The Expiration Date – Dog Tired, or Sleepless and Single in a Small Space

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m turning into one of those crotchety old people. I don’t know. I seem to have lost my patience these days, with dating (or trying to) and other things, even the incidentals of life.
While doing my laundry the other day, I found myself wrestling with my hangers. They were all tangled together, defiantly refusing to comply with my wishes to untangle. I pulled and pulled and finally catapulted them across the room in frustration. And, of course, there was more than one of my socks that had gone missing again. But with my mood, I guess I would have taken cover too. I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself, but couldn’t quite get there. (Where is my Ativan?)
My body was tense and I couldn’t shake the feeling. A neighbor’s dog was barking in the distance (again). The loud, echoing, monotonous, evenly timed bark from a demonic, droid dog. It went on for hours, as it had for many months. Enough, I thought.
I love animals (read my column from last month, “Sleeping with Dogs”), but who would leave their dog outside all day alone as an annoying background assault on our ears? I live in a dog-friendly town and am constantly side-stepping poop piles on the street, but again, I have to draw the line somewhere. My peace of mind, or what’s left of it, is at stake. I’m people-friendly too.
So I called the police station, which happens to be a block away from my studio. I know. I’m a terrible person, but knick-knack paddywhack, give the dog a bone so it will have something do with its mouth besides bark.
“I want to report a dog,” I said.
“Ok,” the girl at the desk replied.
“Have you had any complaints?” I asked.
“Not today,” she said, which told me that she had obviously heard this before. “Where is the barking coming from?” she asked.
“Just walk outside,” I said sarcastically. “Trust me. You’ll hear it from there.”
“I’ll get an officer on it right away,” she said. One of the benefits of living in a small town is that your voice is heard right away.
The barking stopped shortly thereafter. Then the gardener (who wears ear muffs) started his blower. I started fantasizing about getting a pair of hedge clippers and chopping the cord in half while he worked, but I realized that I would probably be the one to be electrocuted. So I decided to pay my bills and get my mind off the noise.
Is there more mail or am I unable to deal with it anymore? I have stacks, paper bags, and baskets full of it. I swear that it wasn’t this way before.
I opened my Cobra health insurance notice. Although I hadn’t been notified of an increase from my former employer, my premium had suddenly gone up $50 and, because of a recent change in plan administrators, I was now being charged another $10 for paper processing fees. I want to start charging THEM fees (whoever THEY are that are destroying the rainforest and sending me unwanted catalogs and all of this crap in the mail).
And speaking of paper (and crap), what about the struggles I have in small spaces now? Toilet stalls, to be exact. Why is it so hard to get a piece of toilet paper out of the dispenser, no matter what the design? Little bits come out when I need it the most, like there is some kind of hidden allocation device inside. The rolls get stuck and I break a nail trying to grab a bit that entices me to pull it, so I jam my keys up the slot to yank it out and I get one piece (thank you, Mr. Potty Pez dispenser). I bite my lip to keep from swearing because I see feet in the stall next to me…nice Uggs, by the way. And seat covers? Can I just get ONE (now I want just one!) untorn, unattached to four more, and not have to punch out the middle part? The more urgent the need, the more resistance I find. “Stall” is an appropriate word for that hellish cubicle.
And small spaces? I live in one too. I have to admit that I love my studio, but it has its drawbacks too. Younger neighbors roll in at all hours, slamming doors and playing music with the base turned up that vibrates my walls and makes me feel like I’m in a “put-a-quarter-in-and-get-shakin’” bed in a cheap motel.
And, after mentioning to a Match.com connection that I had trouble sleeping because of the noise here, this guy I had never met had the nerve to suggest “phone sex” to relax me. This happened the very next day after he had told me that all (other) men were pigs. I told him I slept fine because I had a vibrating bed and that I never wanted to hear from him again.
A few years back, I had some strange physical symptoms which I thought might be anxiety related (big surprise there). My face had gone numb, so I ended up in ER. I was sent to a neurologist because of an unusual brain scan.
“Hmmmm,” he said, as he gazed at my MRI. (It’s never good when a doctor says hmmmm.)
He asked me about past illnesses and asked if I was married. I didn’t think he was hitting on me, but I found it odd that he would ask that question.
His prescription included vitamins A, C, E, and a husband. Seriously.
“It’s tough going it alone these days,” he said. And maybe it is.
So Doggie-One-Note, crazy Match.comments, Cobra bites, and menopausal rants aside, I sit here with my earplugs and my anti-anxiety med of choice, surrounded by papers that propagate while I sleep (or try to), vowing never to go potty outside of my house, sounding more like a lay-down comic than a stand-up, trying not to hang myself as I wait for my prodigal socks and my husband to arrive. Ah, it’s a good day.
Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.