This one's a rambler

My neighborhood on weekend mornings boasts a strong showing of puppies and babies. Sadly, both are likely better dressed and/or accessorized than I. (The weekend uniform is usually a pair of leggings, flip flops, a t-shirt, and hair wrangled into a bun. Julia likes to call me out when I recycle the same shirt on Saturday and Sunday). However, luckily my maternal clock hasn't started ticking yet, and although the babies are cute, I don't maniacally desire one.

The dogs are a different situation.

I think my friends dread when they see a dog or puppy walking towards us because they know that I can no longer pay attention to the topic at hand, and my voice simultaneously increases in volume and pitch. The squeaking are cooing can be a bit much, I agree. I am really sorry; I can't stop it. And I try to avoid pointing out every single dog but again, I can't control it. Muttville.org specializes in older dogs, and I fell in love with Charlie ("Charliiuuuuueeeeee!"). I made up a story for my landlord for why I needed to have this guy come live with me, but no dice.

The time for a puppy will come when I move to Chicago. Judson is my official timekeeper. I told him 2 years, and every time I talk to him he reminds me of the countdown. I think we're down to 22 months now. Eeps.

Dear Future Nora,

If you read this years from now and are not in Chicago, I hope you have a good reason. And I hope that reason is that you are in a remote part of the world, working on a public health project. Europe is also an acceptable alternative. I'm going to go with a Scandinavian country. Or hey, maybe you married Jude Law, after all, and now you're in London. That's fine, too.