I have kept a sticky note from mom for years (and by years, I mean, since maybe freshman year of college).
It came rubber-banded to a pack of Bicycle playing cards and reads:
Author Archives: kb
When I grow up….
I’ve just launched into a speech about how I don’t want to be proposed to, when the woman next to us leans over and asks if he’s about to propose.
He laughs. I laugh. “No, definitely not.”
Her boyfriend leans over to tell her that she’s rude to ask questions like that.
She tells him that she overheard us talking.
We explain the situation.
We dated. We don’t date anymore. We like to eat dinner together. I don’t want someone to propose to me at a hibachi restaurant, although I’m open to the ring being presented on a tuna roll. I love sushi. And theoretically, I’ll someday love the man who’s going to be asking for my hand in marriage.
I laugh. I’m getting ahead of myself.
They’re noticeably frightened, possibly wondering if we’re unstable.
They’ve been dating for six months. They look like nice people. I hope it works out for them.
Life, as beautiful as it can be, is also an increasingly frustrating place. When I was little, all I wanted to do was grow up, so I could be independent and successful. Now that I’m grown up and independent, I’d much rather revert to the days of endless hours in the backyard climbing trees to read books than face the prospect of struggling mightily for the rest of my life.
Struggling for what? Success. What is that? I don’t know. Self-sufficiency. The end of monetary worry. An increased hatred of government involvement and taxes. I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know when I get there.
It reminds me of this: When all the trees have been cut down, when all the animals have been hunted, when all the waters are polluted, when all the air is unsafe to breathe, only then will you discover you cannot eat money.
They’re not wrong. But to a certain extent, money is necessary for survival. Ergo, work.
Which brings me to my big news of the day: I’d like to be a family/couples/sex therapist when I grow up. (So like, now.)
This may of course be yet another passing career path, although I think this one is quite a bit more attainable than previous ones. MBA? Sounds like a great plan in theory, but in reality, I’m really not good with math. Law school? Too many damn lawyers already, but I do look really good in a suit.
And, as Ryan so kindly pointed out at dinner, it’d be great fodder for my romance novels. (The counseling part, not the suit, although you never know…)
How did this come about?
Well, you know I get all hot and bothered about women’s issues and the like. And then I was reading this Catholic blog last week (which you’ll hear about at some point) that entirely misquoted a study. So Madeline tracked down the original study to find the data. And I realized that I was excited. Truly excited. Gender studies fascinate me. The social implications of sexuality fascinate me. The whole thing is really exciting and wonderful.
We shall see.
From Bad to Worse: Catholic Sex, Apparently
Before I begin my rant for today, I’d like to show you my new shoes. I’m super excited about them. I needed a pair that was more slender than my running shoes, because they wouldn’t fit into the cages on my bike pedals and that was causing a problem.
These are lovely. They work!
Yesterday, Mike and I went on a long bike ride. From our house all the way to Quebec and Mississippi. I thought I was going to die, but I made it!
As we were headed back, we were starting to run out of daylight and since I don’t have any lights on my bike, I got nervous.
“It’s not Cape Town, Katie,” Mike was quick to remind me. Mama P wouldn’t let me be out alone after dark. It wasn’t safe.
After we got back, we made some stew and then went and got ice cream. It was a perfect night.
He’s decided to name his car “Frank the Tank,” which I entirely support.
Alright….
My dear friend Maddie sent me the link to an article yesterday. I started reading it not knowing what I was in for. I’ve included the text of the article in full below for your reading pleasure. The article is about Catholic relationships, living together before marriage, and the idea that sexual compatibility is a myth.
I beg to differ. I know plenty of Catholics who appear to be mutually satisfied with their romantic lives, with their marriages, and with their individual relationships with God. That mutual satisfaction might be that they are well matched conversationally, morally, spiritually and also sexually. There are plenty of options for compatibility, and I think that sexuality is one that cannot (and should not) be ignored.
There’s nothing worse than trying to engage in a relationship with someone when there is not a hint of physical frisson present. It can be a deep friendship, but true union in the biblical sense can only come from blissful physical encounters, which supplement the other bonds formed early on in the relationship and maintained as part of the continuation of that relationship. Of course, as we age (or perhaps not, I’ll let you know when I’m approaching “very elderly”), our focus on sexuality changes. It morphs, yes, changes over time, evolves, but it may never entirely disappear.
