Confessions of a Trophy Wife

Can't Wait for This Week!

2011-07-25T01:11:00.000-04:00

Why? Because it's going to be AMAZING. Here's what's going to happen:

Through the power of positive thinking, I will lose 8 pounds this week while eating whatever I want, AND my hair is going to look great everyday.
My backlog of work, which would probably congest the administrative facilities of a small island nation, will yield to the slightest of efforts, falling away like a prom dress at 1:00am,
The mountain of laundry on my bedroom floor will somehow magically wash, fold, and iron itself,
Lighting bolts of positivity and enthusiasm are going to shoot out of my ass with the force of an intercontinental ballistic missile,
Hell, I might even grow a few inches!!

Honestly, I'm pretty sure this week is probably going to be another marathon, and I have got to get a handle on my to-do list, which at last glance was one and a half pages long. Unfortunately, it's college ruled paper, mind you.

Seriously, though, I am trying to be positive about the days ahead. I have no idea how it is that I'm always behind, except that I must get some kind of thrill out of biting off more than I can chew. The idea that I'm addicted to the martyrdom of all-nighter and work-life imbalance is surely not palatable, making me sound...well, imbalanced.

I need therapy, don't I? I'm pretty sure they must have some mystical analytical tradition in India that would help me overcome it (if not, I know for a fact they at least have scotch!). Geez, leave it to me to fabricate a mental disorder out of simple disorganization, and use that as an excuse to go drinking in India. No matter how I think of it, all roads lead to India.

Get Busy Living

2011-07-08T03:23:00.000-04:00

No news isn't always good news, is it? Permission to speak freely, respected blog-o-sphere.

2011 has completely, totally sucked, with notably few exceptions. What's more, the promise of lingering suckage through at least the end of the 3rd quarter is providing a kind of suspenseful dread usually reserved for slasher movies.

But you didn't really think I'd bore you with a litany of complaints, did you? Come on, I know it's been too long, but I'm not that kind of gal, am I? Because if I am, I guess I should resign myself to a hell populated with similarly annoying people who stage endless monologues about their irritable bowels, mother issues, and cellulite. Say it isn't so!

No, if I'm going to bore ANYONE under ANY circumstances, my topic of choice will be my travels to India and the incredible people, sights, shopping and food there. In fact, in the face of a 2011 that (like the famous Dyson vacuum) "never loses suction", all I can think of is how much I want to chuck it all, pack my bags, grab my dogs and move to India. Forever.

Ladies and Gents, this is not an easy sell to a man who loves Dr. Pepper, peanut butter, and beef. Some days, he seems totally into the idea; other days, he acts like I'm mentioning for the first time that I want to amputate my right arm and replace it with a prosthetic carved out of cucumber. Of course we'd have to sell the house, sell the business, figure out endless logistics (you know, like a job in India for yours truly), and generally jump backwards through flaming hoops to make this happen. As if that weren't enough, we'd also have to adjust to a totally new lifestyle, social standards, climate, food, and procedures for doing every single damn thing that anyone does in daily life.

You know what? That sounds a hell of a lot like learning, growing, and flat-out living. Remember Shawshank Redemption? My favorite quote of all time comes from Red, Morgan Freeman's character, when he tells Andy, "Guess it comes down to a simple choice really. Get busy living, or get busy dying.".

Get Nailed

2010-09-12T09:58:00.002-04:00

For those of you who live in Atlanta, this one's for you. If you haven't already, you've just got to go and get Nailed.

The Rusty Nail is on Buford Highway near Druid Hills, not exactly the culinary epicenter of the city, but do not be fooled by its location or humble exterior. The chow is this place is mouth-watering - literally. The menu has a good mixture of bar food like burgers and wings, but the real focus here is barbeque and the homemade side items that come with it. First of all, I SWEAR the Rusty Nail did not pay me to write this, but never in my life have tastier green beans or macaroni and cheese passed my lips.

In short, I'd eat here every day if it didn't mean that I'd be buried in a piano box and would eventually wind up on some humiliating Discovery Channel special so fat I would have to be draped in awning fabric and propped up with 2x4s. Plus I don't think the Rusty Nail delivers, so the key to keeping it coming is not getting too fat to drive. Anyway, I digress...back to business.

Having spent many years in Texas, I can tell you that the barbeque scene in and around Atlanta is decidedly weak with the exception of the Rusty Nail. Even the venerated Swallow at the Hollow doesn't compare to the incredible brisket and pulled pork, which is cooked inside a giant gun-shaped smoker in front of the restuarant.

Speaking of smokers, this restaurant does allow smoking on one side of the bar, so there is a slight odor of smoke when you first walk in, so unless you're really sensitive to the smell, it's not too noticable. Like all other establishments in the area that allow smoking, the under 18 crowd is verboten. Even though I don't like living under the laws of nanny government, I do like not having small kids around while I'm trying to relax, so it works out for me.

One last thing about the Rusty Nail, and this is one that only the ladies will be able to enjoy. In the 2nd stall of the ladies' room, there is some really amusing invective directed at, of all fictional paramilitary mariners, Cap'n Crunch. One clearly agitated potty-stall poet calls the Cap'n a rat bastard, and invites him to make love to himself in some very crude terms.

