-in-a-lifetime model.

While it's amusing to a Great Dane wearing a fireman’s costume, you’re missing angst that goes into getting that picture.  And the many blurry outtakes. Oh, and the cursing. There's always lots of cursing.

You’ve all heard about stars that schedule exactly one hour for a photo shoot and not a second more? Those folks are a cinch compared to working with three or four Brittanys and a few Great Danes.

You can - in theory- reason or bribe people, even rock stars. But there aren’t enough chicken snacks in the universe to coerce a Great Dane puppy into keeping on a set of reindeer ears. Nor is there a costume in creation, that will remain on a Brittany who wants it off.

Also, Brittanys are hunting dogs.  Maximum ADD is part of their DNA. The Danes do whatever the Brirttanys do. You get the picture. It gets dizzying.

Last Sunday I mentioned to my friend Maureen that it was time for the annual photo shoot. She is a former creative director for GM’s ad company and is a graphic designer. She has formidable taste and I promised excellent bourbon as an added enticement. She took the bait.

She became a little wary when she walked into the living room and saw a huge cardboard box labeled ‘Halloween.’ The box was filled with costumes. For the dogs.

Maureen opted to put the Jockey on Jasper, while I dressed Poppy in the Super Girl cape. This was not Dalai’s first rodeo; when she saw the box, she tore into her crate to hide. It didn’t work. The crate takes up half my bedroom and she still hangs out of it. She sighed deeply as I called her out.

Naturally, as I attached the Jester ears to Dalai, Jasper removed the Jockey and Poppy shredded her cape. They’d all outgrown the Jailer outfit, and the Pilgrim didn’t work either. Sadly, the Devil ears were too tight. But eventually we forced costumes on them and all of us tumbled out the door into the rapidly disappearing evening light.

The horses were mildly interested in the goings on until the shouting began.  Then they quietly retreated out of camera range before we could put costumes on them.

Poppy began by sweetly sitting in my lap, pawing at her hat. Soon she took out her frustrations by snarling at Jasper who ignored her, instead rolling around at my feet ensuring that he’d be blurry. Dalai turned toward the horses as if begging for help. No one looked at the camera at the same time.

After about a half an hour, and probably 50 pictures, it started to get dark. Maureen and I both needed a drink.

We took off the costumes and Dalai and Poppy ran to the house.  Jasper grabbed his and zoomed around the yard with it. Maureen and I opened a bottle of Larceny and drank up.

There were about four usable photos. You’ll see them around the holidays. In the meantime, you can see this video of the proceedings  that Maureen took before being overcome by the giggles.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QRei9Phwrs&feature=youtu.be

            You are welcome.

Goodbye Really Is the Hardest Word

It started, as many things do, with an email. The subject line read: Roc Needs Help.

If I’d had any sense, I’d have deleted it. After all, I didn’t know any Rocs. I did know the person it was from: the West Coast Coordinator of the American Brittany Rescue.

I have adopted five of the eight Brittanys I’ve owned from ABR. AS a volunteer, I visit potential adopters to see if they are worthy of ABR’s dogs, and I’m tougher than most human social workers. I also help out on transporting them to their new homes.

I don’t do shelter visits. The only time I’ve been in a shelter it was to rent a have-a-heart trap. I walked out with a dog.

Against my better judgement I clicked on the email. It turns out Roc was an elderly male Brittany.

People who place dogs have to be really smart and Diana is one of the best. She pulled out all the stops as she told his story. Roc had been a stud dog, (when I looked at the picture I knew why; this was one handsome chunk of a dog), who had come to ABR when his breeding days were over.  

Somewhere along the line he’d developed separation anxiety, making him hard to place, but after a long search, and with the right medication, he found a wonderful couple who loved and treasured him.

That should have been the end of the story but naturally, there was a tragic twist. Now, three years later, one of his people needed a heart transplant, and with all of Roc’s issues, they simply couldn’t keep him.

Like all responsible rescues, ABR always takes its dogs back. The now 13-year-old Roc was returning but there was no place to put him. There aren’t many people who will take senior dogs, particularly those with problems.

I’m proud to be one of them. Since I’ve adopted two previous seniors, net to my name there's probably the word ‘gullible’ written in red ink.  It could be worse.

After reading the email my first reaction was to close my eyes and yell “I don’t see you.” Instead I took my dogs for a walk.

Actually, three walks, since each one goes separately.  It’s good exercise, but time consuming. Which is awesome when I’m trying to clear my head or avoid writing.  Obviously, my dogs are really fit from all that walking.

