Dont Mince Words

You filled the void that was left by Tex – my first big dog adoption during the California housing crisis. Your rescue led to a Facebook contest to rename you (WTF Carla?) and Aunt Holli won with “Dixie” – naming you after a region like Tex with a play on the letter X.

You helped me recover from all the Sonos product launches and you taught me a walk on the beach and the toss of driftwood was the best escape. Your socialization skills needed great improvement, but they always made me laugh. (I have a hard time with Asian women in clanky heels too. And it’s hard to like men with trucker hats and beards.)

You may of been fearful of other dogs, but you always stopped to let the homeless and handicapped pet you on State Street. The kids at the illegal daycare next door loved perro grande. You loved the ladies and were cautiously optimistic about my male friends.

Your first road trip was to visit Marna V1.0. You quickly learned the central coast was a great escape. Like your predecessor, you patiently waited for us to hit our vineyards because we had treats for you on the backside. I feared our east coast relocation would upset you, but you were always eager for a “car-car”. You didn’t care as long as you were with me. I will never forget night two in Albuquerque when you jumped from one queen bed to the other, like a hyper ‘tween. The next morning, when you twinkle-toed through frost-covered grass, I worried you wouldn’t be able to handle Virginia weather.

Your move to Virginia was when you learned to give no fucks. You were middle-aged like me and you just wanted to take long walks and nap in the sun. Snow was fine, but cold rain sucked. You made great friends like Ellis, Dottie, Jewels, and Vulcan and had great admirers from afar like Stoney, Elvis, and Roxy. Your party skills expanded. Three was once a crowd, but eventually you learned you could handle a dozen drunk humans.

I will miss your call-and-response moans during my infrequent sexual encounters and I thank you for not jumping on the bed to save me mid-act. Your orthopedic bed will remain by mine as a reminder that a good mattress and good sleep are better than a night of bad sex.

I will miss your twist-and-fart moments when you looked to blame me for what clearly came out of your ass.

I will miss your log-sawing snoring which was like a wave machine to me and it always calmed me down.

I will think of you any time I’m in a meat section with 3” marrow bones or when I bake a sweet potato.

I will think of you when I turn on the TV and ask “what do you want to watch?”

I will think of you every time I’m in Jefferson Park. You have marked nearly every square inch of grass; therefore, your ashes will be spread there.

I hope you sleep sound, Dixie, for you will be missed. You hung in there for me and tried so hard, but eventually I knew it was time. I hope you find great friendship with Newman, Kramer, and Tex because I know they’d love you as much as I do.

Goodnight, sweet girl, goodnight.

On average, there are about 15-18 available guys for me in Richmond on just about any dating site. My simple criteria is 47-57, within 25 miles, bachelor’s degree, and divorced with grown kids. Those numbers go up a little on Tinder primarily due to the truckers on I-95 and the pilots at the airport. So, when someone says “I’ve got a guy I think you should meet,” my general response is “ah, are you sure?”

My neighbors, Judy and David, met a guy at a dinner party and invited him over to the Union Market anniversary party. I didn’t end up making it to Union, but the guy did and they got to know him better.

“Marna, Everett was pretty cool, you really should of come,” they said.

“Wait a second. Did you say Everett?  Was he a short, skinny, black guy with glasses? Probably told you a story about almost going to law school?”

“Yeah, why?” they asked.

“That’s my ex-husband’s best friend,” I explained.

Judy and David have lived in Richmond two years and do not quite understand the “smallness” of the city, especially when it comes to single men older than 50. David began texting Everett to confirm all this. Yes, he’s from Madison Heights. Yes, he knows Marna.

“God, I know I’ve been married for more than 20 years, but it is that bad out there, isn’t it?” Judy said.

Yes, it still is.

Bonuses and any type of employee recognition can be tricky. I understand that. I come from the school of thought that you should make it thoughtful or make it matter… or don’t bother.

After years of working in dot com, I was used to good bonuses, and I’m not talking about the frozen turkey or the canned ham of the 1980s. Good, new wardrobe or a European vacation kind of money. When I moved to L.A., those bonuses disappeared when I became a contractor.

Flash forward to Christmas 2007 when I was back in the ad agency world. I was so excited when I heard checks were going to be handed out at the party. I opened the envelope, looked up, looked down again and said to my main gay, “what am I going to do with $200 in Los Angeles?” He said, “I know. I heard they were way better last year.” The housing crisis had started to hit then, so I cut them some slack and ordered my bonus online.

“What did you get,” asked my main gay.

“I bought a vibrator with a 12-foot cord. I’m tired of buying batteries,” I explained. Let’s face it. The purchase was very symbolic of my bonus.

Flash forward 10 years later. I checked in with my main gay and wished him a merry christmas and also let him know my bonus was still alive and well. When he asked what my employer gave me this year, I reluctantly had to admit I got the same thing I give my dog walker – a $25 gift certificate to Target.

“Are you kidding me? Why did they even bother?” he said.

I don’t know. I do know my dog walker was much happier than I was, but he doesn’t walk my dog 40 hours a week.