Third Act With Pattie

Tag: life

  • I Came. I Socialized. Everyone Else Was Thriving. I Executed The Restroom Dodge.

    I’m writing this while I’m supposed to be socializing.

    Which, if you think about it, is a strong indicator of how this evening is going… for me.

    For everyone else?

    Oh, they are thriving.

    Hubby included.

    Radiant. Engaged. Positively buoyant in a sea of handshakes and conversation.

    Meanwhile, I am over here realizing six months on the couch have left my knees woefully undertrained.

    Hubby and I are at the grand opening of a new store for the company he retired from.

    And by “retired” I mean he retired…and then, almost immediately, got himself rehired in a new role — working mostly from home — in what we are calling “semi-retirement.” 

    Which, at the time, felt like a great idea. 

    Probably because it was mine.

    I would like to formally withdraw my support.

    Immediately.

    Now—to be fair—this is a fantastic event.

    Beautiful setup. Great turnout. Everyone looks genuinely happy to be here.

    People are reconnecting, laughing, hugging, networking like professionals.

    This is their Super Bowl.

    As a spouse, I am technically a team member.

    A very underperforming one.

    There are approximately 250 people here. Possibly more. They seem to be multiplying—but in a festive, successful way.

    There are also—conservatively—three different types of sound happening at the same time:

    A band outside
    Something with a microphone inside
    And a mysterious third source that sounds like a DJ who refuses to be ignored

    Four, if you count the tinnitus ringing in both ears.

    For me, it’s less “grand opening gala” and more “auditory Hunger Games.”

    Everyone else? Loving it.
    Swaying. Smiling. Fully immersed.

    Me? Trying to figure out which direction sound is coming from so I can nod appropriately.

    Now, to be clear, I like socializing.

    I like the quick hello.
    The warm smile.
    The light joke.
    The graceful exit before the long cousin story begins.

    That’s where I shine.

    I am a social sprinter.

    That is my lane.

    And for the first 45 minutes?

    I was spectacular.

    Gold medal spectacular.

    But this event is not built for social sprinters.

    This is a marathon crowd.

    And my husband—who is younger, more energetic, and apparently powered by human interaction—is absolutely in his element.

    At one point, I watched him effortlessly transition from one conversation to the next like a social ninja.

    Meanwhile, I nodded and laughed at something that may or may not have been directed at me.

    Confidence is key in these situations.

    It was around that moment I realized something important about myself:

    I do not like standing for extended periods of time.

    Not sure I ever did.

    I’m going to go ahead and blame that on my chemo couch phase…

    followed by my sporadic gym phase…

    which I am absolutely still blaming on the chemo. 

    That feels fair.

    Somewhere around the one hour and 45 minute mark — purely by coincidence — my legs began filing formal complaints.

    Not subtle ones.

    Official documentation.

    So I did what any reasonable, slightly older, socially overwhelmed adult would do.

    I executed the classic maneuver:

    The Restroom Dodge.

    I made my way with purpose—focused, determined, slightly dramatically— toward the universal sanctuary.

    But instead of going in…

    I found a chair.

    A glorious, unexpected, cushioned chair.

    And I sat.

    Not a polite sit.

    A full, committed, “this is my home now” sit.

    From this chair, I’ve discovered something important:

    For me, watching people socialize…

    is far more enjoyable than participating.

    From my seated throne near the restroom, I can observe:

    The enthusiastic handshakers
    The genuinely engaged listeners
    The “I’ve been trying to exit this conversation for 12 minutes” crowd
    The phone-checkers pretending it’s urgent

    It’s like an indoor nature documentary.

    A happy, successful, well-attended indoor nature documentary.

    And I am the older, slightly cranky narrator who wandered off-script.

    At this point, I’m not entirely sure when I’ll rejoin society.

    Possibly when the music consolidates into a single, identifiable genre — ideally one I recognize.

    Possibly when chairs become more widely available.
    Or possibly when my husband—who I love dearly and blame entirely—comes to find me and escorts me back into the wild.

    Until then…

    I will be here.

    Resting.
    Observing.
    Acknowledging that this is, in fact, a wonderful event…

    …just not my sport.

    -Pattie

    P.S.

    Update from the next phase of the evening:

    I am now in the car.

    Shoes off.
    Feet up.
    Dignity fully restored.

    The muffled music from the event is drifting out into the parking lot like a distant reminder of choices I enthusiastically supported earlier and no longer recognize as my own.

    And I am not alone.

    Scattered across nearby vehicles are my people—

    The early leavers.
    The “we showed our face” crowd.
    The socially exhausted.

    We are sitting in quiet solidarity…

    while, just inside, the party continues—lively, joyful, and exactly as it should be.

    And honestly?

    Good for them.

    Truly.

    We’ll be right out here.

    Like civilized adults.

    If you’ve ever smiled, nodded, and quietly planned your escape… you’re going to fit right in here.

  • The Wonderdog Strike: Until Further Notice

    Let me explain how we got here.

    Earlier today…
    there was a situation.

    A stranger approached the house.
    There was movement.
    There were sounds.
    There was… paperwork.

