Yeah, I watched the Westminster Dog Show. What a bunch of phonies. I could look like that too if I had my own fulltime groomer. My tall dog had me sitting in her lap. She said, “Look, it’s a Beagle like you!” I yawned and burrowed deeper into her lap. She’s not as bony as the other tall dog, much softer to sleep on.

And Carlie, the Best in Show winner who impressed everyone by standing still for ten seconds? Please. There are days I don’t get off the couch for hours.

Supermodels, whether canine or human, don’t serve any purpose other than to make the rest of us feel bad about ourselves. I, for one, refuse to starve myself to improve my topline. The thing with those show dogs is that they’re shallow. They know how good they look. A dog that has to stay clean that long loses touch with what makes us superior to tall dogs. After all, we never stood up and took the weight off the front legs. We know that spreading that weight evenly over four feet is easier on the knees.

In my opinion, there is an inverse relationship between the amount of time spent in salons and brain function. This goes for tall dogs, too. All those conditioners strong enough to smooth the tangles from one of those cockers trimmed to look like an upholstered footstool must be strong enough to smooth the wrinkles of the brain inside that domed little head. Shine a bright light behind her, and it will beam right through those pop eyes.

And you know some of those dogs have implants—eight of them sometimes.

You want a real dog that knows its work, you need to get yourself a mutt, or at least a dog without a seventeen-syllable name. A real dog proves her love by rolling in something so aromatic that it will bring the smell of the great outdoors into your livingroom and make your eyes water from sheer intensity of emotion. Those fancy dogs wouldn’t so much as chase a ball unless a judge and three cameramen were looking.

A real dog plays with your kids and romps in the mud and doesn’t stop to admire her reflection in the puddle. A real dog is mellow and laid back and makes you feel better when the other tall dogs act like…well, like sons of short dogs. A beautiful dog might be nice to look at, but those girls are high maintenance. The bloom is off that rose as soon as the spotlight’s off. What can you talk about with a dog like that? Brushes and shampoos? Airline dog food?

In a few days, our tall dogs will forget all those fancy breeds and the hoopla will fade. Until then, don’t expect me to get excited watching the Westminster reruns and don’t try to brush me out to look like an Afghan hound. I’ll be practicing my “stack” right here on the couch.

Family road trips when I was growing up began with the frying of chicken the night before. The idea was to carry enough food for the ride so that stopping wouldn’t be necessary. My mom could toss a drumstick into the backseat to stop our whining, and the car didn’t have to slow down.

Saving time was important because we usually got rolling later than we intended and had to take the express route to whatever family event we were off to attend.

My cousin Sharon’s wedding was in Maryland, and that meant a drive of several hours on a Saturday morning. My mother and I rode with our hair up in brown rubber curlers, waiting until the last possible moment to yank them out for maximum curl and volume.

We were coming into town very close to the time listed on the wedding invitation, and didn’t have detailed directions. We knew we were on the right road. All we had to do was find the church.

When we saw a likely looking house of worship with a full parking lot, my dad swung into the driveway. “There’s Robert's car,” my dad said, spotting a white Impala. We pointed out other cars that looked familiar in the Baptist church’s parking lot. “Must be the place. And look at that—we’re right on time.”

Curlers were removed, hair brushed into frizzy clouds, fried chicken grease wiped onto paper napkins, lipstick applied (Mom wouldn’t let me have any), and we were out of the car and into the church.

I plopped our present next to the others on the gift table in the foyer. “Best wishes to Sharon and Paul” was written on the tag in my mother’s careful script. I slid into a pew toward the back next to my brother as the organ began “The Wedding March,” and we had to stand up again.

“Sharon’s cut her hair!” my mother whispered. “And I’m surprised she’d wear that big picture hat. It does make her look taller.”

The pastor warned us not to enter into marriage lightly but soberly in the sight of God.

“Sharon looks so different,” my mother murmured. “I wouldn’t have recognized her.”

The pastor began the vows. “Do you, Angela, take Phillip to be your lawful husband?”

Our gasps made the people in front of us turn around with their eyebrows in the full upright position.

“Wrong church,” my brother gleefully explained, and he and I collapsed into suppressed giggles and snorts.

My mother smacked my leg. “Hush, and go get the present.”