I love the Rusty Nail.

The Time Machine

2010-09-09T21:32:00.004-04:00

Has it been long enough, or just entirely too long?

I feel like I've been in some crazy time machine, and it's almost impossible to believe that it's been 18 months since my last confession. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

Lots of things have happened since the last post. When I say a lot, I'm not kidding.

Jared has graduated high school and spent the last year and a half wasting every minute on girls, booze, chewing tobacco, and any other imaginable trappings trailer park opulence. He has also, in that time, joined the Marine Corps, and is currently enjoying his 2nd week on beautiful Parris Island. I understand the bugs are particularly juicy this time of year.

Tyler is a senior this year, and he's enjoying the easy schedule that comes along with it and looking for a job that suits his skills, which include arm wrestling, pie-eating, video gaming, and watching football. If you know anyone who would like to hire such a young man, please contact me. Immediately.

Garrett is still cool, and I'm still a trophy wife.

A trophy wife with a new job, that is! I started a new position in July and now I'm managing a team of offshore recruiters in India. I love this gig...and get ready for this...drumroll, please! I'm going to India in October for two weeks to train my troops, and I'm so very excited. Stay tuned for updates on my upcoming trip; I promise not to wait 18 months to tell you about it.

By the way, I still have that Effing Car, Auto Von Crapp. Auto is paid off and will continue to vex me until my desire to drive something other than rolling poo exceeds my desire to save my pennies. Keep waiting, folks....Garrett, that means you!

Now that we're all caught up, I'll resume the regularly scheduled silliness and observational humor in the next post. If you're still reading, thanks for hanging in there!

Vacation Day

2009-03-27T08:52:00.002-04:00

Oh, the romance! The luxury! Who am I kidding? A day off from work can be a beautiful thing, even without romance and luxury.

Sometimes it's not the presence of swaying palms that makes the time special; it's the mere absence of the constant hassle and endless emergencies, even when those pressures are replaced by grocery runs, Costco trips, bank deposits, and laundry.

Case in point, I had no choice but to take a day off today, since I've gotten so behind in my household tasks and errands. Of course, the recent drama at work hasn't helped much, so on Wednesday I decided that a day off would be just the thing, and blurted out at the end of a meeting, "Hearing no objections, I'll be taking Friday off."

Response: "That's sudden. What's going on Friday?"

Me: "Nothing. I just need the day off to recover from recent employment-related threats to my mental health."

So, here I am, with a list of errands and a mountain of laundry. Strangely enough, it feels like a day on the beach.

King for a Day?

2009-03-24T19:54:00.005-04:00

Not me, silly! I know I've been away for a while, but I PROMISE I'm still a lady and therefore could never be King.

J, on the other hand, came home from school and announced that he's been nominated for Prom King. Not only that...he intends to actively campaign for the position. There's no "it's an honor just to be nominated" philosophy here; this kid is making the full-court-press to win his rightful place on the prom throne. So far the plan includes t-shirts with his picture on them, a guest appearance on the morning announcements, and any other means of ingratiating himself with the senior population.

Sure, it's cool in a way, but it's also weird. Let's step into the kooky space-time continuum bending machine for a moment, shall we?

(Cue the fantasy-sequence music...)

Stepping out of the machine, you find Mother and Son in an alternate reality in which they're both in high school at the same time, a la Back to the Future. In this case, the Mom is a pasty, bookish social retard hurrying off to Academic Decathlon practice, and the Son is the handsome, happy-go-lucky flop-as-a-scholar everyone loves. In other words, he's that kid who never would have known I was alive if we had gone to school together.

I'm not sure why I think that's so bizarre, and I don't think I'll ever completely understand it. In any case, I guess having a kid who's nominated for Prom King does score me some vicarious cool points on that big scoreboard in the sky.

The Blog is Dead, Long Live the Blog

2009-03-23T20:03:00.001-04:00

I know. I’ve been absent. I owe rants on a variety of topics, but in my typical self-indulgent fashion, I’m going to rant about something else. Right now, my freedom of choice has become scarce and precious, so I’ve got to exercise it when I can. The good news: I’m about as drunk as Cooter Brown as I type this. Now, if you’re from Texas, you know Cooter Brown, and you know that means I’m really, seriously, three sheets to the wind.

More good news: the pups are doing really well these days. Hoover’s fur has become soft as a bunny, and Bruno is turning into the world’s best and biggest snugglebug. Those pooches are really a bright spot for me. J & T are also doing pretty well, except that J has Mono, just in time for spring break, graduation, and prom – yay!

Even more good news: Garrett is still the bomb-diggity, and he’s made so much progress on the yard that it actually ALMOST LOOKS DECENT. In the intervening weeks since my last post, I’ve had no complaints on the G front. I have, however, had plenty to gripe about on the work front.

Now for your reading displeasure, I’m proud to present the Top 10 Reasons My Employer Can Suck It.

