A few hours later I was jolted back into consciousness when a low rattle of a growl erupted from Buck’s throat. I heard the front door click once again – my guest had not checked out but rather gone out for breakfast and returned. Although his departure had not warranted a response from Buck, his return was cause for action. Buck launched himself out of the closet in one ferocious leap and bounded to the closed door where he let loose a barrage of angry barks.

Even without poking my head out into the hallway, I knew that this threatening display was completely unnecessary. I calmly said his name over and over again until he quieted down, turned three full circles, and sank back onto his bed with a grumble.

It was a jarring start to my day, but it was nice to know that a large, scary-sounding dog has got my back.

***

Lately I’ve been setting my alarm fifteen minutes early each morning so we can spend a few minutes of quality time together before I begin the workday.

Near the end of Monday’s walk, as we turned the corner onto our street, he began to strain at the leash. I jerked him back in line with a solid tug, but he was unfazed. Leaning against the leash with every single one of his fifty eight pounds, he pulled me towards a parked car, lowered his belly to the ground, and crawled halfway underneath. He emerged a moment later with a grungy tennis ball in his mouth. He grinned and pranced about in circles as I lavishly praised his cleverness.

Back at home, he headed straight towards his food dish to investigate, dropping the ball in the living room on the way. I picked it up – gingerly, for it was coated in dirt and God knows what else – and tossed it down the long hallway that runs through the center of my condo. Buck scampered wildly across the hardwood floor, his feet flailing out from underneath him as he swerved, slipped, and finally gained momentum. He caught up with the ball as it crossed the carpeted threshold to the bedroom, bounced it once, and then – to my shock and awe – trotted back and dropped it at my feet.

Despite the fact that he is approximately half Lab, this is the first time in nearly ten years that he has successfully fetched a tennis ball.

Suspecting that it had to have been an accident, I once again tossed the ball down the hallway (which, at 6:45 am, ranks me among the world’s most inconsiderate upstairs neighbors.) He repeatedly returned, tail swinging back and forth, and dropped the ball in front of me.

Growing old has introduced several indignities into Buck’s life, but apparently he has picked up a few new tricks along the way.

***

I awoke at 6:00 this morning. My alarm is designed to wake me in the kindest possible way. It senses my movement and goes off when I am already in a period of light sleep, playing soothing music and the sound of gentle ocean waves. Still, the word that first crossed my mind upon waking is not suitable for publication. The soft strains of acoustic guitar were an affront to my tired ears.

I reached for my iPhone to silence the alarm when I heard Buck sigh sleepily from the closet floor. It was a long, drawn-out breath, barely audible amid the rolling waves emanating from my phone.

It was the most endearing sigh I had ever heard. It was a sigh that said “Not yet, Mom. Please, just one snooze?”

This is why my dog is the best dog ever. I was happy to oblige.

I felt a small pang of regret – the same one that I feel every time someone comments on the infrequency of my posts.

I explained: it’s not that I don’t miss it. Actually, the daily writing habit that I so diligently cultivated in 2012 hasn’t completely left me. I still sit each day with fingers poised over the keys, staring at a white blank screen. The problem is that my internal censor has been working overtime this month.

Lately my writing comes in two forms. There is the highly structured sort for which I am getting paid – the sort that involves conference calls and contracts with confidentiality clauses – and there are the scribbles in notebooks (or their digital equivalent: words hastily typed into iPhone Notes and synced across various devices.) These scribbles include lots of pro and con lists, if-then theories, and the occasional flow chart tracing all possible outcomes of carefully measured choices. They’re not particularly creative. They are the signature of a dissatisfied and restless mind.

God, readers, I’ve been in such a funk lately. You know the kind I’m talking about. I mean the oh-God-not-another-blogger-complaining-about-her-first-world-problems-and-existential-crises kind of funk. The sort that can sap one’s resolve. It’s hard to summon creative energy when you’re feeling stagnant and jaded.

Blaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggghhhhhhh.

