'Hey Ronni!' is an advice column I use to write for a community newspaper. I really enjoyed it, but the community and the newspaper were not a good fit for me, so until I find another newspaper to work for, I am gonna display my columns I wrote here! So here we go!
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Hey Ronni!
My neighbor’s cat prefers my porch to hers, and now she’s accusing me of “catnapping.” I swear, I’ve done nothing but offer the occasional treat (okay, daily salmon snacks). Am I in the wrong… or has her cat simply chosen me as its rightful owner?
— Purr-plexed in Portofino
Dear Purr-plexed,
As an avid cat lover myself, I completely understand the struggle or rather the insatiable need to gain the affection of a fluffy freeloader but listen, cats aren’t loyal roommates; they’re more like picky Airbnb guests. If you’ve been running a five-star salmon buffet, of course the little diva is going to prefer your porch.
Are you guilty of catnapping? No. Are you guilty of enabling a fish addiction? Absolutely. Here’s the fix: cut back on the deluxe daily offerings. Switch to the occasional head scratch, maybe a sunbeam to nap in, and let the cat make its own choices. If it still camps on your porch, that’s on the cat, not you.
And for the neighbor drama to assure her you’re not trying to steal her furry child, a lighthearted “I’ll stop the sushi bar handouts” should smooth things over. (Bonus points if you actually follow through.)
Remember: cats don’t have owners, they have staff. And right now, you’re competing for the position of head butler.
— Ronni 🐾
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Hey Ronni,
I'm in love with a married woman. There... I've said it, though no confession could make the weight of it lighter. She moves through my thoughts like a song I can't stop humming, like the scent of something sweet and wild carried on the wind long after it’s gone.
There’s a light in her I’ve never seen in anyone else. The way she tilts her head when she listens, the way laughter escapes her lips like it has somewhere urgent to be…it undoes me. And her eyes... God, her eyes are like memories you’re not sure are real, dim, unfinished and somehow still the most vivid part of you.
When she touches her hair, it's not just a gesture, It's a small act of mercy, or cruelty, I’m not sure which. Because it makes me want her. Again. And again. And again.
She tells me without words that she feels it too.The quiet pulse between us, the way the air changes when we're near each other, like the world is holding its breath.
She loves her husband. I see that. I’m not blind. But I also see how she looks at me when she thinks I’m not looking. As if I am the ache she didn’t know she was allowed to feel.
I’m tired of lying to myself, of pretending I can keep this distance, of telling my body to forget what it remembers too well.
But what am I to do? She’s not mine. She belongs to my brother. I never meant to love her, but if you met her you'd understand. I don't see how anyone else couldn't love her.
And love, when it arrives like this, uninvited and inconvenient... It can be the most exquisite kind of suffering. Tell me... how does a man walk away from the only fire that ever warmed him? How do I pretend she wasn’t the moment I started believing in poetry again?
What should I do, Ronni? Because this wanting is starting to feel like a prayer and a punishment all at once.
–A man torn in 2
Dear “Torn in 2,”
Pardon me, while I don’t pull any punches….. Let’s start with the obvious: This isn’t some great Shakespearean tragedy. You’re not Heathcliff pining on the moors, you’re just a guy lusting after his brother’s wife. That’s not poetry, it’s a Jerry Springer rerun. You’ve written an ode to her hair toss like you’re auditioning for the role of “pathetic side character who thinks he’s the main one.”
Here’s the truth: you are not her secret soulmate. You are her husband’s brother. That’s what you’ll always be to her, no matter how much you romanticize the way she laughs. You’re circling a fantasy because it’s safer than facing the fact that you’re either lonely, bored, or both.
You want advice? Walk away. Not gracefully, not tragically — just go. Put as much distance as possible between yourself and this melodrama before you blow up two lives that aren’t yours to ruin. You think your “fire” is suffering now? Try explaining at Christmas dinner why you torched your brother’s marriage because you couldn’t handle your own hormones.
So stop dressing this up as destiny. It’s not destiny. It’s a crush — a reckless, selfish one. Want poetry? Go write it. Want her? Tough luck. Grow up, cool off, and for the love of family, keep it zipped.
—Ronni
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Hey Ronni,
My colleague has started labeling her oat milk in the fridge as her name then “Not for YOU, Moo” in Sharpie right below it. I’m 99% sure she knows I’ve been stealing little sips. I can't help it, it just tastes better when someone else brings it in. How do I stop being a dairy thief without admitting guilt?
— Moo-ched Out
Dear Moo-ched Out,
You’ve just described office fridge law in its purest form: possession is nine-tenths of the oat milk. The other tenth is passive-aggressive labeling in Sharpie.
Let’s be real—your colleague knows. “Not for YOU, Moo” isn’t exactly subtle; it’s a dairy courtroom exhibit. The jig is up. But here’s the silver lining: you don’t need to stage a dramatic confession to stop your thievery. Just…stop. Buy your own oat milk, slap your own name on it, and boom—you’re suddenly the picture of office fridge integrity.
Pro tip: if you really miss the thrill of “forbidden milk,” pour your own into a travel mug and pretend it’s stolen. Same rush, none of the guilt.
And hey, maybe even replace her carton once as a peace offering—no words, just oat milk diplomacy. Sometimes the best apology is lactose-free.
—Ronni
Hey Ronni,
My best friend just got married, and while I’m genuinely happy for her, I can’t shake the feeling of being left behind. I’m still single and not sure if marriage is even in the cards for me. How do I celebrate her joy without letting my own insecurities get in the way?
— Feeling Left Out
Dear Feeling Left Out,
Ah, the classic wedding whiplash — one minute you’re cheering through tears, the next you’re staring into your champagne thinking, “Cool, so when’s my confetti moment?”
First off, it’s okay to feel both happy and a little hollow at the same time. You’re not a bad friend, you’re just a human with emotions and an internet connection full of engagement photos.
Here’s the truth no one puts on a registry: life doesn’t happen in matching timelines. Your friend found her person; that’s her chapter. Yours might be about self-growth, travel, career magic, or heck — finally learning to keep a plant alive. Every story hits its plot twists at different pages.
To celebrate her without drowning in comparison, focus on connection over competition. Be present for her joy — then plan something that’s just for you. A solo adventure, a hobby that lights you up, or even a fancy dinner for one. (Candlelight hits just as nicely when it’s your own table.)
Love isn’t a race, it’s a playlist — everyone hits “their song” at a different time. Yours is still queued up.
— Ronni 💌
Hey Ronni,
I love my best friend, but she’s constantly late—like, an hour late—to everything. I don’t want to sound naggy, but it’s driving me up the wall. How do I call her out without causing drama?”
-Tired of Waiting (and Waiting)
Dear ToWW,
Ah yes, the friend who treats “I’m on my way” like an abstract concept. We’ve all got one — and somehow, they always show up right when you’re about to give up and go home.
Here’s the deal: chronic lateness isn’t about time management — it’s about boundaries. You’ve been too polite for too long, and she’s learned that showing up an hour late still gets her a smile and a seat. So the fix? Don’t scold — shift the consequences.
Next time you make plans, say, “Hey, I love hanging out, but I can’t keep waiting around. If you’re running late, no stress, I’ll just go ahead.” Then actually do it. Order your food. Start the movie. Be the friend who doesn’t put her life on pause for someone else’s bad clock habits.
She might roll her eyes at first — but deep down, she’ll respect the boundary (and the fact that you finally finished a meal while it was still hot).
You can’t change her internal clock, but you can stop letting it run your day.
— Ronni ⏰💋