1. They laid me off from the position I liked.
2. After laying me off, they gave me a job I didn’t want.
3. Once I started the job I didn’t want, they gave me a promotion to a worse position.
4. The promotion didn’t come with a raise.
5. The promotion required me to perform, on average, 38 additional hours per week, raising my normal weekly hours worked to almost 80.
6. The number of hours I’m now working is sucking the life out of me.
7. They moved the office to a new space with NO cubicle walls.
8. I now have to stare at my colleagues all day.
9. I am now in a commissioned position, but still don’t know what my metrics are.
10. Today, I received an EMAIL stating that all U.S. employees will be taking a 2.5% pay cut. An EMAIL, people.

I could have easily made this a top 12, or top 15. The last thing I’ll say is that if ONE more person tells me that I’m lucky to have a job, SOMEBODY is getting bitch-slapped.

Xena's #1 Fan

2009-02-09T20:31:00.006-05:00

It's been a while since I've posted an embarrassing story about one of my kids, and I'm prepared to remedy the situation. This story came to mind the other day as I was driving home, and I determined to relate the tale without disclosing the identity of the child involved, who will hereafter be called Mr. X.

When Mr. X was roughly four or five, a television show by the name of Xena: Warrior Princess exploded onto the airwaves with a burst of leather-clad girl power. Xena had a hottie side-kick, a signature banshee-call, a bustier, and skirt with flaps like a gas station car wash. It was as mesmerizing as it was mediocre.

Except to Mr. X.

To Mr. X, there was nothing mediocre about it. Mr. X wouldn't miss an episode of Xena: Warrior Princess if he had anything to say about it, but I didn't think this was too unusual.

I didn't realize how much Mr. X loved Xena until one evening, when I walked into the living room to find Mr. X, clad in his little footie pajamas transfixed by his favorite show. Not seeing me behind him, he suddenly rose to his feet, shuffled across the floor, wrapped his fat little arms around the television, planted a big, long, wet kiss on the screen, and whispered, "I love you, Xena."

Needless to say, he hates that story as much as I love it. Now if he ever brings a girl home who looks remotely like Lucy Lawless, I'm sure I'll pee my pants.

Update Schupdate

2009-02-08T16:19:00.001-05:00

Crazy couple of weeks it’s been, which is why it’s been dead on the blog. I know, I know…borrringgg!

So, I started going back to the office two weeks ago to start working in my new role for my employer. Apparently, after almost three years of working from my home office, my immune system approximates that of a newborn kitten, and I got dreadfully sick with a fever within 4 days. Fabulous!

In other work-related news, I was actually pretty lucky to have been selected to take a training class that is the industry standard for my profession, and I’ve been able to get THE certification that goes along with it, which is cool. No sooner than I completed this hurdle, I was offered a promotion, making the skills and certification pretty much inapplicable to the OTHER new role I start tomorrow. Hell, at least I don’t have to go shopping again, right?

Enough about work, if for no other reason than I’m boring myself to death. I know what you want is confessions, and I have one.

I’ve been doing some outside writing. Outside the blog, that is.

Now, before you feel betrayed, I’ve been doing this writing on my breaks at work, and I can’t use my company network to get on the blogs, so I guess if I weren’t doing this writing, I’d have to take up crack or something to occupy myself in my downtime. What I’m doing is compiling some of my favorite funny experiences and character sketches. I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing this for, but it is an interesting exercise since I’m trying to distill the people and experiences into as few words as possible.

What else? Hmmm…well, Garrett and I actually have plans for Valentine’s Day, which may actually be a first. We normally don’t support what’s basically a greeting-card holiday, but it happens that we had a chance to go see the Dames Aflame show Showbiz What Sizzles this year. Like I always say, “Nothing says ‘I Love You’ like a burlesque revue.”. Ok, I never really say that, but I’m saying it now.

Speaking of Garrett, he’s still a superstar, and he’s really made tons of progress this weekend on the exterior front stairs. Yay!

On another note (and I almost forgot to add this), the weather has been FANTASTIC here, and I took advantage of the weather yesterday and took a little walk, during which my neighbor Mark informed me that yesterday was his 42nd birthday. His only disappointment, he said, was that he didn’t get his birthday spanking, whereupon he turned his little tush in my direction. So I did what anyone would have done; I spanked his booty right there on the sidewalk. I’m sure it wasn’t inappropriate because Mark likes boys. I know…I’m a good neighbor!

Anyway, that’s about it for now. I hope someone is still there to read this, and I’ll try to do better keeping this up in spite of my occupational incarceration.

Sunday Shopping

2009-01-25T14:26:00.003-05:00

Today dawned with an awful realization. Beginning tomorrow, I have to start working from an office again, and that can only mean one thing: business casual.

Business casual is distinctly different from work-from-home casual, in many unfortunate ways. Business casual requires the all-day-long wearing of a real bra. Business casual forbids one from wearing T-Shirts emblazoned with slogans such as "REAL TITS" and "I'm a MILF". Lastly, business casual does not permit the wearing of pajama pants advertising Dr. Pepper or Guinness until noon, then switching over to jeans.

