My recommendation for anyone with terrible PMS is

to get a dog!

OMG you guys.

This is kind of day I was having on Tuesday: I was mad, at everything. Not just at my uterus but at my clothes, my own face, and the air. The air was on my last nerve. I had it so bad that I BOUGHT LUNCH FOR A NUN and it cheered me up for less than five minutes.

Matthew and I had had the dog idea for a few weeks and had gotten attached to a couple of dogs online who didn't work out. Through Petfinder we connected with adoption agencies, filled out paperwork, had a phone conversation or two, and were waiting for people to call us back.

Through this process, I realized just how particular - some might say prejudiced - I am. I was literally incapable of imagining a future with a long-haired dog. "Ew," I'd think when I saw a photo of a collie. Matthew and I agreed that I was kind of a bitch. "I'm sorry, I want our dog to be more like a pig," I said. That is, short-haired and maybe fat.

I was starting to feel like a animal racist, a charlatan among supposedly loving owners, and had to keep reminding myself that I was totally open to special needs animals, three-legged dogs etc, and not a bad person.

On Tuesday, PMS Ground Zero, I decided I was going to a shelter and coming home with a dog otherwise I would continue to get in fistfights with all the oxygen molecules invading my space.

I started at the Northside SPCA and spent almost two hours walking up and down the kennel, poking my fingers through the chain linked gates, and choking back the hose water, dogshit, and urine-scented atmosphere.

I took a few dogs out into the side yard to play with and observe but none of them called out my name, which is what I expected them to do. I wanted our eyes to meet through the chain link and I want to fall madly, deeply, into dog love. I also wanted them to be housetrained, good with my brother, and not a total spaz since we don't have a fenced yard.

It didn't happen so, dejected, I left. I called Matthew for the address of the other SPCA location in Sharonville and knowing that I was already sad and my pants were too tight, thought rush hour traffic on I-75 couldn't make matters much worse.

In Sharonville I perked up because the facility is nicer and newer with three kennels and MEET AND GREET ROOMS. I associate meet and greets with rows of Sharpies and 8x10s not a big red bucket of liver treats but whatever. I used the hell out of my meet and greet room.

I walked through the kennel, looked at the dogs through their glass doors, and wrote down at least ten tag numbers. I returned to the front desk, got the story on each, crossed a few off based on their history, and proceeded to annoy the crap out of the guy who had to bring me dog after dog, one after another.

When Matthew got off work, he drove up to meet me and I pointed out the ones I liked. We narrowed it down to two, went BACK to the meet and greet room, and another employee who didn't seem annoyed by my interview tactics, brought the dogs back. One of them, the one you see sleeping with her tongue stuck out in the photo above, caught my eye with her brindle stripes and blue eyes. She's a husky shar-pei mix, her name is Patsy, and when she licked my face my PMS disappeared. Swear.


Waking up in hotels

Elliott Bay, Seattle

Hudson River, New York

Pool, West Hollywood

a good travel day

- My Angeleno-Ukrainian cab driver knew where to get 4:30 am coffee on the way to the airport and drove the wrong way up a one-way street to get me there. Love.

- One of our flight attendants was a transsexual. Awesome and beautiful.

- A dude read Jane Austen on his Kindle one row up.

- I dropped my license in the bathroom and was called me over the PA, “Will Jessica RONCK…NER…RONC…RONCK…NER please identify yourself to a flight attendant? What I should have said was, “Only if you mispronounce my name very slowly one more time.”

When I went to the rear of the aircraft, the stewardesses stared at me from behind their food cart and said, “We never would have recognized you!” They looked at my almost expired five-year-old license again, “You look like a mom this photo and now you look like a rocker!”

Why thank you ma’am.

NOT that moms can't rock. Duh.


laughing quietly to myself

About how Matthew made fun of my peacock tights and then every girl I saw that day commented on how rad they are. I bet him before we left the hotel that I'd get compliments and he didn't believe me.

Thanks ladies.