The Expendable Self

Are you fed up with being the ONLY ONE of your friends who stays home on Saturday nights completely and utterly ALONE?

Are you tired of hearing things like: “You’re still single? At your age?” Or “Don’t worry, dear, love will find you when you least expect it.” Or “You should try online dating!”

If hearing these things make you smack your head, roll your eyes, or want to throw yourself head first into a fifty foot well, then clearly, you need to stop all those wild couch/television/alcohol threesomes and ...

Come to Live Oak’s First Annual Labor Day Speed Dating Doggie Style Extravaganza where we hope your dogs will have fun and you, yes YOU, will find a mate for life! (Mating of minds not dogs) Featuring a fenced and grassy exercise and play park where you will do your actual dating. Instead of the normal 5 minutes (or whatever those weird speed dating rules are), you’ll have 10 whole minutes to mingle and play with those of the opposite sex! Don’t forget to bring a list of questions to help you remember your date and help your date remember you! Let’s make sure your dogs and your dates are compatible!

Come and join us, this may change your life forever!!!

My name is Sophia Zinelli, and as you can tell by my name, I’m Italian. I’m thirty years old, and right now I am utterly exasperated. I marched back to my office in the rear of my family’s restaurant (Try The Veal) with Max (my portly 95 lb. German shepherd) close on my heels, then slumped down at my desk in defeat, still glaring at my cellphone.

What have I just agreed to? Why? How did Bailey O’Donlan-Mitchell get me to say yes when I firmly had no on the tip of my tongue? I must have taken it as a personal challenge when Bailey said, “Seize the day, Sophie, seize the day!” I’ve even got hotel reservations. Gah! Just because I sort of gave Bailey the speed dating idea in the first place (which she hastened to remind me more than a dozen times) didn’t mean I could leave my position as manager at my family’s restaurant (Try The Veal) on the two busiest days of the week!

When I informed Luca (the oldest of my three older male siblings and the one I think was stuck in the birth canal too long) he would be in charge of the restaurant over this upcoming weekend, he was ecstatic. Which made me want to smack him for making me feel so ... so expendable.

Note to self: Let Max watch Silence Of The Lambs again, then explain that older brothers taste quite good with a nice Chianti.

Nonno, Nonna, Mama and Papa were happy to see me go as well. “Go, spread your wings!” they said. Jeez. I’m not ten. Wings have been spread for years. I felt pathetically hurt about being so blatantly expendable.

I have now chastised my (apparently) expendable-self for having hurt feelings. I’ve wanted to find a decent date instead of some disastrous hook-up ever since I realized that Jack O’Donlan, my on-again off-again almost-boyfriend is a total and disastrous commitment-phobe. Which I kind of knew. Worse, he knew I knew. But I guess I hadn’t let it really sink in until now. Jack hasn’t visited or called or even sent a text in nearly a month! Well, fine. Now that I have an entire day to explore other dating possibilities, I should celebrate not pout.

The need to blame someone has overwhelmed me. I switched my glare from my phone to Max. Max, standing next to my desk in his doggie tuxedo, looked not only dashing but smug. I gave Max the evil eye. Max one-upped me with the stink eye, then sat down and licked his butt.

“Fine. Whatever, Mr. Smarty Pants Dog Who Must Always Win. You’re just another ego-driven male I’m going to have to deal with. But one of these days...”

Ha! Just wait, I told myself. I was going to be stern and strong if it killed me.

Well maybe not if it killed me. I mean, dying was kind of going to an extreme just to stand up for yourself. Plus, if I was dead, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to do it standing. Okay, so I’d be stern and strong even if I got like a really bad cold or something.

I glanced at the newest book of my many dog-training manuals, Danny the Dog Drawler’s How To Get That Darn Dog To Obey. I hadn’t had time yet to do more than glance at a few pages, (okay so I may have read most of it out of total desperation, so what) and from what I’d discovered so far, it was as if Danny the Dog Drawler had actually met Max. Several times. Maybe they’d had slumber parties and tailgated together.

Not that Max was bad or anything. Usually. Not that he didn’t listen. Mostly. Certainly Max wasn’t out of control.

My expendable-self ignored Max to sift through my bottom desk drawer, finally finding the scary Labor Day dating brochure from Bailey. I had tossed the brochure aside weeks ago stupidly thinking I was non-expendable. Since I was obviously wrong, I figured I’d better read the brochure to see what I’d gotten myself, and Max, into.

THIS, I thought as I shook the brochure in the air, was NOT my idea. Have a small get-together, I’d said. A few people with dogs, I’d suggested. But this? This... timed dating insanity was not my idea. Cavolo! (Means cabbage, but also darn)

I scanned my desk hoping to get my mind off finding a mate for life! and noticed my New Year’s Resolutions (revised and updated after I’d gotten Max, so as to include my bossy dog in all aspects of my life) peeking out from under a pile of books. I grabbed the list in hopes of having accomplished all my resolutions in order to make myself feel less nauseous.

1) Resolve to quit flapping hands about when speaking. Am in Atlanta, and not yet grandmother in Italia.