There was only one option for me today. I had to go shopping, and I had to buy stuff. This is really not how I wanted to spend my day, and I'd already penciled in the field trials for my Sunday amusement. But no, I had to go attempt to cobble together a work-appropriate wardrobe that wouldn't make me look like a hoochie or a Golden Girl, but something in-between.

I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that I found enough mediocre crap to upholster myself for the next four business days, and thankfully, Friday is casual day, so I'm set for that. Although it's not really possible that this Friday will be anywhere near as casual as the many Fridays that preceded it. In any case, there's more shopping ahead in the coming days, a prospect I'm regarding with the sort of dread usually reserved for root canals and anal surgeries.

In other news, G spent the better part of this morning working on his brick-laying project, and made some visible progress. More disturbingly, he is now removing the ceiling from my former office to run cable for the purpose of re-wiring the downstairs television. My mantra that keeps me from going nuts during such initiatives is, "At least he doesn't chase women and gamble.", I just wish he'd take up cooking as a hobby instead of tearing the house apart at random intervals.

Serenity now. Serenity now. Serenity now.

Another First

2009-01-24T15:37:00.003-05:00

Well, those of us with kids know how special some of those "firsts" can be. You know, the first word, the first step, or the first tooth. Then there are those firsts that aren't so celebrated, such as the first detention, first traffic violation, and of course, the first hickey.

Really, I'm not quite sure what says poor white trash like a big, purple, pulsating, thronging hickey right in plain view. Except perhaps having such a hickey while perched on the hood of a '82 Camaro, drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon, sporting cut off jeans shorts, a wifebeater, and a mullet.

As the Mom of Hickey Guy, it's embarrassing for me, so I have no choice but to make it a little embarrassing for Hickey Guy and his girlfriend, hereafter to be known as Hickey Chicky. What the hell? I think I'll just sit them down for a nice little talk that'll start something like this:

"You know, guys, it's not that hard to make out without leaving any marks on each other. After all, Mr. H and I play some serious championship level tongue hockey and you don't see any boo-boos on me, do you?"

I'll improv the rest, but I can't promise it won't include a rendition of that old Toni Basil song Hey Mickey. Only in this case, of course, it would be Hey Hickey.

Rants By Request, Part 2

2009-01-22T19:57:00.005-05:00

Lots more Firefly. Lots more rants. 'Nuff said.

Before we get started...go smell your dog right quick. Over the past few days, my kids and their friends have mentioned that Hoover smells like maple syrup, so I finally decided to smell for myself. I put my nose right into the fur on his neck, and sure enough, he reeks of Mrs. Butterworth's. Bruno has no smell at all, oddly enough, and neither of them has had a bath since October or November. I realize this is not a rant, but I would like to know whether other hounds smell this way, so please advise.

Now for the ranting. I'd like to begin with the weather, which, I'm pleased to report, has improved dramatically over the last couple of days. First, I'll say that cold weather can kiss every inch of my lily-white buttocks, which might take a while. Sure, I live in Hotlanta, but it does get cold here, and it's really not to my taste at all. I'm indescribably cold-natured, and unless the house is kept around 70 degress, I'm miserable from November through March. Sure, I personally have the carbon footprint of a multinational coal-mining operation, but I honestly can't stand being the least bit cold.

Actually, I understand cold-intolerance has something to do with low progesterone, which may very well be at fault. While that in itself is inconvenient, this is a great segue into talking about bioidentical hormones vs. the synthetic crap big pharma is literally trying to cram down our throats. Let's see...so my hormonal choices are:

a) do nothing medically, grow a beard and join a sideshow under the billing of Pygmie Bearded Lady Boy

b) take Premarin or some similar pregnant-mare-derived chemical estrogen and Progestin, which chemically resembles Progesterone to about the same extent that cotton candy resembles nail polish remover, or

c) find a practictioner who is open to prescribing BHRT, submit a bazillion blood tests to titrate the levels of estrogen, progesterone, testosterone, and FSH (that's follicle stimulating hormone), and arrive at a safe level of hormones that my body knows how to synthesize.

Lordy! None of those sound exceptionally fun, but I'll take C. Ladies, best to take note of this entire issue and take action, since the pharma lobbyists are working hard to take this option away from us.

Ok, enough on this. Let's crucify lousy drivers!! I've got to say, I'm fed up with idiots who don't understand a four-way stop. Is it so hard to understand that everyone who was stopped before you got to the intersection gets to go first? I can't stand it when someone decides to wave me on when it's not my turn, or when they jump the gun on their turn. Anyone who is too stupid to negotiate a four-way stop correctly should be forced to wear velcro shoes and a helicopter-topped beanie so they can be identified visually.

Well, I didn't expect to run out of steam quite so quickly, but it is what it is. Next time, less Firefly, more rants!

Meme Time!

2009-01-21T19:23:00.004-05:00

I'm considering myself tagged by Alex of Hope and greyz, who posted this fun Meme. Consider yourself tagged if you want to participate.

1) Last movie you saw in a theatre? Iron man, I think. That movie was kick-ass!

2) What book are you reading? Branding 101 by Donald Trump

3) Favorite board game? Taboo.

