She asks him why he is staring. He replies: "I have a question to ask, but I don't want to offend you."
She answers, "My son, you cannot offend me. When you're as old as I am and have been a nun as long as I have, you get a chance to see and hear just about everything. I'm sure that there's nothing you could say or ask that I would find offensive."
"Well, I've always had a fantasy to have a nun kiss me."
She responds, "Well, let's see what we can do about that, under two conditions: #1, you have to be single and #2, you must be Catholic."
The cab driver is very excited and says, "Yes, I'm single and Catholic!"
"OK" the nun says. "Pull into the next alley."
The nun fulfills his fantasy with a kiss that would make a hooker blush.
But when they get back on the road, the cab driver starts crying.
"My dear child," said the nun, "Why are you crying?"
"Forgive me but I've sinned. I lied and I must confess; I'm married and I'm Jewish."
The nun says, "That's OK. My name is Keith and I'm going to a Halloween party."
In other news, G did get the trash heap of a car rolling again. The clock keeps resetting to 12:00 like a Satan-possessed BetaMax VCR, but hey, I can take the kids to school - whoopee!!
On another note, Hoover has gained a little weight now after the addition of a couple of extra chicken backs and peanut butter. Now that I think of it, that bite of G probably helped, too. Bruno, on the other hand, is still a perfect gentleman - the Abbott to Hoover's Costello, if you will. Wow...cutting edge comedy reference! What am I, ninety?
Anyway, the next couple of weeks promise to be much more interesting, so don't give up hope yet. Seriously, G's family is getting together for his Dad's surprise birthday party on the 15th, which promises comedy gold. Not to mention the drama that's sure to ensue as contentious factions of the clan from across the country join in forced merriment to wish my dear FIL a very happy 60th. Over Thanksgiving my brother Kevin and my Mom are coming to visit, so you can anticipate at least a little PUI (posting under the influence) as we party our way through that week.
One last note: I don't know where this picture came from (no, it's not my doorbell!), or I'd gladly give credit here. If you happen to know, please give me a shout.
CORRECTION/EDIT/RETRACTION: The car is dead again. It WAS running for almost 20 hours, and that might just be a record!
G came home from work yesterday after stopping at the Pet Supermarket, and he was bearing a bag loaded with pig ears, organic chicken jerky enhanced with glucosamine & chondrointin, a stuffie, and a squeaky ball. Needless to say, he was very excited to share some of his loot with his lucky hounds. As excited as he was, G was not expecting Hoover to jump up and nip his hand, which is exactly what happened. Clearly, this was not cool.
So Hoover (Mr. Excitement) didn't get a treat. He didn't get to play with a toy. He spent about an hour in isolation, and then he was made to wear the newly-created Naughty Hat. As you can see here, this part of the punishment didn't affect him much, but we did have a few laughs over it.
The house was decorated inside and out with all manner of spookery. Cobwebs, fake body parts, white sheets a la haunted house on all the furniture, the whole deal. The oft-mentioned coffin was filled with beer, ice, a skeleton, and was lit from within, black streamers covered the entire ceiling, and homemade wallpaper complete with "REDRUM" scrawled in red paint covered the walls. In a word, spooktacular.
My contribution to the ambiance was a table centerpiece, which was originally meant to be a roasted pig's head. Alas, it was not to be. Upon visiting the Buford Highway Farmer's Market (the world epicenter of creepy meats), I consulted with one of the butchers who confirmed that they were "out of pig heads". Instead, I purchased the following assortment: 1 pink and black beef tongue, 2 pounds of chicken feet, and 3 bull testicles. I thought it was very funny that the testicles were all packaged in odd numbers, but maybe that's just me.
Upon arriving home with my bounty, the dogs went nuts over the smell of what was in the bag. After making my way through the gauntlet of hounds, I took my goodies upstairs and covered the chicken feet with hoisin sauce while deciding that the best way to cook all these items was in a 375 degree oven for an hour and 20 minutes. Mind you, NONE of this was meant to be eaten. It was only for show, and it looked perfectly grosstastic when it was done and artfully displayed on a glass cake pedestal atop wilted bok choy. I fully expected the whole display would be intact at the end of the party.
