Third Act With Pattie

Tag: love

  • 🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    🐾Sassy Says: I Have Responsibilities On Campus

    I would first like the record to reflect that the parents left me behind.

    Again.

    Discarded while they wandered off on what I assume was a completely unnecessary vacation involving restaurants that don’t allow dogs and beds that probably weren’t even properly covered in fur.

    I think it’s important to report the facts.

    The parents insist on calling the place they leave me “the farm.”

    First of all…

    it is NOT a farm.

    The way the parents say it, you’d think we were out there being free-range harvested.

    Frankly, their branding is terrible.

    This place is so much better than a farm.

    We call it:
    being on campus.

    Because this place was very clearly designed specifically for dogs.

    Finally.

    Someone with vision.

    We have our own house.

    Not a kennel.
    Not a shed.
    Not one of those sad little concrete situations where everyone slowly loses the will to live.

    There are fields and meadows, and woodsy areas, and…

    A HOUSE.

    A big house.
    Like two-legged people houses.

    Except cleaner and emotionally better regulated.

    There are leather couches.
    A fireplace.
    A kitchen.

    Of course, we have staff to prepare the meals because none of us have thumbs…               and frankly that feels like a design flaw we should address as a species.

    There are also outdoor recreation areas, structured activities, enrichment programs, leadership development, and ongoing educational opportunities.

    Mama calls it “training.”

    That is adorable.

    This is higher education.

    I arrived fully prepared to carry the burden of abandonment with dignity, restraint, and just enough sadness to make everyone uncomfortable.

    Emotional discipline is important.

    Instead…

    The Boxer was there.

    Tiny White Floof had already positioned herself on the couch like a tiny retired queen judging the entire campus.

    Mr. Golden Retriever Class President was once again running around greeting everyone like an unpaid cruise director fueled entirely by optimism.

    Then there was the doodle.

    There is always a doodle.

    This one looked like he had consumed three energy drinks and half a motivational podcast before breakfast.

    Honestly, things escalated quickly.

    There was running.
    There was training.
    There were organized social activities.

    At one point, I became so involved in campus life that I briefly forgot I had parents.

    In my defense, there was a lot going on.

    The faculty did not help matters.

    Apparently I was “a very good girl.”

    Repeatedly.

    Frankly, I found the entire thing manipulative.

    Effective.
    But manipulative.

    Time moves differently on campus.  

    One minute you’re being abandoned by your family.

    The next minute you’re supervising outdoor activities and helping maintain doodle stability.

    Then suddenly it was time to go home.

    Apparently, Mama expected some sort of emotional reunion scene when she returned.

    Probably tears.

    Possibly dramatic whining.

    Maybe me launching myself into her arms while soft music played in the background.

    Honestly, she may have built the whole thing up in her head.

    Instead, I was outside managing a rapidly escalating doodle situation.

    Frankly, the campus was one poorly timed squirrel away from complete disorder.

    It was not an appropriate moment for emotional reunions.

    Plus, I have my pride.

    Now to be clear…

    I DID miss them.

    Usually during brief quiet moments between activities.

    Or when nobody was actively throwing something.

    But overall, I adjusted extremely well to campus life.

    Mama always tells people:
    “Sassy LOVES going to the farm!”

    This is an outrageous oversimplification.

    What I love is:
    structure,
    leadership opportunities,
    my friends,
    and whatever magical system they have in place that results in twenty dogs behaving better than one Daddy trying to grill hamburgers.

    Also naps in the sun.

    I love those too.

    By the time they got me home, I was exhausted in the deeply satisfying way one becomes exhausted after a successful semester away.

    I slept the entire evening.

    At one point Mama checked to make sure I was still breathing..

    which honestly felt over-dramatic.

    Then the next morning, Mama casually used the word “campus” in conversation, and I would like it officially noted that I was standing at the front door with one toy, two emotional support tennis balls, and complete emotional readiness before she finished the sentence.

    Purely precautionary.

    Leadership is a responsibility, not a hobby

    — Sassy 🐾

    Off the record…

    Hey girl…

    I know your parents left you while they went somewhere with my parents.

    I wish you’d been at my campus this weekend. We could’ve used another very good girl.

    Did your weekend get this wild too?

  • Not Today Gravity

    Not Today Gravity

    Hubby and I are on a weekend trip with friends.

    Yes, I know.