4) Favorite magazine? Atomic ranch – fantastic resource & drool starter for mid-century-modern architecture loons.

5) Favorite smells? Napalm in the morning. Other things that smell like victory: peppermint, roses, fresh-ground coffee, fabric softener, babies (note: babies are not mentioned in my Favorite sounds!), clean dogs.

6) Favorite sounds? People who don’t mutter.

7) Worst feeling in the world? Not knowing where your kids are.

8 ) What is the first thing you think when you first wake up? I hope G turned on the coffee pot!

9) Favorite fast food place? Moe’s

10) Future child’s name? That’s easy…Vasectomy Miracle

11) Finish this statement—if I had a lot of money I’d hire a chef and never freaking cook again!

12) Do you drive fast? Only on the freeway.

13) Do you sleep with a stuffed animal? Not anymore, but I used to sleep with a stuffed hippo for years as an adult. I’m way too cool for that now; plus Hoover pulled all the stuffing out of the hippo’s butt.

14) Storms–cool or scary? Scary! I need one of those “storm defender” capes for dogs.

15) What was your first car? Toyota corolla

16) Favorite drink? Scotch and soda, or Firefly and water

17) Finish this statement - if I had the time I would make myself a pair of leather chaps and roller skate around downtown.

18 ) Do you eat the stems on broccoli? I don’t discriminate. I eat the whole thing!

19) If you could dye your hair any other color, what would be your choice? Copper

20) Name all the different cities/towns u have lived in? These are the ones I can remember: Albuquerque, NM, Woodbridge, NJ, Phoenix, AZ, Monterey, CA, San Angelo, TX, Ayer, MA, Killeen, TX, Huntsville, AR, Austin, TX, Atlanta, GA. I was born in Honolulu and have also lived in Korea and Japan before I was old enough to remember.

21) Favorite sports to watch? Hockey, but only in person.

22) One nice thing about the person who sent this to you? I’m considering myself tagged by Alex, and she’s a funny gal and a very talented sculptor.

23) What’s under your bed? Tons of super-freaky porn. Just kidding…I have a telescope mirror my Dad ground, polished and figured for me and Garrett. It goes into a Dobsonian mount Dad also made.

24) Would you like to be born as yourself again? I have to be me; no one else wants the job!

25) Morning person or night owl? Night owl, caffeine-crazed morning hag.

26) Over easy or sunny side up? Over medium!

27) Favorite place to relax? Bed

28 ) Favorite pie? Any fruit pie, but I just like to eat the filling and leave the crust.

29) Favorite ice cream flavor? This is easy…Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. There’s not a care in the world that a ménage a trois with Ben & Jerry can’t cure.

Obstetrical Revenge

2009-01-19T15:50:00.002-05:00

The previous post and the comments that followed brought to mind my favorite obstetrical revenge story, and I just couldn't resist posting it. Now, you're in luck since I'm not posting a picture with this one. I know, I know...I'm a real model of restraint.

Before I go on, I assure you that I will continue with the Rants by Request series after this small detour. I'll also say that if you menfolk (or ladies) aren't comfortable with some unvarnished vagina talk, you may want to find another way to spend the next five minutes. Don't say I didn't warn you!

Without further delay, I hereby present a special technique you ladies can use to make sure your gynecologist or obstetrician is giving you his or her complete attention at all times. I discovered this technique completely by accident, as I'm about to describe.

When I was pregnant with Tyler, I was still in the Army, and their policy is that when a pregnant soldier gets sick, she has to be seen by the obstetrician, no matter the nature of the illness. So about six months along, I came down with a fever and a brutal, violent cough, prompting me to waddle on into the OB's office.

I've never understood why, but the first part of my exam for my cough was a good old-fashioned-feet-in-the-stirrups pelvic exam. I was really less than thrilled, since I felt like death on a stick and didn't anticipate having to unlace my boots and take off my elastic-topped camouflage pants, but the Army was never big on giving me lots of choices, so I put on the crunchy paper gown and assumed the position.

In comes Dr. Peekupurcooter and the nurse whose whole job is to make sure the doctor doesn't try to strum your banjo, and the exam begins with the brandishing and insertion of an ice-cold speculum. As he's checking under the hood, so to speak, he's asking me about what brings me in today, how long I've had a fever, the usual questions, and I start to feel a coughing jag coming on that I just can't restrain.

Anyone care to guess what happens to a speculum that's stuck up your vajayjay when you're lying on your back with your legs spread and you cough violently? In case you haven't guessed, let me dispel the mystery: the damn thing shoots out of your nether regions like a rocket propelled grenade, right into the forehead of the guy who has his face inches from the launch site. And yes, it will leave a mark. Right on the forehead, exactly as you would have hoped.

Now, I'm not suggesting that you need to do this, but it certainly is very tempting when the doctor is condescending. Or if they don't validate your parking, right?

Rants By Request, Part 1

2009-01-18T20:50:00.006-05:00

Today's post is brought to you by Firefly Sweet Tea Infused Vodka, in cooperation with the great suggestions for my booze-fueled rant post provided by you. I can't thank you enough, and I'll try to do you justice. You may be disappointed to learn that I'm going to have to break this into installments, partly because I want to give each topic full coverage, and partly because I'm so lit right now that within 30 minutes or so I may take my top off and sing Let's Hear it for the Boy.