The only place where I’ve maintained my sense of wonder and curiosity is in my classroom – daily contact with young people will tend to encourage such habits of mind, and for them I am so grateful. I just wish that my face time with students did not represent an ever-diminishing proportion of my professional responsibilities.

But I’m not complaining. Not here, anyway. A hero of mine once taught me that classy people do not air dirty laundry in public, and if he were still here today he would surely add the postscript: especially not on the internet. It tends to just make everyone look bad.

Seriously.

So I’ve chosen not to give my readers up-to-the minute updates about my quiet sense of malaise, just as I have refrained from writing about turmoil at work, romantic frustration, or the awkward and uncomfortable encounters with recent Airbnb guests.

Some things just don’t need to be blogged about.

Several of my students gathered today after school to tackle a project not assigned to them by any teacher. It was an ambitious and unprecedented undertaking, and it lured me away from my desk where I was creating an itemized list of evidence for the new educator evaluation frameworks. I sat on the choral risers and watched, awestruck, as they casually went about their work.

I’m not allowed to write about it. My students aren’t ready to go public with their project, and I’ve been sworn to secrecy.

So there’s another topic about which I am not blogging.

Stay tuned for a scintillating account of what I’m not eating for dinner.

All I could think, while she unloaded her complaints, was of how very tired I was and how badly I wanted to get home to the dog who’d been lying alone in the closet for the past nine hours. (The irony of this is that by the time I got home to said dog I was hot-headed, high-strung, and completely fixated on Angry Mom.)

So I wrote about it.

You Think of Something remarked last weekend that he’s been enjoying my recent blog posts (thanks, Y!) He says that lately there’s an edge to my writing that he finds compelling.

I was surprised, at first, to hear him say so. I’ve been preoccupied lately. The writing has not come easily. There are a handful of subjects that have taken up prime real estate in my head but that I have deemed, for various reasons, unblogworthy. Too personal, too ambiguous, too soon, too self-indulgent.

I’ve started many a blog post in recent weeks only to let my sentences trail off into oblivion. I’ve revived a cloth-bound journal, thick with dust after more than a year of disuse. Its thick lined pages contain some of my worst writing, but arguably some of my best stories. Some thoughts belong on paper.

Still, I suppose it should not surprise me if Y sees a bit of an edge in my recent blog posts. I’m glad to know that the gnawing dissatisfaction that whispers in my ear and keeps me up at night at least makes for some interesting writing.

It’s also nice to know that even when I practice self-censorship there are friends out there who know how to read between the lines.

I’m not going to publish “Dear Angry Mom.” Not tonight, anyway. Maybe some day I’ll write a memoir about the complex relationship between upper middle class small town parents and the people who educate their children. For now, I’m going to keep this particular anecdote to myself – because it’s just one piece of a much larger tale that I’m not sure how to tell. Because I don’t like to think of myself as a complainer. Because I fear that sharing the story could do more harm than good.

I’ll save it for the journal. Or perhaps for You Think of Something.

Okay. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s time to straighten up and fly right. With your influence over transportation and communication, you’re a pretty important planet in my book, and your recent retrograde shenanigans have been a giant pain in my ass.

You’ve certainly enjoyed wreaking havoc on transportation lately – there was the monster snowstorm on the day I had to get an Airbnb guest to the doctor, the missed connection at Boston’s South Station, and the traffic jam that made me late for my own doctor’s appointment. And the car accidents – my God, I have never seen so many damaged cars on the side of the road as I have this month. I will thank you, at least, for not fouling up our flight home from Paris.

Email communication has been a disaster – I really should have just stepped away from the computer this month. There have been far too many frustrating encounters with colleagues (why do people not read before firing off a reply?) That woman in New York with whom I’ve been trying to collaborate on a project – what’s her deal, Mercury, does she not read English? And then there was the friend who I inadvertently insulted via email. And that offer that appeared, quite unexpectedly, in my inbox, only to be rescinded a few days later? That was terribly disappointing.