Crap. I made a quick note to buy duct tape before attending the big dating extravaganza.

2) Resolve to quit putting evil eye on Paolo. He scares easily and might have Luca or Gio pummel me into paste at which point Max would eat them, thus upsetting parents. Plus I’m still not yet grandmother in Italia.

Older siblings deserve to be stuffed into a mobster’s trunk (Paolo’s biggest fear) but having my brothers whacked would probably mean jail time.

3) Resolve to lose ten pounds before summer. Must learn to love Zumba and Pilates. Also must take fat Max with me no matter how much he whines in protest. Note to self: Buy ear protection.

It’s now September. Pounds lost: Zero. I hate Zumba and Pilates. I’m quite sure Zumba and Pilates instructors have gotten training from a medieval torture device manual. I still have no ear protection.

4) Resolve to quit stuffing face with pasta before yoga. Downward dog makes pasta do round trip from face to stomach to yoga mat and it’s not good for Max to eat regurgitated pasta.

I glanced up from my list when Max smacked his food bowl from the office wall to my office chair. “Monkey balls, Max! You’ve already eaten. Breakfast and lunch and a snack.” At the word snack, I got a cute head tilt. When I pushed his food bowl back toward the wall, I got a disrespectful sneer. “No. No more food until dinner.”

Max swatted his food bowl again, adamant. The food bowl ricocheted off my desk into the opposite wall like a crazed hockey puck looking for a goal. I decided to start a slow count to ten before scolding Max for being such a ...

Aargh! Eardrums nearly burst when my pushy, fat German shepherd in dire need of a diet barked in my face. I went back to my list to underline the part about needing ear protection. I added doggie mouthwash in the margin and thought about what Danny the Dog Drawler would do.

I pointed to Max’s giant doggie bed and said sternly, “Go!” Max’s entire body went slack and he melted onto the floor into a huge puddle of fur. Big sulking baby.

5) Resolve to go on real date, not set-up/blind date arranged by friends or parents, or God forbid, wedlock-wishing doddering nonna. Will quit using fat Max’s mobster movie intimidation techniques to instill fear in bad and boorish dates.

Knowing my friends and family, bad blind dates would probably happen until my marriage or death. Probably an arranged marriage leading to early death. Maybe the upcoming gala would solve all my dating problems. I would maintain hope. But, I told myself, I would let Max pee on anyone who handed me a mandolin or gondola asking for a moving rendition of ‘O Sole Mio. I am not Pavarotti. Besides, a girl had to draw the line somewhere between “BottaBing” and “It’s-a me! Mario!”

6) Resolve to cut Starbucks down from three venti caramel macchiatos per day to only one. Coffee habit is costing more than rent. Is also going straight to butt making self look like overly hyper fat bottom squirrel in desperate need of fewer nuts. Note to self: Do not allow Max to chew paper cups in pout fest due to not being allowed to have espresso.

I stared at the list in horror as the realization struck that I might have to move in with my parents since the number of macchiatos has gone from three to oftentimes five per day. Per. Day. I was soon going to have an empty bank account and a butt the size of Utah.

7) Resolve to stop letting fat Max greet restaurant guests in apron and chef’s hat while smacking his lips. He only gets to wear his tuxedo while at work. Note to self: Buy extra set of ear protection.

Hmmph. Max will never stop smacking his lips. He likes people to think he’s a sassy, gum-chewing diner waitress. Must make Max watch Bond movies to learn that wearing a tux means class and panache. Bogart movies also work. Since I still have not purchased ear protection of any kind, it just mean that I am an utter failure a busy career woman.

8) Resolve to have candlelit dinners. And take long walks. With Max. On the beach. At sunset. In the rain. Or, since I live in Atlanta and nowhere near a beach, just freaking resolve to eat more tacos.

9) Resolve to remember that I am boss of Max, not the other way around. Remind myself that yes, Max has big teeth, and is also big bossy baby and in need of doggie psychiatry for OCD.

I glanced down at Max in a covert manner so as not to make eye contact. Max burped up linguini then licked his butt again. I went back to my list satisfied he’d forgotten about food for the moment but concerned over how he’d behave when it came to seeing a shrink for dogs. Especially since Max does not believe he’s canine.

I should just go ahead and bang my head on desk hard enough to cause amnesia. in order to forget all lists which lead to feeling like complete expendable failure loser disaster.

1) Must teach Max that whining louder than a 747 at takeoff is not to be tolerated.

2) Must teach Max that spitting out chewed-up Starbucks cups is considered littering and will have to pay fine in dog biscuits.

3) Must find Max new hobby. Passing off blow dryer as radar gun while aiming at speeding motorists could result is grievous bodily injury from angry drivers. Regardless of how cool Max looks in mirrored Ray Bans, he is not a K-9 officer.

4) Must teach Max that red gravy/spaghetti sauce is not healthy choice of dog food. And Chianti does not belong in water bowl.

5) Must admonish Max for using Secret Squirrel Ninja skills to try to kill me in sneaky fashion. He wants my job, I’m sure of it.

