Take his hand, you dumbass.

Tomorrow Nutty Hubby and I will celebrate seven hopelessly smitten years together, four of them as one of those married couples you hate because they’re still all lovey-dovey in public and they haven’t tried to kill each other yet.

It doesn’t really feel like it’s been seven years, but I also don’t really feel not-quite-32 years old, so what do I know? Although I did spend one of those years in a different country, because the fact that Nutty Hubby proposed didn’t mean I wasn’t still going to ditch him for grad school abroad, so really it’s only like six years actually together together, and then when you take into consideration all the time you spend sleeping or at work…why, we’re practically strangers!

Anyhow, this morning I was thinking about this weirdo I agreed to spend the rest of my life with, and marveling at how I ended up married at all when just a few months prior to the start of our relationship I had decided that having a ring on my finger was something that really didn’t interest me anymore. And then I found myself wondering for the millionth time how the hell we even wound up together, because really, we were idiots about the whole thing.

The butt dial of destiny.

Someone called me on my cell phone yesterday.

Yeah, it surprised the hell out of me too. Do people still talk to each other on those? Is that a thing? “My phone is buzzing, but it’s not a text. I DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS.”

Anyway I didn’t pick up because I was at work and regardless I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t recognize. So I just let it go to voicemail. I thought that would be the end of it, but to my further bemusement, the caller actually left a message.

Sort of. It was ten seconds of silence.

I was pretty sure it was a junk phone call, but I don’t like blocking a number unless I’m absolutely certain they’re up to no good, so I did my customary Googling to check if the caller was a known spammer. No spam reports came up in the search results. But a résumé did. Someone in the film industry listing a bunch of assistant director credits.

Interesting.

Curiosity and boredom compelled me to click the link and begin stalking my mystery caller’s work history. Nothing too impressive, a couple of campy films, a DVD feature or two, a few obscure TV shows…

Wait a minute. I know that TV show.

I was on that TV show.

Shit just got real.

Ten years ago, I spent one extremely lucrative day as an extra after being tipped off by a friend about an open casting call (my friend would later suffer some minor butthurt over the fact that I got hired and she did not, proving no good deed goes unpunished). The episode I appeared in was in the third season of the show…the very season on which my mystery dialer had been working as second assistant director.

Getting a random call from the 2nd AD of a show you were involved with for a mere 16 hours a decade prior would be strange enough in itself. But you have might have figured out by now that when it comes to strangeness, my life never strives for just sorta strange – it makes a beeline right for absurdly strange.

Because it occurred to me several hours after the fact that I don’t even have the same phone number anymore.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

Option 1: Mr. 2nd AD developed a mad crush on me during my 16 hour stint on set, but it took him ten years to work up the courage to do anything about it. Upon learning that my old phone number now belongs to someone else, he went full stalker until he finally tracked down my new number.

Option 2: Mr. 2nd AD was so captivated by my stellar performance of drinking a cup of flat Coca-Cola coffee in the background of a cafe that he absolutely had to have me back to reprise the role in the new project he happens to be currently working on. Upon learning that my old phone number now belongs to someone else, he went full stalker until he finally tracked down my new number.

Option 3: Fate is fucking with me.

I’m 99% sure it was Option 3, but 1% of me thinks that’s still one excessively coincidental butt dial.

Why can’t I have this kind of luck with the lottery?

Gouda advice.

Nutty Hubby and I were at Boston Pizza recently and we found this tiny snippet of wisdom hanging out on the windowsill next to our table.

And I was like, “Damn, that’s actually pretty good advice, random piece of paper!”

And then I immediately proceeded to consume my weight in cheese-covered food. I don’t know if that really did anything for Future Me, but Present Me was pretty darn happy.

The many personalities of Penny.

This is a long one. Dogs are involved. Possible danger of feels. You’ve been warned.

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I miss dogs.

It’s been over a decade since I lived in a home with pets. Rental units that allow them are scarce in my city, and it’ll be years before we’re ready to buy. I’m trying to be patient, but it’s tough. I grew up in a household that had anywhere from 2 to 5 furry and feathered extra members of the family living in it at any given time, and to go from that to a life with no pets at all, well, it’s been ten years and I’m still getting used to it.

I’m not going to pretend there aren’t perks. I no longer need dedicated “dog clothes” to wear when I’m at home to avoid getting the good ones covered in pet hair and saliva. Okay, yeah, so I still dress like a slob at home most of the time, but it’s the principle of the thing. If I want to kick back on the couch with a beer in my wedding dress, I totally can….and if we’re being honest, I totally have. (What? It’s too awesome a dress to just leave sitting there in the closet all the time.)

My career as a wedding photog is going to take off any day now.

There is no more walking into a room to be greeted by that tell-tale odor that lets you know you’re about to embark on a game of Find the Poop. There are no more soaked sock surprises from stepping into hidden piddle puddles. I can safely leave the closet door open, knowing my shoes will remain un-gummed by soft, curious mouths.

There are no faint warning whines at 5am which you are briefly tempted to ignore, but which you know will only escalate in volume the longer you take to get your butt downstairs and pour a cup of goddamned kibble in a bowl. There is no more resigned mopping up of saliva after the source of the whine wolfs down said kibble way too fast and ends up horking half of it back up onto the floor – only to gobble it down again just as enthusiastically.

But there are also no more warm furry cuddles. No frenzied celebrations upon your return after leaving the room for a mere two minutes. No loving gazes from those innocent, trusting eyes that let you know that you are THE ENTIRE WORLD to this creature.

There is a dog-shaped hole in my heart.

The reason is Penny.