I really didn’t need your “help” complicating discussion with that certain someone. He and I have already proven to be utterly inept at direct communication about our feelings, so I suppose it’s entirely possible that our most recent series of communication blunders is not your fault. But if you did play any role in it, please knock it off.

Oh, speaking of communication issues – the three straight days of laryngitis were a creative touch. Well played, Mercury, well played.

I’ve heard that your retrograde periods are not good times to start new projects or sign contracts. Too bad I didn’t realize that when I accepted that writing job last week. Please don’t mess this up, Mercury. I really want this one to go well.

Oh also, speaking of signing legal documents – I don’t understand why the state of Massachusetts rejected my e-filed tax return last week. I reviewed it in agonizing detail and don’t see what’s wrong with it. So I printed it out, wrote a check, and mailed it to the Department of Revenue on Wednesday, and I’d really appreciate it if you would leave it alone. And yes, I know it’s going to be doubly tempting for you to mess with it, since you also have a fondness for screwing up the mail. But you already helped the post office to misplace a week’s worth of held mail while I was in France, so can we please just agree that we’re all set with mail issues?

I’ve heard that Mercury retrograde affords us the opportunity for reflection, for revisiting old ideas and for fixing what’s broken. And God knows, with this super-annoying illness that won’t quit, I’ve had lots of time for navel gazing. I can’t say I’ve particularly enjoyed the experience – it’s not much fun to reflect on broken things that I don’t know how to fix. But thanks, I guess, for bringing a few things into focus this month. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do with this new information, but perhaps when you start moving forward again, I will too.

Oh, by the way, – I’ve noticed that your next retrograde period coincides directly with my summer travels with AMA. Three weeks of traveling across Europe with over one hundred teenagers – what could go wrong? No doubt you’ve got some ideas. See you then, Mercury.

Yours in chaos,

Amanda

I’m fighting off an infection that first reared its ugly head back at the beginning of March. I stubbornly kept it at bay for as long as I could – because who has time to be sick? Certainly not me, no thank you.

Today Habib watched me press wads of tissue to my dripping eyes, wind up for a series of sneezes, and savor the sweet bliss of unencumbered breath that followed.

“So have you called your doctor?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “No.”

He rolled his eyes. “Because you don’t want to. Sure, that seems like a good approach.”

I sniffled, blew my nose, and reeled with vertigo.

It’s not that I have anything against doctors. Both my parents work in healthcare, so I’m reasonably comfortable with most things medical.

I just really, really hate to admit defeat.

But today I sucked up my pride, canceled my afternoon commitments, and scheduled a sick visit. The doctor diagnosed me with a viral respiratory infection and acute sinusitis and noted that with the amount of fluid in my middle ear, I was flirting with a double ear infection.

I rubbed my watery eyes and stared as she wrote out a pile of prescriptions. She recommended tea with honey and chicken soup. I thought wistfully of the days when my mother would nurse me out of my childhood illness – she always administered just the right balance of heavy duty meds and popsicles. There were no popsicles in my freezer, and I was too drippy to go buy them myself.

Being all alone while sick does have its distinct advantages – namely, that no one can hear the panoply of snorts, hacks, wheezes, and moans emitting from my bedroom. Only Buck hears me carrying on like an eighty-year-old emphysema patient, and he has kindly refrained from judgment.

There are times, though, when being all alone while sick is incredibly pathetic. One such example would be the trip to the pharmacy, when excessive eye watering renders driving nearly impossible. Standing at the pharmacy pick-up window, dripping from multiple orifices, and staring blankly at the pharmacist because I can’t understand her through my blocked ears – also quite pitiful.

Back at home, I stared at my red, swollen eyes in the mirror, popped my first dose of meds, and told myself to suck it up. Ain’t nobody got time for this.

I miss my mom.

I’ve always done my own taxes as a matter of principle. I have no reservations about paying my fair share, but I cannot tolerate the thought of paying someone else to calculate it for me. That which is compulsory should also be attainable. I have clung to this notion ever since I filed my first Form1040A. Since we adult citizens are obligated to calculate our annual tax liability and settle up with the U.S. government, we ought to be able to do it on our own. Because compelling citizens to take an action that requires paid assistance – well, that would just be wrong.