As I always do, though, I left before the party ended. The next day, I returned to the scene to help clean up a bit, and found out that the tongue was gone. Today, the host emailed me to confirm that someone ate it in a moment of drunken gluttony. I'm glad I wasn't able to get that pig's head, after all.
The reason this has been on my mind this week, in particular, is because a stranger approached me at a meet-and-greet and asked me why my two dogs were “so much bonier” than the others. A strange turn of the tables for me, I must admit. When we first got Bruno (our first greyhound), we fed him too much, too often, and he fattened up very quickly, ballooning up to 10 pounds over race weight. Yikes.
Honestly, he looked terrible. Looking at pictures taken of him while he was at this inflated weight, it’s impossible to tell he had ever been a very successful racer who ran 137 races and won many of them. There was something very sad about it.
We finally got it under control, and about 2 months ago he weighed in at 70 pounds, just two pounds over his race weight. Now that we’ve switched to the raw diet, he weighs 66 pounds, and I think he looks fantastic. I can see three ribs and his hipbones, and he looks healthy and athletic.
Hoover raced at 69 pounds, and he now weighs 65. He looks “ribbier” than Bruno, and I’d like to see him gain one or two pounds. Hoover is more active than Bruno, and it’s apparent to me now that he needs bigger portions to keep more meat on his bones.
I’m glad that man asked me about their weight at the meet-and-greet, though, because it made me think and realize that Hoover could use a bit more chow. At the same time, it made me evaluate my whole philosophy and confirm my commitment to keeping my boys lean, even if that means they go a little below race weight.
I’ll begin by saying that I hope you enjoy reading this letter as much as I enjoy owning my 2004 Passat, which I affectionately refer to as “Crap On Wheels” (COW for short), “The Rolling Dungheap” and many other epithets too vile to mention. Of all the cars I’ve owned (a Toyota, several Fords, two Chryslers, and a Mini Cooper), this is by far the worst automotive ownership experience I’ve ever had.
With only 80,000 miles on the odometer, I’ve already spent at least $6,000 in maintenance on this “Certified Pre-Owned” car. The CV boots have cracked twice, the motor mounts have blown out, the battery cable has been severed twice by some unknown mechanism, and to top it off, the hood latch has broken off, most likely because someone is always raising the hood to find out what the hell is wrong with the wretched heap of trash this time.
I’d like to drive this car out into the middle of a field, set it on fire and make s’mores. I want to lock myself in a soundproof room and scream obscenities about German engineering. As this car sits disabled on my driveway for this month’s breakdown, it’s taking every ounce of my restraint not to go outside and whack this albatross repeatedly with a ball peen hammer.
In conclusion, I hate this car with every fiber of my being, albeit less than I hate Al-Qaeda and child molesters. I’m not sure what Fahrvergnugen means, but I have a two guesses: gut-scorching regret of a terrible buying decision, or the helpless sensation of watching your money blow away in a stiff wind. If either of those are correct, then I’ve got Fahrvergnugen.
For some reason, service people love to tell me their troubles. From the exterminator who keeps me updated quarterly on the status of his tumultuous relationship with his ex-wife, to the carpet cleaner who spent close to an hour yesterday regaling me with tales of his close-calls with foreclosure, everyone has a story. If I were in therapy, I swear we’d spend the hour talking about the therapist’s self esteem and body image issues. I guess I just have one of those faces.
Don’t get me wrong; if I know someone, I’m glad to listen. But when I’m paying someone to perform a service, it’s just plain creepy. I’d love to have a housekeeper, but would I have to hear about her insomnia, mother issues, and political views? The point is moot, of course, since I can’t afford a housekeeper, but even if I could, it would probably be less exhausting to clean my own baseboards.
I mentioned in an earlier post that G & I are attending a Halloween party as Mr. & Mrs. Herman Munster, and it’s a great big deal. We’ve got costumes, we’ve tested makeup, and I’ve purchased a long black wig. It’s all at least moderately convincing, which is important.
What WASN’T convincing was a series of tufts of reddish brown hair that showed around the hairline of my fabulous showgirl wig. That being the case, I did what any right-thinking suburban Mom and professional would do…using a “semi-permanent” hair color, I dyed my own hair black to really crank up the authenticity by camoflaging those character-busting tufts.
Big mistake. Big, fat hairy mistake.