For those of you who might like your blogs with a side of sugar, fair warning: here's where the nice stuff ends and the obnoxious, politically incorrect stuff begins. I'm sure I'll curse a few times before it's all over, and it's a certainty that I'll offend someone along the way. At least I hope I do.

I'm going to start with an issue near and dear to my heart, and that is being called Mom by people who were definitely cooked up in some other poor woman's uterus. I've kept very careful track, and there are only two people on Earth who can call me Mom. Anyway, if you've never experienced this, let me tell you that this is the most annoying, patronizing bullshit you could possibly imagine, and I don't tolerate it for a minute anymore. I can recall one dentist, Dr. Randal Rowan, who was seeing Tyler for the first (and last) time when he addressed me thusly, "Mom, you can wait right here. Tyler is a big boy and doesn't need his Mommy present for the exam.". I'm still kicking myself three years later for not saying, "Listen, you patronizing son of a bitch, I'm not your Mom, I'm a paying customer with a right to accompany her minor child anywhere she damn well pleases, and you can call me Adrienne. How does that work for you, Randal?"

You know, in general I think the medical establishment needs to be taken down a notch or two. My GP calls me Adrienne, and I call him Dave. He was a little shocked at first, but I'm not a big advocate of paying money to kiss someone's ass. Ok, you're a doctor, and it's a big deal, but I'm a big deal too. Do you even know who I am?

One more thing...I think any medical establishment that has the stones to charge for parking should be boycotted. I suppose it's not enough that when you go to the doctor you inevitably have your sovereignty as a human being violated in at least one way and pay richly for the privilege of doing so, now you have to pay to park your car. Bastards.

Speaking of what *holes doctors can be, I'll also go ahead and throw Dr. Michaeledes (formerly of Piedmont ENT) under the bus as the biggest jerk-face-doctor-jerk-guy I've ever met. As you may know, I have a condition that results in fluctuating hearing loss, so whenever I have to go to the ear-nose-throat place, I'm in dire straits and can't hear a damn thing. So here I am, deaf as a phone pole, trying to make my emergency appointment on the phone and I'm told that my original doctor had left, and had been replaced by (I thought) Dr. Michael Levy. So the doctor comes in and I asked him to clarify that his name was Michael Levy, at which he rolled his eyes and yelled, "It's Michaeledes. I'm Greek, and it's Michaeledes.", at which point I said helpfully, "You know, if you're sensitive about your name, maybe you shouldn't have chosen a profession that involves working with the hearing impaired." After a perfunctory, rudely performed exam, he prescribed me the wrong medication and sent me on my way. Then I paid for parking. Nice!

I recognize that I'm not doing a great job of staying on topic right now, so I apologize. Let's talk about cheap toilet paper, shall we? I'd like to think that only men are buying this crap, but I'm sure there are some gals out there who are guilty of this cruel false economy. If you're guilty as charged, you are hereby instructed to read the following statement out loud three times: We owe it to ourselves and one another to treat our most naughty anatomical parts kindly, even if it means parting with another precious dollar. Don't be cheap. Spring for the good stuff, and some lady's bits will thank you.

On the topic of ladies, I can't end this post without addressing what I like to call "Prosti-toys". If you're not sure what I'm talking about, think of those crazy Bratz dolls that look like promiscuous aliens. Isn't it great that some toy designer is out there thinking of ways to encourage preschool girls to be bratty and dress like whores? Trust me, by the time they're 12 they get the idea all by themselves. As if there aren't enough forces in play to teach girls to hate their bodies, deny their intelligence, and play to the lowest common denominator, we have these unholy dolls.

Oh, and how about thong underwear for itty-bitty little girls? At the risk of TMI, I think the whole thong thing is the finest example of sexist oppression since pantyhose, and I'm not effing participating. Don't like my VPL? Great! I didn't invite you to look at my ass, anyway, and I'm not paying $15 for a pair of underwear to have $10 worth of it up my crack.

Ok, folks, I'll leave it at that for now, but fear not...more rants by request to follow.

Audience Participation

2009-01-14T22:41:00.004-05:00

You know what I'm in the mood for (besides ending a sentence with a preposition, that is)? A big, obnoxious, politically incorrect booze-fueled rant-post, that's what.

Here's the problem: I'm drawing a blank on what to rant about (another preposition!). So, in the interest of avoiding some boring radio silence, I'm taking suggestions. You name it, I'll rant about it. Trust me, this is better than the alternatives I've dreamed up so far.

Seriously, do you REALLY want to read a detailed treatise on why Otto Von Crapp's engine light is lit? Are you interested in my opinions on how drinking commercially prepared milk has contributed to 50% of 8 year-old-boys having titties like strippers? I'm warning you...it could get pretty boring.