The author makes a very valid point in distancing living together from marriage by exposing the lack of promise in the non-marriage situation. To a certain extent, it is “I’ll only stay with you until I’m bored, or can’t stand you, or we have one too many huge fights.” But to a certain extent, I think he’s missing that point entirely. Many marriages begin unhappily, appear happy to the outside world, and then fail miserably, either in public or private.
“For better or for worse” isn’t real anymore. “Try it before you buy it” isn’t a bad philosophy as far as I’m concerned. And yes, I hope that people enter into marriage fully understanding the gravity of the situation, and that just because there are bound to be troubled times doesn’t mean the marriage is lost. However, the reality is that even those people who most stand for that idea of marriage sometimes screw up. Sometimes it’s better to get out. It’s painful and it shapes the rest of your life, but honestly, trying to save something that’s not worth saving isn’t always in everyone’s best interests.
I’d rather live with a dude, then hate him, and then leave him rather than marrying a dude, living with him, hating him, staying married for the sake of our offspring, and then eventually cheating on him and running off with my graduate school classmate who’s ten years younger than me but really gets me and writes better poetry than my husband could ever produce.
He also ignores the real implications of living with someone. That’s a strong relationship, whether it’s religiously binding or not. There are things to take into account like joint-bank accounts, the lease on the apartment (only get it in one person’s name in case of disastrous break-up), the cars, the potential for income discrepancy. Things that will have to be considered in marriage also have to be considered before co-habitation. Guests, dinner procedures, cleaning, shopping – the creation of a family unit doesn’t necessarily have to be decided by a piece of paper or God’s blessing. It can happen with two female friend living together. It can happen in a frat house. The proximity and presumptions create a family, regardless of definition.
Here’s the part of the article that really irked me:
“I recently returned from Twickenham, England, the home of Catholic satirist Alexander Pope, where I gave a workshop titled “How Far Can We Go? Talking to Young People about Physical Intimacy,” at the 3rd International Theology of the Body Symposium. It was a very fruitful experience. Apart from making all kinds of interesting connections with other conference participants, I had my thoughts on several issues stimulated by the excellent feedback I received in the Q & A sessions of my workshops. I hope to share some of these thoughts with the readership here at Vox Nova over the next little while.
At the end of my second workshop I was asked how to talk to young people about the pitfalls of cohabitation. As we are all aware, most of our contemporaries see it as foolhardy to marry someone if you haven’t lived with them. “Isn’t it just asking for trouble,” they suggest, ”to commit to someone when you don’t even know if you can stand to be in the same house with them?” This seems perfectly logical, of course, which is why, when a widely publicized study came out several years back (I read about it on MSN when I signed out of my hotmail account) indicating that cohabitation radically lowered the odds of marital success, people didn’t know what to make of it. It was simply inconceivable that people who did the smart thing and test-drove the relationship first would increase their chance of divorce by 60%.
The obvious explanation to many people was that it was religious people who didn’t live together before marriage, and religious people are less prone to divorce. But this second claim isn’t actually true, at least not very significantly. Furthermore, it was often suggested, religious people are more likely to stay in unhappy marriages, exactly the kind encouraged by the silly practice of not living together. But there is no evidence that religious marriages are unhappier than other marriages.
No, it turns out that it is not simply that a certain cross-section of society which doesn’t cohabitate also does not divorce. It is actually the case that cohabitation itself is a problem. Cohabitation ostensibly says, “We’re being prudent by not rushing into things. Our future will be happier if we make sure we are compatible by living in a situation that is very like marriage. And, if we find that this doesn’t work out, we can part ways before making a huge mistake.”
What is really says is . . . well, that last sentence should give it away.
In fact, though cohabitation looks a lot like marriage on the surface, it is missing the very heart of marriage, namely a promise to be faithful come what may. And without this promise, cohabitation ends up being not a close analogate of marriage, but it’s radical opposite. While marriage says, “I’ll be with you no matter what,” cohabitation says, “I’ll be with you as long as I can stand you.” It says, “If you do your share of the housework, and pay your share of the bills, and keep me satisfied sexually, I’ll stick around. But if you don’t, well, I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
The kind of insecurity this un-promise engenders is at the heart of the increased failure of cohabitation-preceded-marriages (to say nothing of a series of cohabitating relationship which end without ever reaching marriage). When you promise to take someone in health, for richer, and for better, for as long as either of you shall like, you aren’t really promising anything. And, without a promise, the ambiguity of human relationships are unlikely to stand the test of time.