Why? Because black dye, EVEN the kind that’s supposed to wash out after X number of shampoos, is very tenacious. I found this out, of course, AFTER the ill-fated dye job. I’ve also heard from several people and confirmed via Google that I’m now probably destined to rock this look until it grows out completely. Not only is it tenacious, it’s virtually impossible re-dye. Perhaps I’ve been confused; I’ve always thought that old saw about “never going back” referred to something else entirely.
I have to ask myself, “What next, a lip piercing? Press-on nails? Beer from a can?” I never cease to amaze and amuse myself.
Stay tuned for more lapses in taste and judgment!
Hoover gets the star treatment too, so don't worry about him.
When I was in the Army, I came within inches of frostbite while on a bivouac on Ft. Devens, Massachusetts in December. Since that time, several of my toes go completely numb at temperatures of 60 degrees and below. Once you’ve had a cold injury (or a heat injury, for that matter), you’re much more susceptible to the same kind of injury in the future, so my toes are almost numb even as I type this.
In the Army, the preferred first aid for cold-injured feet is skin-to-skin contact, sharing body heat. Armpit body heat, to be exact. Cue the dreamy flashback music... While it sounds a little gross, I still fondly remember the times I spent next to the tent stove with my almost-frozen bare toes planted firmly in the armpits of our platoon’s bare-chested, blond haired, blue eyed Italian Adonis, Private Funicelli. I digress.
Nowadays, G neither allows me to put my tootsies under his shirt, nor does he allow me to consort with beautiful Italian men with more liberal toe-warming policies. No matter, though; I have the next best thing, and we call it The Waffle Iron. Operation instructions are listed below:
Step 1 – Adopt a retired racer and give him or her a wonderful forever home.
Step 2 – When the hound is lying down on his or her side, gently raise the back leg that is facing toward the ceiling. This is the lid of the iron.
Step 3 – Place your cold bare foot on the inner thigh of the leg that is resting on the floor. If your hound growls, you will need to quickly withdraw the foot, return to step 1 and adopt a second greyhound who will tolerate this.
Step 4 – Press the top thigh back down on top of your foot and relax as your foot quickly returns to a nice, comfortable temperature. You can almost hear it sizzle.
Kidding aside, Bruno really doesn’t seem to mind this or I wouldn’t do it. I look at this as quid pro quo; I keep him healthy, comfortable and happy, and he’s just returning the favor.
Sure, it's morbid, but G is just about tickled to death with this creation (pardon the pun, if it's at all possible!), and it really is turning out well. It's the old-time style you'd see in cowboy movies with the shoulders being the widest point. I'll post pictures when it's done.
In any case, I wonder if anyone at Lowe's overheard us discussing his plans for working on the coffin today. If they did, they probably thought they were in the presence of the ultimate do-it-yourselfer when G said,
"This afternoon I really need to spend some time sanding and painting my coffin. I wish I knew how to do airbrush paint finishes, because I really want it to be cool."
Now that I’ve tackled (some of) the filing, time for a little fun.
I love words: saying them, writing them, and playing with their meanings. I especially love gathering up funny words and phrases and incorporating them into my active vocabulary. Here’s a little list for your consideration.
Some of these require a little explanation:
Plastirondack / Polyrondack – Either of these refer to those plastic lawn chairs made to look like the classic Adirondack chair. I coined these myself, and I'm damn proud of it.
Totstitution – The unfortunately-prevalent practice of a parent dressing a little girl so that she looks like Lindsay Lohan between rehab stints. The child then looks like a Prostitot.
Meat Wings – This one is G’s creation. If your triceps flap like the wings of pterodactyl when you wave, then you, my dear, have meat wings.
Hail Damage – Cellulite, usually found with meat wings.
Fartin’ Through Silk – If you do this, you probably have a lot of money. You also definitely have gas.
Disgustalicious - Like school cafeteria burritos. Sort of gross, yet irresistable.
Romancing the Stones - That's what I call it when guys spend an inordinate amount of time, um, adjusting themselves. Also known as Pocket Pool.
Others are self explanatory:
The meat is for the man, the bone is for the dog.
Kickin’ Like Kung Fu
Sweater Puppets / Fun Bags
Two are dorky business jargon:
Low hanging fruit (sounds dirty, but really isn't)
Closest to the money
So, what are your favorite phrases?