So, let's make it simple. If you think of a topic that would be suitable for rant, be a pal and post it in a comment. Over the weekend, I promise to booze it up and get posting, and I'll cover every suggestion submitted by the end of the day on Friday. It can be anything, political, social, just so long as it's not BORING. I think that last post under the influence was a real humdinger, so I think this could be a win-win!

Come on, folks, help a sister out (look, I did it again!)!

Creative Mortgage Financing

2009-01-13T20:03:00.002-05:00

Well, folks, the time has come for me to throw my mortgage company under the proverbial bus. I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this.

You see, I have my mortgage through Countrywide, and every month on the first, I send them a payment. Everyone is on the same page, and everyone's satisfied with the arrangement. Pretty simple, right?

You'd think it would also be self-explanatory that when the trophy shop completes an order for Countrywide Mortgage, that we'd get paid. On time. In full. Without incident.

Now, if I had declined to pay my mortgage since May of 2008, I'm confident that right now I'd be out on my ass wearing a barrel on suspenders in lieu of legitimate housing. Frankly, I'm miffed that Countrywide has failed to pay the $94.80 that is now 200+ days past due, and I'm considering my options.

Here's my idea: I'm considering calling Countrywide customer service and explaining to them that I'm going to be paying $94.80 less on my February mortgage payment. I'd offer to fax them the ancient invoice, and politely tell them that I'm even willing to waive the late fee.

Where the hell is a video camera when you need one? Wouldn't that be a great YouTube video?

Bruno's Special Day

2009-01-12T05:00:00.000-05:00

I'd be a terrible hound Mom if I didn't take a time out to wish my boy Bruno a happy Gotcha Day. In some ways it's hard to believe a year has already passed since he joined our family, and in other ways it feels like we've had him forever.

When he first came to us, I'd heard from lots of sources that it really takes a year for a retired greyhound's real personality to emerge, and I know that's true of this special guy. Last year, I probably would have described him as aloof, quiet, confident, and gentle, especially in his first few months. He's come out of his shell steadily throughout the year, and he's become an outgoing, playful, and cuddly guy, and I couldn't imagine our lives without him. As a first exposure to greyhounds, Bruno sets the bar pretty high.

Happy Gotcha Day, Mr. B!

Luck of the Draw

2009-01-07T10:54:00.002-05:00

Move over, Vegas! I’ve created my own game where the house always wins.

If you’ve ever been frustrated by your dusty furniture, funky floors, or nasty bathrooms, you may want to play the game, too. It’s genius, if I do say so myself. Here’s how it works:

Make a list of all the household tasks that need to happen in a week: vacuum, mop, dust, clean bathrooms, tidy under the kitchen sink, etc. In my case, I have 21 jobs.

Now write the tasks on note cards and place them all in an envelope marked “To Do”.

Create a second envelope marked “Done”.

Each day, 3 members of the household each draw a card and complete the task on the card. In our case, the 4th person is responsible for the dishes and kitchen clean-up for the entire week, so no one gets off scott free.

Once the job is finished, each person puts their card in the “Done” envelope.

At the end of the week, all the cards are returned to the “To Do” envelope, responsibility for the kitchen is passed to someone else, and the game starts again.

So each day, everyone does a chore that takes between 15-30 minutes, depending on the luck of the draw, and I get to wake up to a clean house every morning.

Oh yeah, the dealer TOTALLY wins.

Bitchin' Mohawk Creator

2009-01-06T16:57:00.003-05:00

Add to my considerable list of awesome parenting skills the amazing differentiator of “Bitchin’ Mohawk Creator”.

Behold the splendor of Tyler’s new ‘do, which was his request, by the way. I realize that as a parent it’s my job to say “No” to such requests, but it’s much more in my nature to participate in the foolishness.

In my defense, it’s not like he wanted to get a perm, and as you can see, I cut a pretty mean ‘hawk. It was pretty fun to do, and if he would have let me dye the center part blue or green, I'd have been in hog heaven. Of course that was not to be...you all know I'm banned from home dye jobs since my gothic Halloween dye-baucle.

Anyway, if you’re in the market for an edgy new look that doesn't involve color, let me know. It’ll be on the house.

Catch o' the Day!

2009-01-05T17:08:00.005-05:00

Ladies & Gents, permit me to announce that Hoover is damn proud of himself today, with good reason. What hound worth his spots, stripes, or solid wouldn't walk a little prouder after nabbing a 15-20 pound opossum and shaking him silly?

So last night at a little after 10:00, I let the boys out for their last tinkle of the day, which is normally a quick process. This time, Hoover spied the hapless marsupial as soon as the door opened, and he flew past Bruno down the steps toward his new toy. He reached the tree where the poor fellow was perched, leapt up, grabbed him, and shook his new friend like shaking was going out of style.

Let's take a break from the action and peek into the window of my panic, shall we? Great!

My mind said, "Oh crap, is that a cat? What the hell is that? Where's Bruno? Damn! He is shaking the crap out of that cat...Sweet Mother of Pearl!"

My mouth said, "Hoover, no!...No!...NO!" Now back to the action...