It didn’t work. I couldn’t get Roc out of my head.

I had good reasons to turn Roc down.  Literally the biggest was Murray. Murray was my heart dog. A huge Great Dane We'd been together since he was six weeks old and 11 pounds, Murray didn’t take to strange dogs even in the best of times.

This wasn’t the best of times. He was ten, arthritic and grumpy. He occasionally even snapped at his best friend, Poppy the Brittany. Thankfully, Poppy, a happy, alpha bitch if there ever was one, didn’t care. She just bit him back. These days she could outrun him.

Additionally, I was going to be out of town for three weeks, and I couldn’t possibly take Roc before I returned, and I knew time was a factor. Also when I came back my mom was visiting for a month. She’s older herself, and a little unsteady. Settling them both in could be a problem.

I called Diana to explain. Did I mention that she is a genius at what she does? Mere moments after we’d talked she rang back, saying she’d found a temporary foster to take Roc until I returned. As for mom, well, Roc was pretty sedentary and loved older people.

Three weeks and one day later, mom and I were on our way to pick up Roc.  I was worried about how he’d adjust. I shouldn’t have. After we put his bed in my car he hopped in and never looked back.

Before we left we had to gather up his stuff. He came with a lot: leashes, collars, a reflector vest, a couple of coats, dinner bowls and lengthy medical records.

With help from Prozac for his separation anxiety and Rimadyl for his arthritis, Rocky became the perfect dog. 

He and Murray forged an understanding which mostly involved ignoring each other. Roc didn’t have much use for the girls, Poppy and my other Dane, Dalai, but they got along.

A huge plus were his immaculate manners; he begged for food, but he didn’t steal. He never barked. Ever.

I hoped my other dogs would learn from him. They didn’t.

Rocky didn’t care about much other than being near his person. Quickly that person became me. He immediately claimed the dog bed in my office, and squished into the small space Murray didn’t hog on my bed. All Rocky really wanted to do was snuggle. So we did.

I lost Rocky this week. His pain had become unmanageable and his quality of life was no longer good. It was, as it always is, an awful, horrible decision.

We only had a year and a half together. It wasn’t long, but he took a huge piece of my heart with him when he left. I don’t regret it for a minute.

Inevitably there will be another email from Diana. Sadly, there always is.

In a heartbeat I’ll do it all over again.

Goodbye Is the Hardest Word

It started, as many things do, with an email. The subject line read: Roc Needs Help.

If I’d had any sense, I’d have deleted it. After all, I didn’t know any Rocs. I did know the person it was from: the West Coast Coordinator of the American Brittany Rescue.

I have adopted five of the eight Brittanys I’ve owned from ABR. AS a volunteer, I visit potential adopters to see if they are worthy of ABR’s dogs, and I’m tougher than most human social workers. I also help out on transporting them to their new homes.

I don’t do shelter visits. The only time I’ve been in a shelter it was to rent a have-a-heart trap. I walked out with a dog.

Against my better judgement I clicked on the email. It turns out Roc was an elderly male Brittany.

People who place dogs have to be really smart and Diana is one of the best. She pulled out all the stops as she told his story. Roc had been a stud dog, (when I looked at the picture I knew why; this was one handsome chunk of a dog), who had come to ABR when his breeding days were over.  

Somewhere along the line he’d developed separation anxiety, making him hard to place, but after a long search, and with the right medication, he found a wonderful couple who loved and treasured him.

That should have been the end of the story but naturally, there was a tragic twist. Now, three years later, one of his people needed a heart transplant, and with all of Roc’s issues, they simply couldn’t keep him.

Like all responsible rescues, ABR always takes its dogs back. The now 13-year-old Roc was returning but there was no place to put him. There aren’t many people who will take senior dogs, particularly those with problems.

I’m proud to be one of them. Since I’ve adopted two previous seniors, net to my name there's probably the word ‘gullible’ written in red ink.  It could be worse.

After reading the email my first reaction was to close my eyes and yell “I don’t see you.” Instead I took my dogs for a walk.

Actually, three walks, since each one goes separately.  It’s good exercise, but time consuming. Which is awesome when I’m trying to clear my head or avoid writing.  Obviously, my dogs are really fit from all that walking.

It didn’t work. I couldn’t get Roc out of my head.

I had good reasons to turn Roc down.  Literally the biggest was Murray. Murray was my heart dog. A huge Great Dane We'd been together since he was six weeks old and 11 pounds, Murray didn’t take to strange dogs even in the best of times.