Overall, this diet is working out famously. The boys love the raw meaty bones, and I think it's making their coats softer and their teeth whiter. What they don't especially love is the veggie mix. Here's what I think they'd say if they could talk...
"Excuse me, waitress...there seems to have been a mistake. We ordered the chicken for two, not the gross green smoothie."
"What? This is all that's on the menu tonight?"
(Big Sigh) "Ok, fine. We'll eat it tonight, but for breakfast we'd like chicken."
"And by the way, don't expect a tip!"
1-800-SAFE-AUTO: Maybe you've seen this one...it features kids playing a fake version of the video game Rock Band, and the "clever" twist is that they're playing that irritating jingle in a sort of 80's hair band style. Quite frankly, the musical arrangement stinks. Furthermore, the girl who's lip-synching the lyrics has the lamest hoochie dance moves ever.
HeadOn: Apply directly to the forehead. HeadOn: Apply directly to the forehead. HeadOn: Apply directly to the forehead. What? Damn! That commercial is over and I still don't know HOW to use that product. Really, HeadOn? You've just repeated the same thing about 8 times in 30 seconds, and YOU'RE telling ME where to stick it? Good thing TV doesn't allow for two-way communication, because I'd love to tell you where to stick your product, and you'd best believe I'm not thinking of your forehead!
My complaint du jour is that I’m tired. Really, really tired.
Most people would say, “Well, Addie, you haven’t been getting enough sleep. You go to bed too late, your dogs wake you up at the crack of dawn, and that guy who sleeps in your bed snores like a freight train.” (See how I didn’t mention his name? Classy of me, I think.) Anyway, that’s what most people would say.
Here’s what I tell myself, “Well, Addie, this is it. This could be anything…ANYTHING! We’re not as young as we used to be, you know. Adrenal fatigue, sleep apnea, diabetes, anemia, fibromyalgia, or PARASITES. That’s probably it, you know…parasites. Remember that article in Discover Magazine? Disgusting!”
So this is where my internal dialogue nonsense has taken me…to parasites. The very idea is to me as Kryptonite is to Superman, so I’ll probably spend the next couple of hours Googling anti-parasite treatments. I’d better get cracking, though, because I have to get up at oh-dark-thirty tomorrow.
Or I could go to bed early, but that’s not going to help these PARASITES, is it?
First, I’ll say that I think everyone should have one or more personal theme songs. Your personal theme song is THE song you’d want to have playing if you had to walk down the street 80's style with a boom box on your shoulder; it is meant to capture the essence of where you are in your life at that very moment. At various times, my themes have included: I’m Every Woman, I’m Too Sexy, Take This Job and Shove It, and Movin’ On Up.
In addition to its obvious application as a personal anthem, I’ve found that singing this song at the top of my voice turns my dogs into raving lunatics. Bruno roos and zooms around the room, and Hoover grabs the nearest toy and slings it violently back and forth. By the time I get to that thrilling last line (you know...the one where I finally get a piece of the pie-i-i-i), they’re both exhausted.
This song has also served me well as a childrearing tool. Years ago, when my kids would misbehave in public, all I had to do was belt out a line of two of this song (right in the middle of Home Depot, or wherever we happened to be), and the kids would stop whatever they were doing that was embarrassing me. You know what they say: Revenge is the best parenting.
What? Am I the only one who says that? Interesting…
Looking at this picture, it’s hard to believe it was taken some 12 years ago. It’s even harder to believe that little tree monster, Tyler, turns 16 today.
Happy Birthday, Tyler!
I’m so proud of you, and I love you like a fat kid loves cake.
As I slapped labels on the mailers, I listened to the bizarre strains of Jared’s song and the ecstatic sounds of someone besides me loading the dishwasher. The Beowulf song, which seems to have roughly the same tune as Smelly Cat from Friends, goes something like this:
You’ve had epic adventures
You encountered some monsters
You slayed them all!
There are about one million verses to this song, which is bound to be a big hit. You’d think that would have been the funniest part of the night, but it wasn’t.
After finishing loading the dishwasher, G called out from the kitchen, “Hey Addie? What am I supposed to do with this soap packet thing…just put it in there and turn the washer on?”
Talk about throwing yourself under the bus! I didn’t realize that it’s probably been a YEAR since he’s loaded the dishwasher, since that’s about how long I’ve been buying that kind of dishwashing detergent. I’ve made up my own song, to the tune of Beowulf.