So each year I have spread my forms and receipts across the coffee table and pieced together the puzzle of my financial life. It always takes a few hours as I slowly work my way through line by line, box by box. But I don’t mind doing it. I actually kind of enjoy it (don’t judge.)

But it seems that my tax return gets increasingly complicated with every passing year, and last month I finally gave up. There was the rental income. The gigs. The writing money – some of it from foreign sources. There were capital gains taxes. Mortgage interest. Depreciation. Oh God, the depreciation.

I had nearly completed my 2012 federal tax return when I found myself irreconcilably befuddled over one infuriating form. It was a statement of foreign tax paid from when I sold shares of a mutual fund. I could find no explanation of what I was supposed to do with this form. It taunted me until I finally admitted defeat.

I decided it was time to take my pile of forms to someone who actually knows what they are doing. With so many moving parts in my financial machine, I was beginning to suspect that it was more than I could reasonably manage. I booked an appointment at my local H&R Block office.

So today I sat down across from a licensed tax pro with my piles of 1099s, PayPal printouts, credit card statements, and previous years’ returns. And an itemized checklist – because even when paying someone else to do the job for me, I can’t resist the urge to micromanage.

She thumbed through my folder, placed it down on the desk, and sighed. “I’ll be honest with you,” she said apologetically. “The fees for this one are going to be really high. You’ve got your Schedule A, your Schedule B, your C, your D, and your E … you’re talking three, maybe four hundred dollars for the preparation fee. Are you sure you don’t want to try this yourself?”

I felt my heart splash into my stomach. Of course I want to do it myself. I’ve always done it myself. Walking into her office today felt like total abandonment of my principles – my principles – and now she was telling me that it would cost $400 to enter numbers into a spreadsheet?

I mean, I’m pretty sure I could do $380 of that work myself. It’s a hefty fee to pay for one confusing form. Especially when I am not expecting a refund this year.

She kindly studied the perplexing form and agreed that it was not laid out clearly. She leafed through a binder containing the 2013 tax code, puzzled over the form some more, and finally pulled out a Form 1040 and showed me where to enter the numbers.

After one hour I packed up my piles of 1099s, PayPal printouts, credit card statements, previous years’ returns, and itemized checklist and went home. Thanks to an impressively honest and generous H&R Block employee, I’ve decided to give it another shot. With all of the schedules in the alphabet and, as I now know, Form 1116 for Foreign Tax Credit. All by myself.

Well, mostly by myself. I’ve decided to cough up the $49.95 for the H&R Block Premium online tax prep.

Noting the stiffness of his gait, I decided recently that an aging dog deserves a bed of his own – that is, a better one than the hand-me-down on which he has slept for years (a king-sized bed pillow that I cast off after a linen upgrade in 2009.) So I bought him an oversized foam cushion, covered in soft microfiber. It doesn’t quite fit on the floor of my closet. The edges curl up against the wall, but he is unconcerned. Cradled by four inches of foam, with the hems of my skirts brushing against his head, he has never been happier in his little nest.

On cold nights like tonight, I kneel beside him and drape an oversized bath towel across his back. I tuck it around his neck, kiss the top of his head, and affectionately tug on his ears. He grunts his approval.

Tonight, while putting Buck to bed, I had a flashback to the first day with my new puppy Brandy. I was five, it was a gorgeous sunny day, and we invited all the neighborhood children to come meet the newest addition to our family. The girls picked dandelions and laid them end to end in a circle in the grass. The boys coaxed her over and entreated her to lie down. Even the boy next door, with whom I was in a perpetual feud, got in on the action – he ran home and returned with a white cotton blanket, which he draped over Brandy’s reclined frame. We sang lullabies.

Brandy, being an eight-week-old puppy, wanted no part in this. She promptly jumped up and dashed away, trailing the blanket behind her and trampling the dandelions. We children ran after her and hollered our disapproval.

