I was sitting outside with my dog this morning, taking in the peaceful noises of an awakening day, the noises that usually bring me comfort. But instead, today, they were nothing more than noises.

I recognized the difference in my perspective, so I looked at my dog and asked, “What is wrong with me?” He answered by giving me a hunk of silence, interrupted only by the sound of his tail thwacking against the ground.

I guess what’s wrong with me is that I had a bad weekend. And it isn’t that I had expectations of a great weekend, one filled entirely with fun and exciting activities because, honestly, I had no plans at all. So, that said, my weekend turned out just as I should’ve expected.

It started on Friday afternoon when I attempted to call the powers-that-be in an effort to ask some questions regarding child support. And for those of you who wonder if your tax dollars are truly hard at work, you’ll be happy to know that these folks take calls from 1-4 only, and if you leave a voice mail, you need to be aware that they will not call you back because of the limited number of outgoing phone lines. (Is that a dream job or what? You are only responsible for three hours a day and that is IF anyone can reach you on the phone!) Of course, I was unable to get through since, if you only accept phone calls for three hours each day, uh, everyone calls during those three hours!

Friday evening, Dylan went to a high school football game. And as a single mother who knows an opportunity when she sees one, I took full advantage of the fact that I had a free evening, no kid, none of that being-a-good-role-model shit to deal with—I could do anything I wanted. So I washed my face, ate a can of soup, crawled into my favorite boxers and sweatshirt, then sprawled in bed with a book. I was asleep before 8. I know, I know—this shit is what happens when you hit the big 4-Oh!—but wait—it gets better. Maybe.

Saturday, well, I did work out. And then I went for a walk. And I responded to the guy who e-mailed me, complaining about the “insulting and inflammatory” comment I’d made in my previous post that “denigrates the intellect of golden retrievers everywhere.” (Ahem. I mean, of all the shit I’ve launched, THAT is what folks find offensive? Er--one of us needs to get out more….) And then I spent the afternoon putting together my new “More Fun” page with links to some of my favorite video clips on YouTube.com. Later, recognizing that I don’t drink nearly as much as I should, I pulled on a pair of jeans, found a clean sweatshirt, and ventured out to enjoy a few glasses of sangria with some friends (those three drinks mean that I have now met my monthly alcohol consumption quota and am halfway there for next month as well). And then I came home and read until I fell asleep. Whew—the excitement builds. Or not.

And Sunday, I spent most of it in bed, lying on a heating pad, wondering what the hell I had done to my back. Since I can’t remember anything specific that would cause such great pain, I suspect it is the result of some sort of cosmic retribution for something I did, perhaps having voted Republican one too many times. (Someone please remind me of this backache come November, ok?)

So this morning, I talked to my dog, trying to isolate the reason for my funk. And I couldn’t come up with the answer. But I did come to understand that my relationship with my dog is like a marriage, perhaps a bad marriage, but a marriage just the same. I talk and talk and talk and he just sits there, looking at me, saying nothing, perhaps occasionally moving his head to watch a fly or sometimes taking care of an itch in a not-so-appropriate way. I look back at him, wonder what he’s thinking and then I realize he’s just waiting for me to shut up and give him what he wants. When I start crying, he’s not sure what to do, at first attempting to comfort me by snuggling and then, when that fails, he attempts to bribe me into better spirits by bringing me a totally inappropriate gift (he usually opts for the egg-shaped rock we found a few months ago). By the time I try to comfort myself with food, he’s there, beside me, waiting for the opportunity to lean in and grab a bite for himself. Finally, when I start to emerge from the cave of my emotions, he’s there, waiting for me, waiting for me to stroke him just the way he likes it, just where he likes it (er—ok—here’s where the marriage analogy ends, given that Rocky’s goodtimes were surgically removed several years ago, by a veterinary professional, in spite of the offers I had from various friends, acquaintances, and a few strangers, who offered to rip them off themselves).

So how do I feel now? I am certain that I am one pint of vanilla Haagen-Daz away from a full recovery of a weekend with the mulligrubs. And Rocky will want to, at least, lick the carton.