In the Q & A session I said that a test-drive says, “I will love you as long as you put the cap back on the toothpaste, and make the bed and remember not to use metal utensils in my non-stick cookware,” while a promise says “I will love you even if you don’t put the cap back on the toothpaste! I will love you even if you void the warranty on my cookware!”
Just as I thought I was hitting my stride, the questioner interrupted me and said, “We know all that. But kids are telling us that they have to live together to find out if they are sexually compatible. What are we supposed to say to them about that?” At that point, as happens with Q & A sessions, we were informed that we were over time. But I thought about the question and had an interesting talk with the questioner at the social on Saturday night.
As someone who has only ever had one sexual partner, I cannot speak authoritatively on this matter, and I invite others of broader experience to offer their thoughts as well, but it seems to me that “sexual compatibility” so construed is a myth. It seems to presume that there is something almost biological going on wherein one must find someone with a similar sex drive, similar sexual tastes, even a compatible body.
But, from my limited experience, this simply isn’t how things work. If every man is to hold out until he finds a woman with a sex drive to match his, only a select few males will ever find a partner. Women’s sex drives are a different kind of thing than men’s. They require different stimuli, they naturally vary over the course of a mentrual cycle, and they are much more easily affected by the seemingly non-sexual aspects of the relationship. Sexual tastes and compatible bodies follow from this. If a man doesn’t recognize how a woman’s sex drive works, her sexual tastes (cuddling, for instance) will seem foreign to him, and her body will not respond to his in the way he expects. (One could write a whole other piece about how the porn epidemic is destroying any realistic expectations about women’s drives, tastes, and bodies.)
The fact is that virtually every couple will go through times when their drives, tastes, and bodies seem less compatible and times when they seem more compatible. And, as most marriage counselors will tell you, in this their sex lives mirror the rest of their lives together. The real problem about the search for “sexual compatibility” is that it abstracts sex from the broader relationship. It makes good sex the result of a biological fluke rather than the natural outcome of a loving relationship. It absolves women and (probably, especially) men from taking the responsibility to be good lovers to their spouses. And, in doing so, it undoes one of the most important functions of sex in marriage.
The natural desire for physical intimacy should serve to help us focus on the other aspects of our relationship where our urge to serve the other person is compromised by human weakness. Foreplay starts with helping around the house and listening when someone has had a bad day. When “sexual compatibility” becomes something independent of relational compatibility as a whole, sex becomes less and less capable of confirming and sealing the commitment between two people who have promised their lives to one another. And when we strip sex of its power to hold people together by isolating it from its normal role in a relationship, we should not be surprised when marital breakdown follows.”
Brett Salkeld is a doctoral student in theology at Regis College in Toronto. He is a father of two (so far) and husband of one. He is the co-author of How Far Can We Go? A Catholic Guide to Sex and Dating.
http://vox-nova.com/2011/06/14/is-sexual-compatibility-a-myth-some-thoughts-on-cohabitation/
Gay
While I generally hold that our children aren’t getting the social support they need, and consequently are taking drastic action that’s really stupid, I completely disagree about our discourse on taboo subjects needs to change. There’s not enough of it! We wait until someone dies, or something kills someone else, and then we say, “oh, we could’ve, should’ve, wait, next tragedy.” Nothing changes! Let’s dialogue until we’re blue in the face with our kids about a whole bunch of topics. Let’s show them that it’s okay to ask questions. Let’s show them that families come in all different styles.
Having gay friends doesn’t make you gay. Trust me on this one. Still a hetero here. People won’t think any less of you if you hang out with gay people; you won’t be any less of a man. So get over it! Stop freaking out about gay and start embracing it.
Or, if you’re still uncomfortable, start with baby steps. Gay is not always the stereotype. Remember that.
Gay makes good parents. Gay makes good teachers. Gay makes good thinkers, good bus drivers, good politicians, good postmen, good database administrators. But mostly, gay makes great dancers.
And if you’ve got the time, head downtown this weekend and be a part of the celebration.
Breakups, the beautiful things that crush our souls. (Kidding)
There are those moments in life where nothing happens as you might have expected that it would.
And then there are the moments where everything goes like you thought it would and it’s entirely underwhelming.
Beneath the small struggles that encompass our daily lives, there are something bigger and more beautiful at work.
To quote Ryan, who took me out for a wonderful dinner last night: “Maybe I have it all wrong and you are just some ruthless asshole that just roams the earth hurting 39 year olds. But I don’t think so. Behind that tough facade I know you are very sweet…You are a shining star amid a crowd of 40 watt light bulbs. You seriously are an amazing individual.”