You never load the dishwasher
I find your dishes in the sink
I’ve washed them all!
Later on, after making my own coffee and breakfast, stumbling into the bathroom and realizing that actually I look a hot mess without my makeup, it came to my attention that either one of my kids’ rooms could be used as a backdrop for one of those “sponsor a child” commercials. That this sort of squalor can exist in middle-class suburban America is appalling enough; that they live this way voluntarily really blows my mind. It's a matter of time before one of them catches a disease from the condition of his room (which would actually be a pretty good plot for an episode of House, now that I think of it). And no, I'm not going to clean it myself; I believe 16 & 17 year-olds should be able to keep one room of the house clean.
As if that weren't enough, I’ve also noticed today that my dogs seem to be ignoring me after this morning’s aquatic machinations. I work from home, and normally they spend the day lounging on the guest bed in my office. Today neither one of them is giving me the time of day. In fact, they are not only avoiding the ROOM that I’m in, they’re not even on the same FLOOR of the house. Ingrates!
To complete my joy, I have to work in the yard tonight to spread some mulch before the thunderstorms that are forecast for Wednesday. Since my chest and neck are covered in tiny blisters from Saturday’s sunburn, I’ll be hoisting the pitchfork dressed in some sort of improvised burqa, which I’ll wear together with the crankiest of crankypants.
I wore long sleeves, long pants, a hat, and giant sunglasses, leaving only a bit of my chest and the back of my neck exposed, and I slathered those bits with Neutrogena SPF 70 Helioplex sunscreen.
Was I too hot in my winter get-up in the 80 degree heat? Definitely.
Was I smug in the knowledge that I was avoiding the youth-robbing rays du soleil? Absolutely.
Still, I managed to cook up a 2nd degree burn on the 12 or so square inches of flesh that weren't covered by fabric. It hurts, it itches, and it looks like leather. In short, it's lovely.
I get it now...I just can't spend ANY time outside with ANY skin showing. So if you ever happen to see someone in public wearing a Ninja costume or a fencing uniform complete with mask, that just might be me.
- I would never pick prime numbers on a lottery ticket.
- I think sneezing is fun.
- It bothers me that my municipal water is fluoridated without my permission.
For obvious reasons, I'm usually pretty sympathetic to strange ideas and do my best to understand them, but I've got to say, this has me stumped.
Burger King serves its coffee in a paper bag. They take a full cup of coffee, place it in a bag, and hand it to the customer. Like your coffee black? It doesn't matter...it's still in a bag.
Strange, isn't it?
About 15 minutes before this photo was taken, these two fellows had a squabble about a favorite toy. That's one of a million things I love about dogs; they're so quick to forgive. We could learn a thing or two from our pets, couldn't we?
Today's topic deals with something we've all encountered, whether we realize we've been affected or not. In fact, our own world wide web's Urban Dictionary has only begun to explore the subject we tackle today: the ubiquitous "Girl Crush" and "Man Crush" (which is closely related to "Bromance").
In the bygone days of the After School Special, this would have been a suitably sensitive topic to cover, but since we're now left to parent without these vehicles for important life lessons, I had to broach the subject with my child, unscripted. Here's how it went:
(In a dimly-lit suburban living room, and mother and her son are watching NBC's hit reality series, The Biggest Loser, when uber-hot fitness trainer Jillian Michaels appears on screen.)
Mother: Jillian Michaels is so hot. Have you seen her do one-arm push ups? In my own mind, I'm SO her.
Son: She's almost as tough as Bear Grylls from Man vs. Wild. One time he bit a fish that was still alive, and he wrestled an alligator, and he took his clothes off in the snow...
Mother: I know, he's your man crush...
Son: Yeah, so? She's your lady crush...
Mother: I guess so, check out her abs...
(END SCENE. FADE TO BLACK.)
I hope what we've all learned is that the man crush, girl crush, and even the bromance can happen to any of us, and we mustn't blame ourselves or feel shame. The collage you see here represents some of these special relationships of mine and my loved ones.
Please note that the Mel Gibson crush ended abruptly after that whole drunken anti-Semitic rant thing, but Wendy, I'll love you forever, girl! Pass me that Frosty, will you?