People often stop and stare when I walk by. I can’t really help it. And it’s not like I encourage anything, but I have to say I really get a kick out of it. After all, every girl needs people to stop in the middle of the road, roll down their window, and say:

“My, that’s a beautiful dog you’ve got there.”

Hhhhhh. We middle-ageds have to get our ego-boosts any way we can, ok? We buy deaf albino great danes.

I was walking through my neighborhood today (or rather, my one hundred and sixty pound puppy was walking me) as a sliver moon rose in the infinitesimal blue of the evening sky and the sun spattered a pink haze along the horizon. I listened to the irregular thud of kids shooting hoops in their driveways and birds settling in trees for the night and I thought: I could be happy here.

And then I thought: I’m thinking I could be happy here. Wait, don’t think! Just enjoy it! …Am I thinking too much? Damn. I’m thinking again. Will I ever achieve happiness if I think about things too much? No! Stop thinking about it! …I really do think too much. I should stop thinking too much. And thinking about thinking too much.

Yadda yadda. And so I maintain my lively state of general discontent and active inner cynicism.

It’s just against my nature to be happy in Arizona, ok? It puts me on edge to live in a place that so obviously cannot support its own population. I have visions of violent intervention when I see people wasting water. (I’m talking to YOU, guy who let water run on high while taking forever to make my frappacino!) I mean, come on, we live in a desert, people! And the city’s best plan for preserving water is reducing California’s water rights! (Like, hello, we native Californians need water too, ok?) But the abundance of strip malls, lack of authentic local culture, and plentitude of fake-tanned, big (FAKE)-boobied chicas ought to give me plenty to rail against. And as we all know, I am happiest when I have something to rail against.

Aw, my doggy is lying on his back. He is So Cute! L’il pipsqueak.

Er. Now he’s trying to get on the bed.

Ack! Now he’s sitting on me.

Grr.

He better not start farting.

Anyway, even though I have a dog and a stable relationship and a four-bedroom house in Arizona, I promise that I am not one of those boring people whose greatest pleasure is sitting down to watch TV every night. I don’t even have a TV. Hah! And when I get one, I assure you that it will only be utilized for purposes of intellectual stimulation like watching Dog The Bounty Hunter and American Casino: Green Valley Ranch (!). Because those have educational value.

But honestly, the only thing that’s saving me from an advanced case of settledom is my unemployediturdinality. But it shouldn’t be a problem because there are literally hundreds of jobs that I’m perfectly qualified for and which pay well, will advance my skills and are located in the greater Phoenix area. Hundreds.

Oh wait, did I say hundreds? I meant NONE. The two are easily mistaken.

All of which feeds my illusions about My Ideal Job, which is waiting patiently for me back in Genève (or so the voices tell me). Meanwhile I am confident that addlebrain is tanning every memory of my existence out of his sweet l’il head on vacation back in Oz. But he will be back in seven days, at which point I’m sure he’ll offer to fly me out of this hell hole of jobs like

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