    We are in the middle of managing two houses, packing one, moving into another, and generally living in a state best described as “controlled chaos.”

    So naturally…
    we ran away for the weekend to make life easier.

    Solid plan. No notes.

    It’s day one, and I’ve already gathered material.

    Because if there is one thing I bring to any trip—besides snacks and mild sarcasm—it’s my lifelong commitment to falling.

    Not metaphorically.

    Physically.
    Spectacularly.
    With range.

    I am what you might call… an expert faller.

    Trip-over-air, fall-on-my-face, recover-like-nothing-happened kind of faller.

    I have fallen a lot. In some truly bizarre ways.
    And somehow? The worst of it has been scratches, bruises… and my pride.

    Olympic-level.

    Gold medal. No question.

    Now, let’s talk about the equipment I’m working with.

    I am under five feet tall.
    A grandiose height that I reached… in seventh grade.

    Short arms.
    Tiny hands.
    Little bitty feet.

    Song in your head? Welcome to my daily life.

    And then Mother Nature said, “You know what would really tie this together?”

    And added… hips, thighs, and a center of gravity that… gets involved.

    So essentially…

    I am built like a Tyrannosaurus rex – better hair, worse balance.

    So the falling?

    Not a phase.
    A lifestyle.

    My first truly memorable public humiliation was at sixteen.

    I was attempting—keyword attempting—to walk into a golf pro shop.

    My tiny foot caught the door ledge. Maybe. And I launched myself headfirst into the building like I’d been fired out of a cannon.

    As I scrambled up, praying no one noticed, an older “gentleman” announced:

    “Some people. You can dress ’em up, but you just can’t carry ’em anywhere.”

    I did what any strong, confident teenage girl would do.

    I went and sat in the car while everyone else played golf…and sat there red-faced sucking back tears.

    Injury report:
    One bruised ego. No physical damage.

    Future me: gravity gets the fall. Not the tears.

    Then there was the pregnancy fall.

    Very pregnant.
    Waddling laps in the mall like that baby and I were in negotiations.

    No slippery floor.
    No misstep.
    No warning.

    Just… boom.

    Flat on my backside.

    A crowd gathered immediately, because nothing draws attention like a pregnant woman hitting the ground in public.

    And without missing a beat, I told them:

    “The baby kicked really hard and startled me.”

    That child stayed put for three more weeks.

    Coincidence?
    I think not.

    And so it went.

    Decades of falls.

    Fast. Slow. Heels. Flats. Paying attention. Not paying attention.

    Didn’t matter.

    Gravity and I have a relationship.

    At some point, I stopped fighting it.

    I started leaning into the fall—literally.

    Roll with it. Break it. Pop back up.

    Smile like I meant to do that.

    By the time I met Hubby, I was already competing at an elite level.

    Now that I’m older, people like to blame my age.

    Or the chemo.

    Or “just being careful.”

    Do I correct them and explain that I am structurally designed like a top-heavy dinosaur with trust issues?

    No.

    I let people believe what makes them comfortable. I’m considerate like that.

    My last official fall was two months ago.

    Senior Walk at prom.

    Sidewalk.
    Crowd of parents.
    Maximum audience.

    One minute I’m walking…
    the next minute I’m not.

    Down.

    Concrete.

    Hands and knees took the hit.

    No injuries.

    Absolute perfection.

    Gold medal performance.

    And then…

    today happened.

    We were walking down a crowded sidewalk in a new town.

    Cute shops.
    People everywhere.
    Hanging baskets of flowers that looked like they had their own Instagram manager.

    I was being careful. Focused. Aware.

    I saw it.

    A bright red fire hydrant. Directly in my path.

    At the exact same moment… I saw the flowers hanging above.

    So I told myself:
    “Stop. Look at the flowers.”

    And my brain said:
    “Great idea.”

    And my feet said:
    “We’re gonna keep going.”

    I walked directly into the fire hydrant.

    Full commitment. No hesitation.

    Sharp hit to the thighs. Momentum forward.

    And then…

    something miraculous happened.

    I teetered. I rocked.

    Time slowed.

    I could feel the fall coming— the familiar, inevitable descent into another gold medal moment.

    And then…

    I DID NOT FALL.

    At least 1,999 absolutely committed falls flashed before my eyes – like a highlight reel… career highlights.

    And somehow…

    I stuck the landing. Nailed it.