    I took action.

    I alerted.
    I warned.
    I escalated appropriately.

    Management’s response?

    “Relax.”

    Relax.

    And that is when I knew…

    this “city house” organization no longer values my contributions.

    Also—while we’re discussing concerns—
    stranger people keep coming to this house.

    They walk through.
    They look at things.
    They touch things.

    Things that were very clearly
    not previously up for discussion.

    And again…

    paperwork.

    This does not happen at the lake.

    Just noting that.

    So today, I have made a decision.

    I will be lying in bed.

    Not my bed.
    That would suggest cooperation.

    Their bed.

    “Why would the Wonderdog lie in bed all day?” you ask.

    Because I am on strike.

    Until management learns to take my very real, very serious security concerns seriously…

    I will be doing no dog things.

    I will not sit on my section of the sectional.
    (My assigned post. Abandoned.)

    I will sit wherever I want.
    Including restricted zones.

    I will not lie on my bed.
    Or in my house.

    Those are for team players.

    I will lie on management’s bed.
    Where the pillows are much better,
    but the decisions that led me here remain questionable.

    I will not eat meals.

    Meals are part of the system.

    I will eat snacks only.

    Secretly, furtively.

    And if you see me eating a snack…
    no you didn’t.

    I will not be participating when danger approaches.

    No alerts.
    No barking.
    No heroic hallway sprints.

    Strangers may enter.

    At this point, I assume they were invited.

    They may take whatever they want. 

    (For the love of bacon-they already are.)

    Today…

    I am lying on management’s bed.

    Uninvited.
    Unbothered.
    Re-evaluating my role in this “city house” organization.

    And I am on strike.

    Until further notice.

    Or until someone admits
    that the situation earlier…

    —with the stranger,
    the touching,
    and the paperwork—

    was, in fact,

    a situation.

    And if the sectional disappears next…

    just know—

    I saw it coming.
    I warned you.
    I documented it.

    And I will be taking my talents,
    my snacks,
    and my unmatched security expertise…

    to the lake house—
    where the birds are suspicious,
    the squirrels are clearly plotting,
    and whatever that thing was by the water
    at least didn’t carry paperwork.

    Also—
    no one there ever tells me to “relax.”

    Out there, it’s not used… incorrectly.

    🐾 Sassy The Wonderdog

    If you made it this far, we’re basically on the same side of this dispute.

    No spam. No Nonsense. Just stories.

  • My Lake Girl Era is Off to a Rough Start

    My Lake Girl Era is Off to a Rough Start

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  • No One Seems Concerned But Me

    Y’all…

    I am not going to get worked up about this.

    I don’t have the energy.

    I have things to guard.
    The few things that are still here.

    Because strangers keep coming to the “city” house.

    They pull up.
    I hear them.
    I take my position.

    (Security is clearly a one-dog department.)

    I start the growl.

    Mama: “No, Sassy.”

    They walk up.
    They ring the bell.

    I bark. Stranger danger.

    Mama: “Quiet, Sassy.”

    I’m sorry—
    who exactly is handling security then?

    Because from where I’m standing,
    it is me.

    I understand that they don’t speak dog, but this isn’t advanced communication.

    This is intro-level dog.

    Growl = problem. Bark = bigger problem

    And yet –

    Daddy opens the door…

    …and lets them in.

    Just… invites the situation inside.

    Now these people walk around
    looking at my things.

    Things I have personally supervised for years.

    And then—

    they point…

    hand Daddy some paper…

    and suddenly it’s theirs.

    Gone.

    And apparently this is special “green” paper.

    Now I don’t know if you are aware,
    but dogs do not see colors the same way you do.

    So from where I’m standing—
    that is not green.

    That is just… paper.

    Paper you cannot eat.
    (Yes. I checked. More than once.)

    How is that paper is worth more
    than my belongings.

    Make that make sense.

    Because last time I carried something off,
    that was called a problem.

    But if a stranger does it
    and waves around their not-green paper—

    suddenly it’s fine.

    We’ve got a real loophole situation here.

    And this didn’t even start inside the house.

    First it was the yard.

    Daddy brought a bunch of things from his “extra house”
    and put them out there.

    I went to inspect.

    Tiny tables.
    Little Chairs.
    Mini beds.

    Mini beds.

    For… who exactly?

    Because I have never seen a mini person in this house.

    Not one.

    So I don’t know what Daddy has going on out there…
    but I have concerns.

    Serious concerns.

    And then people just came
    and took that stuff too.

    No questions.
    No approvals.
    No Sassy involvement whatsoever.

    So now here we are.

    Strangers in the house.
    Things disappearing.
    Paper changing hands.

    And me?

    I am guarding what’s left
    with very little patience
    and absolutely no trust in this system.

    Because clearly,
    no one seems concerned…

    but me.

    Sassy The Wonderdog.

    …

    Anyway.

    I don’t have time to keep explaining this.

    I’ve got a house to watch.

    And a section of the sectional to defend.

