The bar was crowded for a Tuesday evening. Then again, it was Edinburgh. Men and women who I could only assume were regulars, were perched on wooden bar stools, chatting familiarly with the bartender, a ruddy faced, bright-eyed and cheerful woman who managed the bar with the expertise of someone who had been pouring pints, and sharing laughs with locals for years.

Groups of friends were clustered together throughout the small room, like batches of flowers sporadically dotting a field of green grass. One group was comprised of four young women, each with a uniquely vibrant shade of artificial hair…

It started as a wild possibility.

Maybe my chocolate lab could be a therapy dog.

I watched him bound wildly around the yard and imagined him knocking over an elderly man in a nursing home hallway.

Maybe not.

When he actually passed the therapy dog certification, I was floored, but glad. I had wanted to volunteer for a while and was glad to find a program that would allow me to give back to the community, while giving my dog something to do as well.

Whenever I tell people that I’m a Buffalo Bills fan, they typically look at me with pity. Their eyes become shaded with sorrowful lids and they suck in a little pinch of air before squeezing out a shocked “Oh…”

I have found that there are actually two types of people in the world. The type who either try to change the subject after my perceived confession, shuffling their feet uncomfortably and looking away, or the type who then laugh at me when they realize that I’m serious, before throwing a flippant “It’s gonna be another long season for you then…

Understanding the Meaning of Home

Why do the places that we call home mean so much to us? Why does it matter what homes we buy, how we decorate them, and what belongings we fill them with? Why does sentimentality sometimes scream louder than reason, demanding that we hold on to possessions that we no longer have room for? Or spend too much money on a house that we love, that we can no longer afford? Why do separating spouses wage legal battles over who keeps the living room sofa and who keeps the dining room table? …

When I turned 16 years old, getting my drivers permit and learning to drive a car was a rite of passage. It meant I was maturing, earning responsibility, and finally transitioning from childhood into adulthood (which, I can say now looking back, is way over rated). I insisted on taking my written permit test on the day of my sixteenth birthday. When I passed, my only motivation was to get behind the wheel. My Dad would be my primary driving instructor. Every driving lesson spent with my Mom saw her over-dramatically throw her head back, squeeze her eyes closed, and…