Fuck It, I'm Bringing My Dog

Do you ever get somewhere and realize you’d rather be anywhere but that place? By “anywhere”… I mean your couch.

Yeah, me too. Every Friday night I make plans.

If we’re being honest with ourselves, in-advance plans should go away. 

There’s literally nothing worse than getting a Facebook invite or group text a few weeks prior to an event and seeing all your mutual friends RSVP yes and having that trick you into thinking you want to attend.

Social invites are an adult’s version of peer pressure.

It’s clear this middle-school common courtesy to refrain from such actions has fallen by the wayside in adulthood, so let me remind you – playground rules are forever. Peer pressure is illegal.  

After all these years of inadvertently being talked into Friday night hangs, I’ve found a tried-and-true solution. And as the purveyor of No Friday Night Plans, it’s my civic duty to share with the masses.


The bigger, the better.

A great pyrenees at a house party will cause a scene a heck of a lot faster than an inconspicuous chihuahua. And we’ve got Fixer Upper reruns on at 9.

When I got Blue, my 85-pound black lab, I knew I was getting into early mornings and long walks through the ‘hood. Little did I know his selfish ways would one day lead to my greatest success.

Blue’s all about getting fed right when he wakes up; if I walk past the treat cabinet, I’d better be getting him one; and if I’m changing out of my work clothes, WE MUST BE GOING FOR A RUN.

He drools. He sheds. He shakes. If you look at him the wrong way, he gets mouthy.

He’s a terrible toddler – and if it were legal, you know toddlers wouldn’t be allowed anywhere.

So instead, I’ll bring my dog. Your move, Karen. Your move.