    Because I am a very good girl. 🐾


    — Sassy The Wonderdog 🐾

    Still waiting to be included in major decisions…

    Subscribe for updates.
    I will allow it. —Sassy

  • The Last S’kiddle Leaves the Nest

    The Last S’kiddle Leaves the Nest

    Last weekend, we helped Middle S’kiddle move into her first place.

    And just like that… our house got quieter in a way I wasn’t quite prepared for. Not empty.
    Not sad exactly. Just… different.

    What is a S’kiddle, you ask?

    Fair question.

    When my husband and I got married, we didn’t just bring two people into a house —
    we brought a whole collection of people into one life. He had three daughters — one in high school and two still in grade school.

    And I came with two grown children, their spouses… and my one and only granddaughter — who at fifteen already very clear about her place in my life and my heart.

    So there were a lot of personalities – and a lot of opinions. And, as it turns out, a real need for creative naming.

    In the beginning, like all raised-right Southern children, they called me Miss Pattie.

    Which was completely appropriate. But also a little much for everyday life… and the occasional tattling.

    Somewhere along the way – maybe when they realized I could be trusted to stay — Miss Pattie quietly shifted into S’Mom.

    (There may have been a trial period. I like to think I passed.)

    I loved S’Mom – but it did leave me with a naming problem.

    Because “stepdaughter” made me sound like the evil stepmother of fairytales, and “S’daughter” felt awkward.

    “S’kid” sounded like I was already annoyed with them…which, to be clear, would come later — just not yet.

    So with a little thought — and a healthy dose of mischief — we landed on S’kiddle. Like the candy, colorful, sweet, and each one a completely differend flavor.

    And once we said it out loud…that was it.

    So they became:

    Senior S’kiddle
    Middle S’kiddle
    and Liddle S’kiddle

    And somehow… those names stuck — and they remain S’kiddles to this day… and probably always will.

    Middle S’kiddle has lived with us full-time since graduation, but long before that, she was part of a life built across two homes, with four parents who all loved her in their own ways.

    That’s just how her story was written. And honestly… it worked.

    She is her father’s spitting image — practical and very determined. Her job is here, and so are her friends.

    Liddle S’kiddle, her mother’s mini-me – is planning to stay very close to her mama’s house for college – her story unfolding in a completely different way, but just as much her own.

    Neither S’kiddle has any interest in trading their lives for lake view and retirement wandering – especially with both of us home all the time.

    Which means…

    Middle S’kiddle will not be joining us full-time in the Third Act.

    And we will be missing our built-in voice of reason —
    and her daily recaps of life as she sees it… whether we agreed with her or not.

    But before any of that really had time to settle in…

    She had been moving things all week — carloads here, boxes there —
    so by the time the weekend rolled around, we were feeling pretty confident.

    Just the bedroom furniture. A dining room table and four chairs. Six blocks down the road.

    How hard could that be?

    Well … let me just say this:

    There is no such thing as “just a few things.” And there is definitely no such thing as a “quick move.” Even when it’s only six blocks.

    (Especially when it’s only six blocks, because apparently that gives you false confidence and bad judgment.)

    Because this wasn’t just helping her set up her new place. This was the last S’kiddle leaving our home.

    And here’s the part nobody really prepares you for:

    It doesn’t feel like a big, dramatic ending.

    There’s no music playing. No slow-motion goodbye. No moment where everyone stands still and says, “Well… this is it.”

    Instead, you carry a box, adjust a chair debate where the couch should go like its a life-altering decision… and somewhere in the middle of all that, life changes.

    She’s only six blocks away. We’ll see her all the time. Northing is really ending.

    And yet… everything is a little different now.

    Because this — this right here – is what the Third Act looks like.

    Not loud. Not dramatic.

    Just a quiet shift from raising a life… to watching it go live on its own.

    And the truth is…this moment doesn’t belong to just us.

    It belongs to all of the parents who helped shape her —in both of the families that became one.

    And honestly?

    She’s ready.

    (But I would like the record to reflect that having someone around who kept us grounded
    and occasionally made more sense than we did was very convenient…and will be deeply missed.)

    And just in case life felt like it was getting a little too quiet…

    Senior S’kiddle is getting married this fall.

    So I’m fairly certain this is not the end of the stories —
    just a brief pause before the chaos resumes.

    If you’re still smiling,
    pull up a chair on the deck…

    We’ll raise a glass,
    watch the water sparkle,

    and see what happens next.

    – Pattie

    🐾 Sassy Says

    Again… nobody asked me.

    I am really going to miss Middle S’kiddle.

    I like to mess with her and bark every time she comes home – like I don’t have any idea who is breaking into the house. She doesn’t realize i already know her car, her footsteps, and her smell without even looking.

    So she always comes in with hugs and love… to calm me down. (It works Every time.)

    I am a Wonderdog like that.

    She comes home at lunch with chicken most days. She eats on the couch — where I can properly supervise — and she always leaves a little bit behind.

    I know she does it on purpose.

    What exactly am I supposed to do now?

    Lower my standards?

    🐾🍗🍿

    If you made it this far, we’re basically friends.

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.