6) Must allow Max freedom of self-expression during all psychiatry visits. Does not include allowing “talk to the paw” behavior.

7) Gently help Max break cycle of OCD behavior while using bushes as bathroom. Not every bush has hidden agenda of stealing his poo. Note to self: Tell Nonno to quit scooping Max’s poo every hour. It’s making me us look bad. Plus, Max doesn’t poo every hour anyway. Jeez.

I threw the list down in disgust. I have only achieved one resolution (eating more tacos) and it’s already nearing the end of summer. Feeling like a total loser flop, I glared at Max who was now sitting at my feet staring at me adoringly while wearing his dapper tuxedo. And smacking his lips.

Oh, God. I needed to reevaluate my life. Definitely needed to get out more. Maybe the doggie-gala-dating-thing wouldn’t be so bad ... as long as it wasn’t full of Ooh-look-at-me-I’m-so-busy-I’m-so-important, commitment-phobic, over-protective, egotistical, douche nuggets like Jack O’Donlan.

Bloody hell. Apparently I’d just agreed to take Buttercup to a first annual doggie something or other. As the town’s only vet, Bailey was always coming up with crazy animal theme days for the pet lovers in Live Oak and surrounding areas. As my younger sister who could wind me around her scheming little pinky, she deserved to be tied down in vat of rotted cabbage.

The words Labor Day and Romance had me cursing under my breath. Just because I was a happily single thirty-two-year-old male, why did my family and friends feel the need to constantly try and hook me up or marry me off? I was happy being a carefree town sheriff. Secretly, I could only be happier if Sophie were here to share my life with.

Hmmph. I would make a list of pros and cons of being a single male to shove up under Bailey’s nose.

Pros:

* When hung over and puking up guts on a Saturday morning, I can take solace in knowing I’m all alone and won’t be seen or judged by others.

The words all alone rang too true. I never puked up guts when Sophie was around.

*Ability to watch The Godfather every night of the week without having to go to the mattresses.

Mattresses. Italians. Sohpie. Crap, I would probably never watch The Godfather again.

*Never have to sit through a holiday at in-laws. One nagging, loud, obnoxious family is enough.

Except, well, Sophie’s family was fun and kind, and full of life and color, and ...

I doodled a heart with Sophie’s name inside, then quickly scratched it out. I was not twelve.

* Can burp and scratch at will. Can enjoy most disgusting version of myself without worry of being judged.

The only woman who ever judged me was Cindy-The-Whiner. (Never dip your wick in crazy) I certainly never felt the urge to burp or scratch in front of Sophie. Even if I had, she would probably out-burp and out-scratch me. Damn, I miss her.

* Can go on wild wilderness trek to watch polar bears, or drink margaritas in subtropics while drumming naked if so desire without female dashing entire life’s plans.

Except...it would all be more fun if Sophie were drumming naked next to me. Also, she would never dash life’s plans, would instead enhance them.

*Sex with whoever, whenever, wherever. No commitment to one person’s anatomy for rest of life.

I threw down my pen, having decided I was a total asshat. I really only wanted one person’s anatomy. And it sure as hell wasn’t Cindy-The-Whiner’s.

Cons:

*Feeling like an inflexible and selfish jerk who has no grip on the art of compromise or commitment.

Forget it. I would not show Bailey the Cons part of list. Or the Pros part either. And especially not the thought doodles in the margin. This all made me look like a jerk-wad commitment-phobic, egotistical, douche-nugget still in love with Sophie Zinelli.

As Buttercup snatched the crumpled-up paper and ran off toward the bedroom, the words dating extravaganza rang once again in my head. Double bloody hell. Just what had I agreed to? And would my dog ever forgive me?

I was just getting ready for work when Buttercup rounded the corner into the bedroom with yet another pair of my boxers hanging from her mouth. Aargh! My gentle, sweet-tempered, playful and intelligent Golden Retriever was SUCH a hoarder. Forget about forgiveness. I’ve found yet another pair of boxers wadded up under her doggie bed. Under my bed she’d hidden two socks, a plastic grocery bag, one Slim Jim wrapper, two dog bones, three squeaky toys, a tennis ball, one tennis shoe, a half-used roll of duct tape, an empty water bottle, a crumpled-up piece of paper, a shot glass, an ink pen, and some loose change. And...I peered more closely, reaching my hand under the bed to find...a black thong. Where the hell had that come from and how long has it been there?

Buttercup whined at me with a wild look in her eye. “Fine, it’s all fine. I’m not touching it, don’t get crazy.”

Never mind that I had a freaking salvage yard under my bed. For the love of all that was holy, I dared not move Buttercup’s accumulation of junk from underneath the bed. The last two times I’d cleaned up her stash, it not only tripled, but she went into a total apoplectic conniption fit and pooped in my shoe.

As I trundled Buttercup into the car for a doggie play-date and babysitting while I went to work the late shift, I made a mental note to ask Bailey if Buttercup needed psychiatric help. If not for her, then for me.