The folks in front of us whispered to the folks near them, and several people turned to smile at us. We waved, shrugged, and tried to sidle out before the couple was presented as man and wife.

The usher in the foyer glared at me as I eased our gift off the table. “Wrong wedding! Oops!” I offered helpfully as I scooted out to the parking lot where Dad was already revving the engine.

We made Sharon’s ceremony just as she walked down the aisle. My brother filled out a visitor's card requesting a visit from the pastor in our Norfolk home four hours away, and my mother kept smacking my leg to make us pipe down and stop giggling. She wouldn’t let us tell Sharon.

I’ve finally figured out my dream job. I want to be a mystic. I’m not good at it, but maybe that will give me credibility with other amateurs. I can’t meditate without worrying about whether I turned off the coffeepot. I can’t go on sabbatical because I don’t have enough leave saved up. A trip to Tibet is out because I don’t like to fly on airplanes. But I could be a little front porch mystic, couldn’t I? I could sit here on the steps and receive devotees with questions.

“A little vinegar will take that out.”

“Rub aftershave all over the mother and baby and see if she’ll nurse him then.”

“Leave one egg so the hen will still lay there.”

`“Put half a cut apple in the flowerpot and put a plastic bag over the whole thing. Then you’ll get a pineapple.”

Okay, so I’m more of a Hints from Heloise kind of mystic.

But I do wonder if this mystical stuff can work for those of us raising children and paying mortgages and trying to remember what we’re out of at the grocery store.

I have bookshelves lined with titles like. “Work as Spiritual Practice” and “Do What You Love and the Money Will Follow.” So far I do see work as a spiritual practice, but more along the lines of self-mortification. And what if doing what I love involves a hammock and a drink with a little paper umbrella? Find me that job, and I’m there until retirement—I’ll even put in overtime.

Most of us can’t wrap ourselves in a sheet and sit in a half lotus on the mountaintop. These days, I need more support and lift than a sheet can provide, for one thing. What do the rest of us do to reconnect with who we really are and what matters to us most?

One key element for me is time alone. I crave it and develop an eye-twitch if I don’t get it. And I can be “alone” in a restaurant or on a park bench with other people all around, as long as I don’t have to maintain a presence or a conversation with another person near me.

I can sneak off for a solitary lunch in the car in a parking lot. I can lock the bathroom door and sit in a tub of hot water for hours, preferably with the lights out and some candles burning. I’ve developed great metatarsal dexterity and can add hot water with a flick of my left foot. (It is a pity talents like this can’t be shared.)

Another thing I need pretty often is a view of things that aren’t manmade and a place that gives me at least a few minutes at a time of natural sounds. Cicadas, birds, bees buzzing and rain are great. In a pinch, I can close my eyes and pretend highway traffic is really the ocean. If I can’t find a park, I try to focus on a single tree or bush, or I put the car seat back so I can only see sky.

And what do I think about while I’m alone? I wonder about where I fit in the world and how I can combine what I’m good at with what makes me happy and how that can translate into work that would make enough money that I wouldn’t feel a disconnect between who I am and what I do.

I haven’t figured out yet how my skills fit into any particular career track. I can be funny,
in a diabetic coma-inducing sweet way. I can string words together and describe what I see and think. I can catch chickens and worm goats and grow plants that don’t require any attention. My first job was piercing ears in the mall, and I was pretty good at that. I can teach small children in really small groups. I can sit quietly for long stretches and think about where I fit in the world.

I’m not sure my parachute has a color—it’s more of a paisley or a madras plaid.

So I haven’t hit on the answer to my career and spiritual connection yet, but it’s the puzzle my mind works on solving whenever it’s given the chance.

At best, I can have these little retreats for an hour or so. No matter how long I may get to revel in this blissful solitude, eventually I have to return to phones and faxes and people who say, insincerely I think, “I don’t mean to bother you, but…”

I’d like to think that having that break means I can present myself to them refreshed and ready to give my brain to things that aren’t eternal for a few hours, but I’ll admit that there’s dread that probably shows for an instant in my face, and that I’m not thinking, “Oh, goody! More work!”

Maybe that comes when I achieve the next level of my spiritual awakening. Until then, I’m a front porch mystic.

Hey, watch it. You’re stepping on my sheet.