I’ll admit to being fairly naive about men. I’ve been off the market for 34 years and I’m a little rusty when it comes to dating, but I have single friends who regale me with the highs and lows of their online dating adventures.

“You’ve probably got hundreds of mice crawling in your walls,” Big Vern said, flashing me significant builder’s bum as he bent over his Mouseblaster 2000 trap.

I live with four men, so I’m pretty familiar with the penis. Everyone in my house has one but me and the dog. Frankly, I think she has penis envy, but I try not to judge.

Take Your Dog to Work Day was an ill-conceived idea born of equal parts hubris and red wine. I live in Portland, Oregon where people take their dogs everywhere, from strip clubs to the symphony to the office. So naturally, I was game to try it with our Keeshond, Inca. Of course, the majority of dogs in the workplace are well-trained service animals. Inca is neither well-trained nor does she provide any kind of service. Unless barking neurotically at squirrels and terrorizing delivery men is considered a service. Basically, Inca is 200 pounds of goofy wedged into a 40-pound bag.

Let me start by saying I’m not a lesbian. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just not how I identify and I want to make that clear from the start. But I do find myself trying to pick up women lately. It’s become a problem, I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s not for me, it’s for my boys. I have three grown sons and I’d like to be a grandmother someday. I know I’m getting ahead of myself. First, they need a date. Hopefully with a real live girl.

I remember the last time I felt really good about my looks. It was the summer of 2006 and my therapist had just compared me to a ripened peach hanging on a tree. She was trying to explain, metaphorically, that I was about to lose it in the looks department. But did I care? At the time I was in my forties and had yet to see a wrinkle. Nary a crow’s foot or varicose vein in sight. I had been blessed with good genes and father time had yet to level a blow to my ever-ripening, peach-like bod.

A conversation between mother and daughter:

Mom: Are you worried I might die?

Me: No, you’re not going anywhere. Kinda like my children.

Mom: You know your boys will never move out of the house. Never!

Me: Seems that way.

Mom: But…do you worry about me dying?

I’ve been to jail. Not due to my bad judgement, although there’s been plenty of that. I was there in an official capacity, as a member of the Washington County grand jury. Like a twisted thank-you gift from hell, grand jury members are given a jailhouse tour and lunch for their service. Personally, I’d have preferred a nice fruit basket or scented candles, but you work with what you’ve got. In this case, a prison full of inmates.

Not long ago my best friend, Melissa, and I went shopping for something rather special. If you’re thinking Prada or Versace you’d be wrong. We bought hair. A huge bag of it!

My 18-year-old son called me a dirty word: politician. Gasp! It shouldn’t have surprised me, given our current political climate, but I was stunned, nonetheless.

Google Portland, Oregon and you’ll discover our city has a reputation. A good one! Forbes Magazine, for example, ranks Portland as the third best city in the nation for career growth, and Reader’s Digest lists Portland as one of the top ten sharpest, smartest cities in America.

I’ve got no mojo. None. Nada. Zip. While some women seem to effortlessly ooze sensuality, I’ve always oozed something entirely different. Something more akin to raw panic. I’m not saying men frighten me, it’s just that their motives often seem elusive and therefore suspect. It took my husband three years to talk me into marriage, his stalwart hell-bent persistence is still a thing of mystery to me.

As I shoveled the coil of poop into my bright blue baggy a realization hit me; I’d never officially signed up for dog ownership. Owning a dog had just seemed a prerequisite for living in Portland, Oregon. When you live in a city that boasts the highest number of dog parks in the U.S. and has been ranked by Men’s Health Magazine as the Nation’s Best City for Dogs, you feel the pressure. From luxe pet hotels to chic doggie boutiques, Portland is clearly canine-crazy and my family is no exception. However, when we adopted our puppy, Inca, we had no idea we were about to become the owners of a “rock star” dog.

Giving birth is a lot like a bad blind date: They look nothing like you’d imagined, there’s a lot of pain and suffering in the middle, and you end up taking home a complete stranger who cries and wets themselves. Maybe my blind dates have been different than yours.