shenanigans – Menopause & Malarkey

Picture it: Grayson, 2026.
Thursday morning.

Our heroine is ready for work on time. A rare and glorious achievement.

All that remains is the simple task of walking the dogs.
Simple.

Dogs leashed.
Door opened.
Rain.
Not a polite drizzle.
Not a gentle mist.
No.
The sky chose violence.

Now begins the delicate ballet of holding two leashes while attempting to open the coat closet and retrieve an umbrella from the top shelf, because apparently I believe in living dangerously before coffee.

At this moment the household divides.

Maggie (15-pound Chunkhuahua):
Sees rain.
Immediately aborts mission.
Sprints back toward the living room — leash still firmly attached to my hand.

Phoebe (Her Highness of Welsh Corgihood):
Bladder urgency has reached critical levels.
She charges for the yard like a tiny four-legged torpedo.

Meanwhile I am stretching on tiptoe, grabbing the umbrella with my fingertips like a contestant in America’s Next Top Disaster.

Physics intervenes.
The umbrella is acquired.
My balance is not.
I am pulled toward Maggie.

The front door slams.
Phoebe is outside.
Maggie is inside.
I am standing in the doorway of my life choices.

So naturally I scoop up the 15-pound Chunkhuahua, juggle both dog and umbrella, reopen the door, and yell across the complex:

“PHOEBE!”

Phoebe pauses.
Turns.
Looks back at me.

The look says three things:
💠I heard you.
💠I acknowledge that you are yelling.
💠Biological processes outrank your panic.

She resumes her mission.

I chase after her, literally putting my best foot forward (on the flapping leash), finally open the umbrella, and the morning’s hydration event begins.

Cartoon illustration of a woman standing in a rainstorm looking exasperated while holding a small Chihuahua and an umbrella as a corgi runs away with a pink leash through puddles. — Some mornings build character.
This one built a drinking habit. ☕️🌧️🐶

Dogs make water.
Sky makes water.
Mission accomplished.

We return inside where both dogs immediately present themselves for treat compensation for their bravery during the storm.

Treats are dispensed.

Maggie returns to Blanket Mountain, burrowing so completely that only the occasional nose or butt emerges from the fleece bunker.

Phoebe, concerned about the thunder, receives a hemp treat and then supervises the house like the dignified elder she is.

Before leaving for work, I straighten the pillows on my side of the bed and lay my sweatshirt in the spot.

Phoebe hops up.
Circles.
Settles in.
And gives me the softest little look of gratitude. 🐶❤️

Which is how a morning that began with chaos, rain, leashes, and umbrella combat ends with something quieter:

A corgi on a pillow.
My sweatshirt under her chin.
And the comforting knowledge that when I come home tonight…
Two dogs will be on the couch waiting for walks, dinner, and my presence.

Also probably more treats.

Scratch that. Definitely more treats.

According to Match.com, January 4th is supposed to be their busiest day of the year.

I took the bait and decided to peruse. And peruse. And … sigh. You get the picture.

After receiving a “like” from a spot-on candidate for Red Flag Friday, I cranked up the computer, fully prepared to whip up the latest witty exposé. Then suddenly, I was tired.

Tired of scrolling.
Tired of swiping.
Tired of what feels like a big joke.
Just … tired.

There are times (like tonight) when I swear there are zero acceptable matches anywhere on the internet. Posts and profiles that deserve nothing more than an eye roll somehow pick and pull at my self-esteem. Guys who wear tank tops in bathroom selfies and definitely failed Grammar & Punctuation 101 send me messages and “likes.” But it’s not about those who are attracted to me.

It’s about those who aren’t.

In Metro-Atlanta, there are 6.09 million people. I have no clue how many of those people are online looking for a genuine connection leading to a serious relationship. Seems like the odds should be pretty good.

So why am I being directed to the equivalent of the $5 movie bin at Walmart?

My favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle from 1993. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in their rom-com glory. One quote in particular — the one I’d like to believe — is this:

Image of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle, displaying a quote from the film. Source: www.magicalquote.com. — *Source:* *http://www.magicalquote.com*

However, given the virtual rocky road that continuously leads to exhibits for Red Flag Friday, I’m more prone to believe …

Cartoon of two middle-aged women at a café, one with coffee and one with wine, exchanging confused looks and shrugging as question marks appear above their heads. A phone and dessert sit on the table, suggesting a baffling conversation.

“It’s easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!”

That statistic is not true.

That’s right, it’s not true. It only feels true.

— Sleepless in Seattle

Ladies and gents, maybe you’re in the same boat where the rule of metaphorical fishing is catch and release.
Maybe you run headfirst into a wall decorated with red flags, scammers, and a whole lotta “bless his heart.”
And perhaps — like me — you quietly ask, “What’s wrong with me?”

Listen to me …
Close the app.
Take a deep breath.
Exhale slowly.

If you take away one thing from today’s post, let it be this:

There are zero acceptable matches online today.
Which is not the same thing as ever.

The truth is, the internet is crowded with auditions, not partners.
Many profiles read like they were assembled by raccoons with Wi-Fi.
And the cocktail of chemistry, emotional intelligence, self-awareness, and punctuation is… tragically small.
You’re not failing at dating.
You’re outgrowing the nonsense.

I, for one, refuse to settle for nonsense, just okay, or “well … maybe.”
Nor should you.

It’s beyond brave to open our hearts to love after loss.
That courage deserves to be met with honor and respect.
YOU deserve nothing less.

I’ll keep wading through the shallow end of the dating pool — rolling eyes, blessing hearts, and trying not to take those quirky algorithms too seriously or too personally. In spite of the occasional pity party, I am truly grateful that God says, “Not today, Satan” and keeps me from anyone unworthy of all the sass and sweetness that is unapologetically me.

Tag: shenanigans

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