Home Alone

Day three of the quarantine, and I’ve lost my mind.

Today, I actually found myself using a toothbrush to clean the crevices of my crown molding.  I’ve run out of things to clean and movies I’d never, ever intended to watch.  Blades of Glory, anyone?

Along with being crazy, I’m, also, apparently, a little clairvoyant.

I wrote this post back in December about how you need to put yourself out there because some guy isn’t going to just come knocking on your door.  I, then, went on to write that if by some chance he came knocking on my door that I’d probably be “in sweat pants and no make-up, with my hair up in a haphazard ponytail…”

Well, sure as night follows day, some guy comes knocking on my door this afternoon.

He’s good looking, I guess. Were I into it right now, I would have found him attractive.  I, however, am anything but attractive right now. I’m not even mildly appealing. I’m wearing sweatpants, no make-up, my hair’s up in a ponytail, and, here’s the clincher, my crazy dog is barking his head off at him.


Turns out, he was looking for my neighbor, the Young Republican.  Still, how funny is that?

Dog’s not mean or anything. And he only barks when someone comes around,..  Or drives by,..  Or I’ve forgotten to fill his water bowl,..  Or he needs to go out, and I’m blowing it off.

He’s one of those dogs who I suspect believes that anyone who comes over is there to play with him.

It’s really kind of cute. He barks his greeting.  Then, he runs off to find a toy to show you.  Then he follows you around.  Shows you to his couch.  And then, he sits at your feet,.. or on top of you.  But that just means he really likes you.

The only snag in this whole evolution is that he’s six-years-old, not six-months-old, and he has one of those thick, blocky heads that makes him look like a mastiff.  Oh, and he weighs about a hundred pounds.

Am I really writing about Dog?  Again? This is what being locked up alone for three days will do to you…

Okay, I’m off to watch another movie that’s going to make me wish my brain worked like an Etch-a-Sketch.

Baby Mama, anyone?

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