This wasn’t the best of times. He was ten, arthritic and grumpy. He occasionally even snapped at his best friend, Poppy the Brittany. Thankfully, Poppy, a happy, alpha bitch if there ever was one, didn’t care. She just bit him back. These days she could outrun him.

Additionally, I was going to be out of town for three weeks, and I couldn’t possibly take Roc before I returned, and I knew time was a factor. Also when I came back my mom was visiting for a month. She’s older herself, and a little unsteady. Settling them both in could be a problem.

I called Diana to explain. Did I mention that she is a genius at what she does? Mere moments after we’d talked she rang back, saying she’d found a temporary foster to take Roc until I returned. As for mom, well, Roc was pretty sedentary and loved older people.

Three weeks and one day later, mom and I were on our way to pick up Roc.  I was worried about how he’d adjust. I shouldn’t have. After we put his bed in my car he hopped in and never looked back.

Before we left we had to gather up his stuff. He came with a lot: leashes, collars, a reflector vest, a couple of coats, dinner bowls and lengthy medical records.

With help from Prozac for his separation anxiety and Rimadyl for his arthritis, Rocky became the perfect dog. 

He and Murray forged an understanding which mostly involved ignoring each other. Roc didn’t have much use for the girls, Poppy and my other Dane, Dalai, but they got along.

A huge plus were his immaculate manners; he begged for food, but he didn’t steal. He never barked. Ever.

I hoped my other dogs would learn from him. They didn’t.

Rocky didn’t care about much other than being near his person. Quickly that person became me. He immediately claimed the dog bed in my office, and squished into the small space Murray didn’t hog on my bed. All Rocky really wanted to do was snuggle. So we did.

I lost Rocky this week. His pain had become unmanageable and his quality of life was no longer good. It was, as it always is, an awful, horrible decision.

We only had a year and a half together. It wasn’t long, but he took a huge piece of my heart with him when he left. I don’t regret it for a minute.

Inevitably there will be another email from Diana. Sadly, there always is.

In a heartbeat I’ll do it all over again.

I'm The High Priestess of Springsteenism

In general I try to keep my thoughts about religion to myself. I believe that a fundamentalist of any stripe – Muslim, Christian, Jew, etc, -  is dangerous. With one exception.

Bruce Springsteen is God. And. As the founding member of Springsteenism, I have proof and I’m not just counting the 20 or so times I’ve seen him play live.

Back in the day there were a lot of people who claimed that Eric Clapton was God, but if his last studio album, “Old Sock,” is any indication, his light has dimmed a bit. Anyhow in the ever-expanding universe of music goddom, there is room for a few divinities. David Bowie, John Lennon and Kendrick Lamar all have their acolytes and they’re not wrong.

But back to Springsteen.  I’ve met the Boss a couple of times, and neither was in a professional capacity.  Which is a good thing, because both times I was in full-on dufus mode. I mean even worse than usual.

My first Springsteen encounter was years ago, when he was married to model/actress Julianne Phillips. They were living in Los Angeles, presumably so she could continue her acting career, since it certainly didn’t enhance his music. (I call those his searching years.)

Anyway, I was in the Laurel Canyon dog park, with my dog Keeper. Keeper was a black shepherd mix with white points and a winning smile. Okay, she was a complete Heinz 57 special. Somewhere in her ancestry lurked a purebred, but it was hidden deep.  Keeper was really well-behaved, thanks to my college roommate, who did most of the training.

After Keeper and I had played play ball for a while, a guy with a baseball hat pulled down low over his sunglasses came over to chat. As is typical in a dog park, the discussion centered on dogs. Specifically his two German Shepherds who tended to ignore everything he said to them. As well talked they ran whizzing past him every time he called their names in the doggie equivalent of giving him the finger. I gave him the name of a dog trainer and we talked some more.

The whole time we spoke I had the nagging feeling that I knew him from somewhere. The gym? Clubs? Who knew? After about a half hour, Keeper was bored and ready to go home, so we did.

Then I got in the car and turned the radio and I heard “Dancing in the Dark.” Oops.

The next dozen or so times I saw Bruce, he was onstage and I was in the company of about 20,000 fans. He never failed to inspire me, and though I always regretted not recognizing him in the dog park, he was probably thrilled.

I ran into him again last year. Literally. His daughter Jessica is an absolutely brilliant show jumper and has ridden for the U.S. Equestrian Team, with an eye towards the Olympics. She’ll probably make it too: she is a great rider and has the horse power. As Bruce has said, he literally works for horse feed. (He’s not kidding, Olympic horses aren’t cheap.)

