a “Veterans for Obama” ad he was in and immediately started debating how loud my fake yelp should be at the end of our Marine Corps wedding, you know, after we’d walked down the aisle under a canopy of swords and the last guy takes his, slaps me on the ass with it, and says, “Welcome to the Marines, Mrs. ______.” So, when Cooper wanted to come for a visit I was…rehearsed. But who knew what the dog might do. Okay, fine, who knew what I might do. Probably jump him too early and then get bored of him. Gina’s opinion? “It’s 2008, dude.” He would come down Friday morning and leave Saturday. Cool, see you then. Dial tone. Wait, what? Does he think he’s staying here?

“Dude, where the hell else would he be staying?” Gina was all for it.

“But then he’ll be all in my house and stuff. Looking at things and touching things,” I whined.

“I can’t deal with you right now.” Despite having no patience for me that day, Gina still approved the following phone script, you know, like how the telemarketers have:

ME (uncharacteristically nervous): So it’s supposed to be really nice on Friday.

COOPER (totally unaware): Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it.

ME: So where do you usually stay when you come down to D.C.?

COOPER: Hmmmm.

I told anybody who’d listen that I didn’t want him in my house in order to (1) convince these people that I was virtuous on occasion and (2) make sure I couldn’t backslide at the risk of being a humping hypocrite. Visiting me, sure. But being all up in my stuff, seeing all my secret single things—like how I tend to watch TV in a towel straight from the dryer with my hair in a topknot while going to work on my heels with the incredible PedEgg. But it was 2008. And he hadn’t called in forever. Convinced that an almost-relationship with a live-action G.I. Joe had been blown as a result of me being too non-whorey, for once, for two whole days I settled into a life lived vicariously through the We Channel. So when he did finally call, slipping in the possibility of invading my personal space, my resolve was greatly diluted.

“Sooooo, lemme ask you a question?”

“Shoot!”

“Is it cool if I just crash on your couch, you know, as long as I promise to behave myself?”

Crap. I mean, he’d been to Iraq. Saying no would’ve been un-American, and since I had no clue where my voter registration stuff was, this might be my one shot at patriotism this year. Now I had to clean my floors, change my sheets, and buy some Bikini Zone.

Coulda saved myself ten bucks because behave himself he did—to the ten-zillionth power. First off, he showed up in his kickables—Timbaland boots and baggy sweats. I’m sorry, aren’t you in grad school? Like, is there some reason you’re dressed for an Ivy League shootout? Then he had this ginormous duffel bag, which could only have housed one of two things: wardrobe changes well over the heterosexual limit or all the tools better to kill you with, my dear. And he was so much skinnier than the guy I eyed from the bar a few weeks earlier. Guess the cocktail adds ten pounds. And as predicted, he’s all…looking at my stuff—fingering my books and dropping his rucksack on my fancy “just for show” entryway bench. Also, his head was reminiscent of a Nerf ball and his phalanges were very Ancient Chinese Emperor-y. I was sufficiently creeped.

Miles, already not a fan of the black man, especially ones wearing Timbs, was actually wagging his tail. Perhaps he was giving this guy the shake of approval or waving himself into surrender, or maybe he just wanted to take a dump. Either way, I was intrigued. (This dog was steadily becoming the gatekeeper to whatever love life I hoped to have. And if socializing was the key to his happiness, it was becoming the bane of mine. Using him as an excuse to meet up with men was one thing, a normal thing, but using him to excuse myself from uncomfortable meetings was another.) Anyway, Miles’s tail is going a mile a minute when Cooper, eager to impress me and my spawnal equivalent, reaches down to execute some kind of petting slash poking slash prodding move that succeeds only in pissing Miles off. He twists his head back to meet his butt and snaps at Cooper like a plastic board-game hippo. Then this