I laughed when I read this, becuase he signed his email with a typical rude Katie Barry sendoff.
This weekend brought the end of the biochemist. We tried (perhaps valiantly) and failed. We both knew it was coming, but he brought it, and deserves credit for it.
I had announced the impending breakup (can you break up with someone you weren’t actually with?) to several people, and so feel quite fulfilled by my ability to feel out my hunches.
I cried like a small child, much to my embarrassment. I later told him that the unleashing of cathartic tears was 80% the result of wine consumption and 20% my wounded ego.
I’m not sure that he understands that I was not solely involved with him and therefore am not as devasted as if I’d lost my house, or had my bike stolen again, or if my cat was run over by a truck. This registers at, “Damn, I spent that $20 I was going to save.” on the emotion-scale. Upsetting, annoying, but entirely survivable.
By the way, that might be the worst analogy ever, but I am sticking with it. The more I read it, the more I’m alright it. And the more I want to check my wallet to make sure I have that extra $20.
I am slowly realizing that there are people who will not adore me. (Surprise, surprise. Something we’ve known all along but can finally catalogue for posterity.)
I realize that two people, no matter how lovely individually, can be perfectly wrong for each other.
I am realizing that perhaps the parting of the ways should happen after the 3rd bad date and not after the 20th.
I am young, free, and quite content to wander for awhile.
I know what I want. The problem is that it’s in Chicago and needs to get its shit together.
I’m kidding – that’s the most perfect non-relationship I’ve ever been it. I hope it only changes for the better and never for the worse. We’ve known each other for a year and a half, and in that time, there has been so much miscommunication and craziness, but also so many really wonderful moments.
I hope that my July visit is either as good as the April one or better.
And contrary to popular belief, I did not go to South Africa because of him.
(Just so we’re clear on that.)
Ha.
Here’s to the waning (and wonderful) days of my beautiful youth.
(I’m going to read this when I’m still single and 45 and have a lot of cats and thick thighs and quite possibly an addiction to TV dinners and not laugh at all. But for now I think it’s funny. All of it. I am a walking episode of Seinfeld and I’m alright with that.)
The garage sale
My mom, on the garage sale:
“I’m glad you guys made some money. I think I lost money. Who has a garage sale and comes out with less money than they went in with?”
I ask how much.
Maybe ten bucks, she answers.
This from the woman who was giving things away for 10 cents.
She sold my childhood stuffed cow for a dime.
She sold as many books as kids could carry for a dollar.
Overall, Mike and I each came out of it $55 richer.
And I got to introduce Nancy Drew to some little girls who didn’t know who she was.
We didn’t sell the oak desk, so if you’re in the market, hit me up.
Small success!
A quick adventure (from last Monday)
Summer always invokes those beautiful childhood memories, the feelings of infinite freedom, the heat.
We decided on a picnic in the park – wine, cheese, bread, fruit, baked goods.
We needed supplies. Jacob met me at my apartment and we were tasked with cheese procurement, as well as other odds and ends. We drove to the grocery store, singing happily like teenagers.
While he ran back in for allergy medicine (ah, the signs of aging have landed), I retrieved the car. Since the parking lot off Downing is super small, I had no choice but to move my car since another was queued waiting for it. As though by magic, when I rounded the lot, edging closer to the door, easing my foot off the brake only when absolutely necessary, he appeared.
Yoo-hoo! I yelled, our regular greeting.
And then there was a quick driver change so that I could prepare myself for the picnic. Stopped at a red light, he made the suggestion and neither of us spoke in response. We exchanged glances and then undid our seatbelts and ran around the car.
Connected space messaging, we call it, based on me forgetting what telecommunication was called.
We laid the blanket near the flowers, but closer to the wide openness being taken up by volleyball players.
And we sat there until the sun had excused itself from the earth. Darkness fell softly and the bats emerged. And we laid there, heads on legs on heads on legs and we were content.
There is something so familiar and comforting about laying in the grass staring up at the sky. Trees stand above you. You know they’ll not look the way they do forever. The green will grow and then die off and fall away, only to reemerge.
It’s beautiful.
My friends are beautiful.
The night was beautiful.
However, I made the uncomfortable realization that tire swings lose a bit of their excitement as you age. I wedged my legs into the tire that used to hold like four kids, but now could only hold me, and let Jacob push me. I swung around, waiting for the stomach-dropping thrill, but finding none, extricated myself and went on to other pursuits (including the digger. Which also isn’t that fun anymore).
Ah, summer nights.