Like most good parents, Bruce and Patti Scalfia, his second wife, bandmember and Jessica’s mom, come to the big horse shows to cheer Jessica on when they can. They’re kind of fun to watch, because they are so damn normal. Like most show parents, they look slightly ill when the see the size of the jumps Jessica is going to take and seem relieved every time she walks out of the competition on her horse.

Hey, as my father once said, ‘Every time you leave the ring with six working legs, it’s a win.” Dad paid more than his share of vet bills in his day. Thanks dad!

Anyway, at a huge show jumping event last year, I was busy texting (I know, I know. Don’t walk and text), and crashed directly into Bruce. 

Thankfully I was so surprised I didn’t to say anything totally fangirlish such as, “Wow! You changed my life!’ Instead I apologized and moved on.

From those two close encounters, it’s obvious that I am in a position to assess and verify Bruce’s godliness.  You could also include his amazing catalog of music, the thousands of hours of live performances and his habit of being on the correct and moral side of world and regional issues, but you have my word, so it's not really necessary.

I’m not alone in my worship. At a recent show at the venerable LA Sports Arena, which Bruce long ago dubbed, “The Dump that Jumps,” an older woman collapsed before the show. As the paramedics were wheeling her away on a gurney she was pleading with them to wait to let her hear at least one song. They were young (possibly even Iggy Azalea fans, ew….) and ignored her..

As the high Priestess of Springsteenism I pretty much do what I’ve always done. I go around proselytizing and spreading the word of the Boss, trying and get people to think WWBSD(What Would Bruce Springsteen Do), before they do stupid shit. It doesn’t always work (do you hear me Chris Christie!!!) but I’ll keep on trying.

So what do you think, am I eligible for a religious tax break? I’ll settle for decent seats at his shows for the rest of both of our lives.

The Love of My Life is a Dog; Get Over It

When I first met Murray he was two weeks old and weighed five pounds. That’s pretty normal since Murray is a Great Dane. I never planned to become a Dane owner; I was happily devoted to Brittanys and had three at the time. But when I saw that cute little lump wrapped up in new puppy smell, I fell in hopelessly in love. Like all love, there was no reason involved.  Before I knew it, I was agreeing , no begging, to be allowed to take him home.

A month later we were on our way. Setting the tone for the rest of our lives, Murray ignored the pillow I had set out for him on the passenger seat. Instead he shoved his way onto my lap, wedged beneath the steering wheel . Technically I was driving, but already he was in charge.

The next day brought his first leash lesson and my introduction to the legendary Dane stubbornness.. Oh, he was glad to follow me - as long as I was going where he wanted. However, when a butterfly fluttered by my lovebug transformed into Kujo. Murray started flinging himself around, flopping like a marlin on a fishing line and screaming at the top of his lungs. My neighbors came rushing out to see what the hell I was doing to my puppy.

Eventually we came to an agreement. Murray walked nicely beside me and I gave him regular treats for doing so. Eventually I ditched the snacks and he was just fine. In fact Murray was delighted; all he ever wants to do is be with me.

I mean every second. I can’t remember the last time I was in the bathroom alone.  I had to stop taking baths and switch to showers because he climbs in the tub. There’s something inherently pointless about getting out of the bath covered with more dog hair than when you began.

Almost the second he was housebroken (at 10 weeks, yay!) he began sleeping on my bed with the Brittanys at night. Gradually he took up more room than the three others combined. A few years ago I bought a king-sized bed. It’s still too small.

When most people think of Danes they think of Scooby Doo or Marmaduke— majestic fawn colored dogs with huge pointy ears. Murray is a harlequin, that is white with black spots. I didn’t crop his ears; if anyone in the family was getting plastic surgery it wasn’t going to be the dog. So I can sort of forgive people for not comprehending that he’s a Great Dane.

The first time I took Murray on an outing he was about three months old. We were minding our own business outside a Starbucks in Studio City. A hipster pointed Murray out to his girlfriend and announced loudly, “That,” he said with authority, “is a miniature Great Dane.”   If such a thing existed, I guess it would be a not-so-Great Dane. But at 140 pounds, it isn’t Murray.

When you have a Great Dane one becomes accustomed to people commenting. They seem to believe it’s their duty. One woman loudly declared that he was the ugliest Dalmatian she had ever seen. Which would have upset me if he was a Dalmatian.  Another time a toddler mistook him for a cow. That embarrassed her mother terribly, but at least it was original.

