This is what I looked like yesterday – not attractive in the
least. My pants are too short, my “badge
of honor” sweatshirt isn’t fitted at all.
But it was enough to have me harassed at a level I’ve never experienced.
And I’m at the point where enough is enough. Let me paint the picture for you: it was about 11:32 a.m., there was a break in
the rain, so I took the dogs out – left the house and started walking on the
sidewalk (in front of an elementary school) of a four-lane road. I’m walking at a quick pace because my
14-pounder likes to walk the edge of the sidewalk – and this makes me very
anxious as cars go about 40 miles per hour down the road. A car pulls into the median and the driver, a
young man starts yelling at me.
Immediately I felt uncomfortable. I can’t remember his exact words – but he was
saying sexually explicit things at me. I
pointed to my ear and shrugged, “I can’t hear.” My lie didn’t stop him. He persisted.
I repeated myself. He pulled off and I was reliev…
Lynyrd Skynyrd is coming to a local casino in a few
weeks. A few weeks ago, the ads featuring
“Sweet home Alabama, Lord, I’m coming home to you” aired on the TV. Those lines danced through my head for a few days, and they
were mighty present when a friend/consultant said, “Oh, hey, we (the firm she
works for) are up for a job in Alabama.” We were at lunch and my new hire –
just four days into her job – was with us. I tried to play it cool, “Well, let
me know if you need anything.” A week later airline tickets and hotels were booked for a
quick trip to Mobile for me and the co-president of the public relations firm –
a company I have wanted to work at for two years. We planned and interviewed
and hoped. A few weeks later - and Sweet Home, I’m coming. And this
time, I’m not leaving. I have been busy manifesting things for the last few months:
alternative work schedules, good seats at fancy restaurants, new clients, etc.
For a year or so, I’ve been wondering how I would land a job where I w…
Jake Ryan Gregg lays 10 feet from me; half on the dining
room rug, half off. The bare wood floor is dark and pressed against his belly
it cools his body. I scan him for signs of life. Slowly, his ribs expand and
contract as I count his breaths to mine. One full for me, two – nearly three –
for him. We are nine days from welcoming his twelfth year, three months from
our 12-year anniversary. Expand and contract. My eyes can’t look away, even as
they fill with tears. I walk to him and press my face against his failing body.
Expand. And contract. I won’t bore you with the story of our lives. I’m a dog mom,
and not a novel one at that. Just like most dog moms, I love mine beyond words.
I’ve taken him on countless walks. I’ve held him when he hurt. I’ve snuggled
him when he was tired. I’ve joyfully met him at the door every time I opened
it. And then one day it all changed. I am a mom. I knew. “Diabetes,” the vet relayed on a mid-March morning. “Manageable,”
she continued. By mid-April, manag…