    For the first time in sixty-nine years…

    I almost fell—

    and didn’t.

    Now, I could tell you this is about balance.

    Or growth. Or awareness. Or aging gracefully.

    But let’s not get carried away.

    I’m choosing to believe it’s the shoes.

    Barefoot shoes.

    Not wisdom.
    Not evolution.
    Not inner peace.

    Footwear.

    So here’s what I know:

    I have spent a lifetime falling.

    Getting up.
    Laughing it off.
    Pretending I meant to do that.

    But today?

    I didn’t fall.

    Which means one of two things:

    Either I have finally evolved…

    or this is just the setup
    for the most spectacular, career-ending, gold-medal, slow-motion fall
    of my entire life.

    Honestly?

    Based on my track record…

    I’d stay tuned.

    -Pattie

    P.S.

    As I was writing this, Hubby – very lovingly, of course -asked if I included:

    The fall in Nashville.
    The fall in Key West.
    The fall in the airport.
    The fall in—well, everywhere.

    I told him I’m writing a blog.

    Not War and Peace.

    Subscribe so you’ll know when it’s a fall… and when it’s not. Apparently, that matters now.

  • 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.

  • It Was Never Just a Room

    It Was Never Just a Room

    I came home from the lake yesterday to do the thing I’ve been avoiding for weeks.

    Pack the quilting room.

    Although calling it a room has always been a bit generous.

    This was never just a room.
    It was where things were made and where thoughts made sense.

    It was a fully operational textile ecosystem.

    Two sewing machines.
    One coverstitch machine (because at some point I believed I hem things).
    A Moxie quilting machine on an eight-foot frame that requires its own zip code.

    Two tables.
    Four bookcases.
    Fabric. Notions. Needles. Pins. Books.

    And supplies.

    So many supplies.

    Not everything you could possibly need—
    because if it were everything, I would have had to stop buying things.
    And we all know that was never part of the plan.

    There are shelves of doohickeys.
    Tools I bought for one very specific purpose and then never saw again.
    Pegboards.
    Lights.
    More lights.

    A nightstand.
    (No idea.)

    One very comfortable chair that has supported both creativity and avoidance in equal measure.

    Also where I sat long enough for things to settle.

    Containers of fabric.
    Wall hangings.
    Half-finished projects that were absolutely going to change my life.

    Plants.
    Because nothing says “sharp rotary cutter” like watering schedules.

    And—

    a gun safe.

    Yes.
    A gun safe.

    Because apparently when you negotiate for an entire room of your own,
    there may be terms and conditions.

    Also… it’s the only place it fits.

    So there it sits.
    Right in the middle of all of it.

    Which really just proves the point—

    it was never just a room.

    So here I am…

    trying to pack.

    And every single thing I touch
    has something to say about it.

    This room always did that.
    It held onto things for me.

    There’s a vase filled with old thread—
    the kind you don’t use anymore
    but you also don’t throw away.

    Thread from my mother.

    Too old to trust.
    Too hers to toss.

    Only one still has a price on it.

    Fifteen cents.

    I don’t know what that equals today,
    but I know it equals
    put that back down.

    Then there’s the Shoney’s Big Boy doll—
    grinning like he remembers things I don’t.

    My Daddy worked at Shoney’s when I was little.
    Wore that same haircut.

    I can’t look at that ridiculous plastic head
    without seeing my Daddy.

    My mother’s cross-stitch hangs on the wall:

    “Not tonight dear… I’m stitching.”

    Which explains a lot.

    Next to it—

    “Girls just wanna have FUN-damental human rights.”

    And a crocheted Ruth Bader Ginsburg doll
    who looks like she’s about to file a dissenting opinion
    on how long this packing is taking.

    This room—

    was never just fabric and machines.

    It was time.
    It was people.
    It was where I came when I needed quiet… or wasn’t ready to answer questions.

    It was versions of me
    who thought I’d make clothes,
    be more organized,
    and finish what I started.

    (It’s also proof I have never met a piece of fabric I didn’t believe had potential.)

    And now I’m supposed to put it all in boxes.

    Like it’s just a room.

    But it isn’t.

    It never was.

    I think I knew that all along.

    Some things get packed. Some things come with me.

    And now…

    it’s packed. Stacked. Labeled.

    Ready to go to the lake.

    And I think –

    so am I.

    -Pattie

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

    No spam. No nonsense. Just stories.