Tonight Buck’s gratitude for an oversized towel strikes me as profoundly bittersweet.

I, who have slept soundly on couches, in fourteen-bunk hostel dorms, and on airport floors, have been consistently waking up at 3 am and lying in bed, fully alert, for hours.

The first time it happened early Saturday morning, I awoke with a Sweeney Todd song running feverishly through my head. The Sweeney soundtrack – or for that matter, anything by Stephen Sondheim – rates extremely low on my list of soothing music for sleepy time.

I played several rounds of the alphabet game, in which I pick a theme (women’s names, for example) and work my way through each letter of the alphabet, one letter per breath. Alexandra. Bethany. Christina. I rarely make it all the way through a second round before falling asleep, but this time I ran out of themes and was still tormented by Sondheim’s bizarre melodies.

It made sense on some level. I recently began my second production of Sweeny Todd, so it is likely not the last time I will awaken with those melodies in my ears. But on a weekend?

On Sunday morning I awoke thinking about missed opportunities. Not an ideal topic for midnight musings.

Did I make the right choice?

Amsterdam. Berlin. Copenhagen.

Did I really have any choice in the matter?

Or was there only the illusion of choice?

Kevin. Luke. Michael.

What will I do next time?

Rutabaga. Shallot. Turnip.

Will there be a next time?

The sky was lightening to grey when I finally fell back asleep.

This morning, when my internal alarm went off at 3 am, I decided to simply accept it. So I lay on my back and stared at the one sliver of streetlight that shone through the crack between my curtains. It cut a diagonal path across the wall, illuminating half of a photograph of a Notre Dame gargoyle staring over the rooftops of Paris. I watched silhouetted tree branches sway in the wind that seeped around the edges of my windowpane.

I listened to the steady, rhythmic tick of the clock down the hall and reflected on what an unusual sound that is in a twenty first century household. I listened to Buck’s breath rising and falling in slow, fuzzy snorts. I listened to the quiet creaks and bumps of an old house and the quiet ringing in my ears. I listened to the low rumble of tires on the occasional passing car, punctuated by potholes, and wondered where those drivers could be headed at such a desolate hour.

Buck whimpered dreamily.

Iceland. Jamaica. Kazakhstan.

I call him The Wizard.

This week I went back to the hospital to report a postoperative complication: pressure-induced vertigo. It began months ago as an odd dizzy sensation when I burped – a condition I found more amusing than troublesome. What finally prompted me to call a doctor was the sensation of nearly falling out of my chair last month after inserting an earplug at a gig.

So I went back to see The Wizard who, somewhat awkwardly, works at Boston Children’s Hospital. I’ve been going there for years, sitting self-consciously among the stuffed animals and colorful wall clings, because … well, because he’s The Wizard.

The Wizard, as it turned out, was unavailable for a consultation, so I was referred to his colleague (a fact that somewhat heightened the indignity of being the oldest patient in the waiting room by 25 years, although I will admit that I enjoyed watching Finding Nemo on the big screen TV while I waited.)

I was greeted by a smiling audiologist who led me down a brightly painted hallway and into a soundproofed booth. She positioned a set of headphones over my ears and explained the procedure, as if I hadn’t been through dozens of hearing tests in the last ten years. I’ve memorized the pitches – three pulsing notes that rise by octaves and get progressively softer. Sometimes my musical brain tries to fill in pitches that aren’t there, and I worry that I’ll skew the results.

She came back in, positioned a vibrating audio device against the bone behind my ear, and played a series of musical tones. This test, I recalled, measured the response of my cochlear nerve which, I am pleased to report, passed with flying colors.

Finally, she conducted a pressure test by inserting a rubber plug into each ear and administering a gentle puff of air.

The room spun. She saw me sway and put her hands up to break my fall. I smiled. “It’s okay,” I assured her. “I’ve never actually fallen out of my chair.”

The test revealed no change in my hearing over the last two years, which I took to be a very good sign.