Babysitting.
I’ve been babysitting since I was twelve.
Well, sort of.
My first ever babysitting experience was with the Cella’s infant daughter while they were off at another daughter’s First Communion.
I was fresh out of the Red Cross certification session that we did as Girl Scouts and I was ready to go. Babysitting schmabysitting, it was going to be no problem.
It was horrible.
I was never asked back and I don’t even have to hesitate as to why.
The baby was supposed to go down for her nap and sleep the entire time (thus making her delightfully rested for the after-party). Of course, when I went to put her down for that nap, she cried, and I, overwhelmed with the prospect of letting a small child cry, picked her up and played with her for the next two hours.
There was purple marker all over her by the time the parents came home and she was just getting ready to head to bed.
Since then, there’s been marked improvement.
I babysat all through college. Since then, it’s been a great way to supplement my income on a semi-regular basis. It’s also giving me a crash course in pre-parenthood, so that when I get around to procreating (not soon, not for many years) I won’t even have to bat an eye about the basics.
I tend to babysit for kids under five (I’ve got one six-year old now).
I gravitate toward babies. They’re easy. They have few needs. They haven’t yet learned how to lie. They are still amused by simple things.
However, I do like the imagination and conversation that comes with slightly older children.
The three boys (twin three-year olds and their five month brother, when I started in September 2008) gave me a run for my money. By the end of my year and a half with them, I was no longer stressed out about little stuff. I stared down tantrums and was getting better at being strict.
They were some of the best kids I’ve ever sat for, partially becuase of the bond we developed.
But trust me, it definitely made me rethink my plan for having three kids.
When I first started sitting for them, the twins were having trouble coming to terms with the fact that their little brother was there. He was interrupting their lives. “Can’t we just put him back?” they’d whine. Biting back a smile, I’d explain that he really looked up to them and wanted to be just like them.
That baby was one of the sweetest babies I’ve ever had charge of. We’d go to circle time, or whatever it was called, at the library, and we’d read and clap and do baby things. It was always funny becuase there would be a handful of parents and then a handful of caregivers like me, who sort of had an idea what they were doing in the circle, but sort of felt awkward.
I love how intelligent the kids can be. I love the way their minds work; I love the questions they ask.
One day, we were playing with the magnetic triangles that the boys had. (I loved these toys. I am getting a set for my kids one day.)
One of the twins said, “Katie, pass the isosceles.”
I handed him a triangle, taking my best guess as to what an isosecles might be.
If he could have rolled his eyes at me, he would have. “That’s not an isosceles,” he said, disappointed.
Lately, the twins here in Denver have been all about their music. Asking for classical music by name so that they can re-enact Fantasia in the bathtub is wonderful. Graham asked me if I knew who Beethoven was. “He made a symphony,” he announced.
I also love how understanding they can be.
The twins in Chicago used to have a hard time falling asleep. They all slept in the same room, so it was understandable that someone was going to talk or interrupt the other ones and general chaos would ensue.
Sometimes, when they couldn’t sleep, I’d go in and lay with them, holding their hands until they fell asleep. My last night with them, I held their hands and sang to them and then cried. (They had tricked me into the singing business by telling me that their mom sang to them every night. She definitely didn’t, and I definitely am a horrible singer, so I’d usually end up humming the refrain to a Beatles song until they got bored and asked for a new one.)
While I was babysitting for the Chicago crew, I was dating someone who had the name name as one of the twins. The other brother, Luke, once asked me if I had another Luke. I told him that he was my only one.
After the breakup, little Hunter told me that it was okay, because he would go on dates with me. He thought about it for a minute and then said, “We can put my carseat in your car.”
My last night there, they told me that instead of going to get ice cream that night, they wanted to go to the beach because I reminded them of summer and the beach. And so we went.
We always ended up messy at the beach. We’d stand with our toes in the sand, waiting for the waves to come up and wash over us up to our ankles. They’d scream and run back from the waves. I’d pick up the baby and he’d laugh.
These happy moments would usually dissolve. I remember one night carrying the baby and his tricycle (because he refused to get off), while I had two dinosaur backpacks on my shoulders as well as one of the twins. The one who was on bike wasn’t wearing anything but a pair of underwear .
Hey, at least they get home safe and happy.
That’s all I can promise.
I love intelligent, imaginative kids. In those situations, it doesn’t feel like work anymore, and it feels as though we’re just playing.
I love going to the park.
I love their inquiries.
My favorite quote from the past few weeks:
Me: Do you need to go potty?