As was the time I was walking in Griffith Park when a businessman in a suit approached me. “What is it?” he asked pointing at Murray.  I told him ‘it’ was a Great Dane. “No,” he insisted impatiently, “What species is it?”  I thought he was joking. “He’s a Great Dane, a dog” I replied. The man argued with me. 

People always ask where his saddle is. I have taken to telling them that I always wanted a pony. This seems to make them happy. At the very least it makes them go away.

We drew a lot of attention when I started competing Murray in agility. Danes are uncommon in the sport for a lot of reasons, primarily because of their size. Over the years I have had a number of competitors and officials make it clear that we weren’t welcome. I, however, am as stubborn as any Dane. We competed quite successfully because Murray loved it, until he was too old to continue. At eight.

That’s another thing: strangers feel it’s their job to tell me that giant breed dogs don’t live very long. That’s just mean. I am sadly aware of the statistics, but I also ignore them.  So does Murray. He’s now nine and a half and doing just fine thank you. He still chases his ball, plays with his sisters and goes for walks. And rules my world

.

Past My Sell-By Date; Single in Los Angeles

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As the ads on Facebook and the sponsored tweets on Twitter keep reminding me, I am a single woman. Because apparently I might have forgotten that fact. They also see the need to tell me that I’m kind of past my sell-by date. I guess they figure at my advanced age, these are the things I’d forget, unlike where I put the TV remote. Which I actually do lose.  All the time.

I’m at that weird age that the world-particularly where I live, in Los Angeles—no longer acknowledges your existence. If you’re a woman and over 45, and especially if you’re well over 45, you’re invisible.

Now sometimes this is handy. I don’t need to put on make-up to go the grocery store, or get gussied up to go to the movies. I work at home, so sometimes I take the ability to dress down to an unpleasant extreme. Sweats have their place but at my age when I go outside into the world it’s not considered cute. People assume I’m a bag lady, which is not really the look I’m going after.

However, I can browse in shops without being attacked by salespeople. They simply don’t see me. Sales staff are trained to look for younger people who are eager to add to their credit card debt. If I was so inclined, I bet I could be an ace shoplifter. No one would notice. They’d think the stuff was just magically disappearing from the shelves.

There is a downside to this. Just trying to get someone to help when my stupid smartphone died was maddening. The last time I needed to replace my phone it took 45 minutes before a Verizon person saw me. Couples ALWAYS get helped at the phone store. They just walk in the building and are swarmed by salespeople pushing tablets and the newest iPhone their way. Not so, the invisible old bat.

Phones aside, most of the time it’s pretty okay to be alone. I have two Great Danes, a Brittany, a cat, some birds and a couple of horses in the backyard, so I’m never really alone. I can have entire conversations and nobody would think it was too odd, unless I start believing that the critters have answered back. And I’m not quite there. Yet.

Occasionally it is a bummer living by myself. When I need to change an overhead light bulb there’s nobody around to hold the chair I perch on, which means I have nearly landed on my butt more than once. When I need pictures hung, I have to ask a friend. But heck, he’s an artist and has better taste than I do anyway.

I did faint once and came to surrounded by dogs, one of whom ran off with my glasses. But at least they noticed I was on the floor. If something serious happened I’m convinced that eventually they would lick my face until I regained consciousness.

Family get togethers suck a bit when you’re an aging single. My immediate relatives get that I’m single and okay, but go a little further out on the tree and it gets dicey. My aunt recently grabbed my arm and said completely earnestly, ‘I know someone who got married recently and they were even older than you! Don’t give up hope.’ I didn’t know what to say to her. So I got another glass of wine.

I did try online dating once. But before you can meet someone, you have to write a scintillating profile with a great photo. If I took terrific pictures, I probably wouldn’t still be single. Writing the bio was tough. I was boring myself; anyone who was interested in that would probably be even duller than I am. I let it go.

Some of my friends have told me they would be afraid to live alone the way I do. Did I mention that I have two Great Danes? One of whom, the big one, doesn’t like strangers? Particularly strange men? Nobody is coming into my yard. Hell, half my friends won’t come in my house unless Murray is locked up. I don’t worry too much about break-ins.

As I’ve gotten older I do appreciate living by myself. I don’t ever need to argue with someone over what to watch on TV, which movie to see, where to eat dinner or, and this is a biggie, what music to play. I admit I have broken up with men because they had horrendous taste in music. I’m glad I did. I’m proud of it. Life is too short to spend any time with someone who sees the finer points of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. 

Murray loves Neil Young, and that’s good enough for me.