Next, I was guided into an exam room where a doctor and nurse practitioner asked me a series of questions about burping, yawning, flying on planes, sticking things in ears, and that weird moment when your ear creates a vacuum seal with the telephone.

The doctor ordered a CT scan on the theory that there may be a fluid leak in my middle ear. The next step, she advised, was an exploration behind the eardrum. A quick procedure, she assured me.

“Any questions?”

I blinked at her. “So, exploring around the eardrum … that means surgery, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And this would be performed under general anesthesia?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

I recalled the last procedure – the bloody bits of surgical packing that oozed out of my ear canal for weeks, the Vaseline-soaked cotton balls that I had to stuff in my ear every time I showered, the ghostly, tinny upper octave that quietly resonated over every musical pitch, and the day that interval suddenly dropped to a clanging, discordant half step, rendering the sound of my students’ singing torturous to my sensitive new ear.

And then there was the broken toe, achieved mere hours after surgery as I puttered around my kitchen, still high as a kite on pain meds.

I sighed heavily. “Super.” I glanced across the room and exchanged wry smiles with the nurse practitioner.

“I just figured you’d probably prefer to know now what I’m thinking,” explained the doctor.  “I didn’t want you to be surprised when I bring it up after the CT scan.”

I nodded.

“And I know some people like to Google the procedure.” She smiled reassuringly.

Oh, hell no. I will not be undertaking any medical research on my own. This much I have learned after a few too many cancer, swine flu, and Ebola scares over the years: Dr. Google is not my friend.

 I don’t have time for this, I told myself as I stepped out onto the bustling Longwood Avenue, taking my place in the parade of patients, doctors, and research assistants from some of the nation’s best hospitals. It doesn’t fit well at this particular juncture in my life. Or any juncture, as far as I’m concerned. There are far more interesting matters of heart, home, and happiness to be addressed.

I really hate it when health gets in the way.

After a commercial break the three female Friends gathered in the hotel bathroom, barring entrance to all other guests. Counting down the seconds until the test was ready, Rachel suddenly couldn’t bring herself to look. Phoebe agreed to break the news.

There was a long pause. “It’s negative,” she said.

Rachel reacted with complete shock. “Oh. Oh. Well there you go. Whew! That’s – that’s great – that is really great, great news. You know, ‘cause the whole not being ready and kinda the financial aspects, all that. Whew. Wow, this is so just the way it was supposed to be.”

Monica and Phoebe looked on in awkward silence as their friend quietly began to cry.

“God, this is so stupid! How could I be upset over something I never had? It’s negative?”

It was at this point that Phoebe grinned widely and revealed that the test was not negative, but positive. “Now you know how you really feel about it!” she proudly declared.

“That’s a risky little game!” Rachel tearfully replied.

The episode aired more than ten years ago, but I’ve never forgotten it. That scene has always bugged me a little. Phoebe was lucky that the conversation ended with a group hug. If I were Rachel I might have decked her.

I experienced a different sort of false positive (note: not a pregnancy test) this week and was caught entirely off guard by my own reaction. I pondered with curiosity this unexpected gift that had fallen into my lap. I sat in quiet reflection for hours.  I made a list of all the reasons why this surprising turn of events utterly terrified me.

Then I started to realize that I quite liked it.

Man, there is nothing more mind-blowing than the realization that your heart’s desire has been masquerading all along as your biggest fear.

As it turns out, it wasn’t really meant to be. Not this time, at least. Just as suddenly as the gift had appeared before me, it was rescinded. With sincerest regrets and the wish that “perhaps the stars will line up again some time in the near future.”

And I was so very disappointed.

I keep waiting for someone to say “surprise! Just kidding. Now you know how you really feel about it, and yes, it’s really, really happening!”

Life, unfortunately, is not as neatly packaged as a sitcom. It does not transpire in seven-minute segments between commercial breaks. Some story lines take years to reach their resolution. And it is totally possible to feel sad over something you never had.

At least now I know how I really feel about it.