6 year old: I went before I got in the bath!
3 year old: I went in the bath!
*Cringe.*
While I usually manage to create a routine that’s satisfactory to both myself and the children, I’ve run into a situation I’m unable to control, and one that has little chance of changing.
I call her the Cryer. It’s a terrible name, I know, but there really isn’t much else to describe the situation.
She’s eleven months old now, and I sit for them about once a week. I get there and she cries, we recover, and then she cries.
There’s no cause.
There’s no solution.
It’s frustrating.
I feel horrible, having to listen to her tears and see her face scrunched up in that horrible baby bawl. I don’t know how to explain to the parents that this is the first time I’ve ever run across this issue.
I walk with her. I hold her. I try to distract her with toys. I feed her. Together, we feed the fish and then watch them.
I’m not connecting.
But I’m trying.
Last night, she went down at seven and was up again at eight thirty. The grandmother is in town for back surgery, and I’m not wondering if part of that played a factor in the wake up. (Coincidentally, it happened the minute the grandma walked past the baby’s room.) And once she was up, all she wanted was grandma, who can’t lift her.
And so we went upstairs and watched tv.
That’s not usually my go-to solution, but it seemed to work. We played peek-a-boo with a blanket and threw some toys around.
Eventually, she went back to sleep.
It’s an adventure, that’s for sure. But I’m hoping that she’ll warm up to me soon. I’m hoping that we’ll soon be getting along terrifically.
But until then, it’s a stressful experience for both of us.
Ferocity.
Something I’m learning from Carlos.
Act preemptively and base everything on your gut.
Your past guides you more than you think but shouldn’t affect anyone’s future perceptions of you.
I’m hurt; I’m annoyed; I’m angry.
No one should make me feel like I’m less than a human being, whether it’s intentional or not.
I am Katie Barry and I do what I want.
Friday.
Ah, beautiful weekend ahead.
For once, I’m not entirely bogged down by babysitting plans.
I actually have some unscheduled time ahead of me this weekend, and I’m positively giddy about it.
After a miserable yesterday, I woke this morning feeling entirely refreshed. I was literally up and cleaning my house at 7:30 am.
It’s looking a little better.
Mike and I need to be better about keeping up with things like the kitchen. It’s gross. I rarely eat at home, and so I push it all off on him. But the pile of dishes keeps growing, and it’s really grossing me out.
I am the designated bathroom cleaner. Maybe it’s all the babysitting, or the years spent making faces while mopping Dairy Queen, but I am not scared of bathrooms.
Hair from the drain? 99% chance it belongs to me, so I’m not scared. Toilet cleaning? Meh, it’s just bleach.
That stuff I can do.
(And I do regularly.)
I even had a load of laundry and some clothes hung up before 9 am.
Carlos was running around chasing his toy mice. I can’t tell if I love him most when we are just waking up and he is laying on me and yawning, or if he’s sliding on the wood floors chasing something. He’s definitely got something very seriously dignified about him, but he’s also childish, when he’s stretched out lengthwise with a mouse between his paws, having just somersaulted into a wall. (God, I love him. I’ll never let anyone take him from me.)
It was all very cute.
We are expecting canine company this evening. I’m terrified. I adore Ely’s golden Archie, but I’m also not so sure how I feel about forcing Carlos to have to adapt to a dog.
Given that Carlos is so wonderful at adapting to strange situations, I’m hoping that once they realize it’s probably going to keep happening, both animals will relax around each other. Archie is curious about Carlos, and even more curious about his food. (Apparently wet food is like crack for all animals.)
Based on how Carlos reacts when he sees any dog, I’m assuming he was attacked by one or more during his Chicago years. And so I understand his fear of Archie, but I wish it wasn’t so bad. While I’m assuming he’ll just run and hide, I’m also worried about a confrontation happening. Carlos can be very nasty when provoked. And I’m not sure Archie would be prepared for that.
Alas, we have to get to the Rockies game first. I’m not going home after work; I’ll meet Emily at the DU light rail station at we will head down from there.
And then after the game? God only knows how we’re going to get my car home.
And get the dog home.
It shall be an adventure. I’m not sure if I should start stressing now, or just wait until it’s happening and roll with it.
I’ll wait.
In all honesty, trying to balance Emily’s needs with Ely’s is going to be a hot mess.
This might get interesting.
And Madeline is in town tonight. And she’ll be out after. So I’m just going to give the rest of them my keys and go dance. (just kidding. or am I?)
Happy Friday!

