The revelation came in stages.

First I was forced to admit that, in the age-old “dog person” vs “cat person” dichotomy, I was solidly coming down on the side of the felines. Much to my dismay. Members of the cat camp seem way too emo/cardigan sweater/no muscle tone/Lifetime TV for me to want to join their ranks. Dog people, at least, play frisbee. Which is tough to do indoors. In my mind, dog people are out all the time getting exercise and Vitamin D with their best animal friends, while cat people sit at home, listening to Billie Holliday, drinking herbal tea and crying into their Siamese’s fur over an offhand comment that the Starbucks barista made two weeks ago.

Cat people are culturally not as “cool” as dog people, either. Take, for example, the expression “crazy old cat lady.” There is no canine equivalent. Take, as a second example, “crazy old cat lady in Brooklyn.” The next stop on the mental health train is disgruntled postal employee with access to an automatic weapon.

In reality, I think the personality types are less acurrately represented by ”dog” or “cat,” but by “people who enjoy the company of creatures they can’t discuss politics with” and “people for whom a non-response to a pointed question can be viewed as a threat.” When my dog doesn’t poop on command, it’s not that he doesn’t understand me; it’s that he’s purposefully holding out, waiting until I put him back in his room to empty his bowels.

I want to want to be a dog person. I really do. It’s just that a fifty pound, four-legged mealtime terrorist who still can’t grasp the command “SIT!” (let alone “heel,” “stay,” or “get the @!# out of the trashcan” isn’t my idea of a perfect house pet. Not that cats listen. Or learn. But they don’t weigh as much, so they’re easier to pluck off a countertop and fling across the room.

Cats also sit in your lap, purr, pretend they like you to get a belly rub. I can appreciate that. It’s basically what I did throughout my twenties. They’re full of attitude. The goofball, make-no-attempt-to-hide-their-curiosity, “hey, where’s the party? Oh! In the mud puddle!” dog approach to life is a bit more like the kid in junior high you never wanted to sit next to for fear that it would rub off.

Until I can lift more than ten-pound handweights, however, I guess I won’t be tossing the pooch out anytime soon…..

It was still dark at 5:00 this morning, which suprised me. In memory, the sky brightens well before five–all the way from May through September. Here we are at the end of July, though, and the sky was barely light enough to make my way downstairs. Damn. I hate to give up the long days of summer so soon.

I also hate to admit that my memory is falliable.

How many decisions do I make based on experience? Almost all of them. Yet if I am misremembering something as easily verified as the sunrise, can I really trust myself to recall other events accurately? If so, how can I really base anything on such a flexible membrane as my memory?

Subjectively, I believe that I have a firm grasp on reality. Objectively, though, I wonder: If I don’t recall what really happened, does that mean I’m making it up? How will I know what’s true?

Is there even such a thing as truth?

With any luck, I’ll stop worrying about a simple hour or two of daylight. I’ll try not to get too wrapped up in the fact that there were long shadows outside when I thought birds would be singing. After all, if I’m making it all up, why would I have invented a day job? Or a world in which food has calories?

As a whole, I see the world for what it is: a beautiful mess.

And I swear that’s a true statement.

I swear the silent lightning woke me up, though I’d be hard pressed to explain how, scientifically, that could have happened. Maybe a magnetic force drew me to the window? Or else my eyelids are unusually thin. Whatever the reason, I woke to see whole sections of the sky lit up with fabulous flashes of silent, white light. It was strange enough to get me out of bed. I hovered for several minutes, watching the aerial pyrotechnics, until I realized I really wasn’t awake enough to stand so close to the head of the stairs.

Hours later, the thunder rolled through. Then the rains came.

But that lightning was the most amazing thing! I’ve never seen heat lightning like that back east (In NYC, that kind of quiet brightness would’ve indicated a store opening, or a film being made). It was a good reason to miss some sleep last night…and an even better excuse to employ yet another glorious head cave, where my racing dreams mixed with the roar of the thunder until the alarm clock finally shattered my sleep.

Today I can barely hold my head up at work. The obvious solution, I thought, was to relocate the phone to the floor and stretch out beneath my desk. The ringing phone would serve as an adequate alarm clock and, even sleepy, I’m reasonably certain I could operate the voicemail transfer buttons.  A good plan, but flawed; the window is right above my desk. Apparently, this maple wood monstrosity fails to provide the shade I would expect from an average umbrella.

My house, too, has a lot of light. Even with the spiffy dark shades we chose for the walls (my contribution had nothing to with paint brushes or rollers) and lined curtains, our bedroom loft is glaringly bright from the very first cockadoodledoo until almost ten at night. I’m not someone who can sleep in those conditions. And as the human body requires sleep in all four seasons, I was forced to mastermind yet another scheme to catch a few winks during daylight savings.

Enter the head cave.

Head caves are completely portable, made up of a cushy, pliable combination of sheet, quilt, and comforter. The size of the cave depends on the amount of fresh air you want to let in versus sunlight. Side effects include tangled hair and bad breath. But if anyone can figure out how wake up without looking like Medusa’s fire-breathing cousin, please drop a line. My fiance would probably pay you for that kind of assistance.

This past weekend, while other people my age were no doubt meeting exciting new people or (yawn) spending time with their families, I had yet another stroke of, oh, let’s just call it genius. The air-to-darkness ratio in head caves, see, is increasingly difficult to negotiate around the solstice. (More light+more heat=more engineering difficulties). Unwilling to compromise, I constructed a head cave with higher blanket walls with a wider circumference. Voila! The head coliseum.

On a cautionary note, the coliseum requires a good deal of quilt to build, which may leave your partner without. But it’s summer, eh? There’s no real chance of frostbite. You can always tell your bedmate to quit complaining or you’ll drag him/her into the coliseum with you, then loose the ravenous lions.

Sure, it would be nice to save the planet.

It would be even nicer to save my eyes and fingers and toes. And anything else that could get smacked with a rock or a projectile, or stuck in the samurai-sharp blades of a lawn mower.

For years, I’d justified the waist-high “lawn” in front of my rental property by telling myself I was saving my digits and orbs to see the green earth for yet another day. Now that I’m a homeowner, however, my pride is letting me know that the grass really does need to be cut. I actually care what my neighbors think. Plus, it’s harder to get the dog in at night when he has all that natural cover.

Enter the green machine: it looks like a toy. Sounds like a toy. You can carry on a conversation while you’re mowing! It’s completely non-threatening and still cuts the grass. Who knew reducing my carbon footprint would also allay so many irrational fears?

Of course, it’s even easier to avoid injury when you’re outside with a camera in one hand and a piece of date cake in the other, and the man actually gets behind the push mower.

I’m not sure I could defend the use of a messenger bag instead of a “purse” as a mature choice, to begin with, but I was glad to see my materialism hasn’t progressed to the point where I care more for a leather bag than for the well-being of my pound puppy.

That said, he’s still not allowed within yards of my precious shoes and boots.