By the time I reached the third "no", Hoover dropped the opossum, who was playing dead and probably not nearly as much fun as he had been initially. Hoover stood with the little furry guy at his feet, wagging his tail and smiling. He stared at me for a moment, and then flounced off to do his business. It was then we were able to see that it wasn't a cat, but the biggest, fattest opossum either G or I had ever seen. Incidentally, those hairless tails make me a little nauseous, but I won't bore you with the details on that right now.

Long story short, the opossum eventually wandered off in a bit of a daze, and Hoover, who didn't have a scratch on him, has been strutting around like a rock star today. As for me, in the future, I'll check the yard and make some noise before I let those dogs outside, and hopefully that will scare off any potential victims.

Photo Tag

2009-01-04T21:20:00.002-05:00

I've been tagged by Sirius Sighthounds to post the sixth picture in my sixth photo folder and explain it, then I'm supposed to tag six other bloggers to do the same.

This picture was actually sent to me by Scott from Blue Barron's Place, and this is a picture of Hoover's haul from the track to the kennel to begin his life of retirement. As it happens, Scott hauled Hoover (in the foreground), and the dog in the background (who I think may be FKA Go Peanut Go or maybe Wiki Onetime), and he was kind enough to send me the pictures from Hoov's big break.

Now for the tagging:

Green Vibrance

2009-01-03T14:31:00.003-05:00

Since it's still New Year's resolution time, I thought you might all want to give one of my favorite products a whirl (except the Bosslady, that is. I'm sorry this made you gag; can you forgive me?)

For you non-gaggers out there, I'm talking about Green Vibrance Super Food, an emerald elixir I happen to love. I came across this stuff about a year ago when I was considering doing the Martha's Vineyard 30 Day Detox, and although I didn't follow through with that (big surprise!), I did find Green Vibrance to be great for a hangover. In fact, I confirmed several times (ok, dozens of times) that it's great for a hangover...reason enough to keep some around.

In any case, I'd been feeling a little rough around the edges after the holidays, and I was starting to look a little like Keith Richard stumbling off the tour bus at 2am in the wrong part of town. Not sexy...unless you're Keith Richard, maybe. Recalling that I still had some GV in the freezer, I started drinking it daily on New Year's Eve.

Fast forward to today: As I was putting away Christmas ornaments, listening to my iPod, singing and shaking my ass, I realized that I feel freaking awesome today. Seriously, totally, really good. It probably helps that I found one pair of my good jeans (yay!) and I'm wearing them, but I can only really attribute this to the Green Vibrance, which is full of tons of great stuff like wheatgrass, alfalfa, spirulina, barley, probiotics, and a host of other healthy-sounding ingredients.

Oh yeah, you should try this stuff. I'm just saying!

This message has not been solicited or approved by the makers of Green Vibrance. This message is not intended to diagnose or treat any disease. Consult your doctor before following the medical advice of a blogger who admittedly shakes her ass while putting away Christmas ornaments and loses her pants.

The First of the Year

2009-01-01T18:34:00.004-05:00

Well, ladies and gents, Happy New Year! May 2009 bring each of you nothing but the best. If you're the resolution-making type, I wish you luck, willpower, and the determination to make your resolutions come true. As for me, I'm going to work on eating better food, drinking more tea and slightly less booze, and hunting down the community newspaper delivery folks and cussing them out brutally. Ambitious, isn't it?

Maybe another realistic resolution would be to make future posts more singularly topical, but I can't promise that for you today. As I've been wont to do recently, I'm going to cover two different subjects, starting with a The Mystery of My Good Jeans.

Some background: Like most people, I have a couple of pairs of jeans that I prefer above the others in my closet. What differentiates these jeans is that they fit properly, and I don't feel like a complete 'tard wearing them. Incidentally, both these pair are Lucky jeans, which is why I only have two. In any case, I can't find either pair, which means either that they've been vaporized by some malevolent force seeking to enslave me, or they've been put away in someone else's closet. Everyone here denies possession of my good jeans, which certainly warrants some investigation, but in the meantime, I've started wearing the kids' jeans. I imagine they'll have more motivation to sort this out when they realize that they've only got shorts clean and ready for school on Tuesday. I'll keep you posted.

And now for something completely different, I have to share one of the funny, no...HILARIOUS gifts I received from my SIL for Christmas, a lovely book called Porn for Women. Wait...don't go...it's not what you think! This is a book with pictures of good-looking CLOTHED men doing various household tasks with appropriate captions sure to be a turn-on to most gals. An example: Photo: Man putting on gloves wielding a spray bottle of window cleaner...Caption: "I really prefer to get to these things before I have to be asked.". I can't do it justice here, so suffice it to say that I almost peed my pants reading this book.

Correction: I almost peed one of the kid's pants reading this book.

Happy New Year, y'all!

Posting Under the Influence

2008-12-27T16:57:00.000-05:00

Right now, you may be asking yourself why Addie would want to post under the influence, and your consternation is understandable, so I’ll tell you why. Because I love you all like a fat kid loves cake, and you’re been good boys and girls all year long, and you deserve a treat.

Here are my rules of PUI:

I get to say whatever I want about anything, which probably goes without saying since I usually do that anyway.
Once this post is published, I will never, ever go back and edit it, no matter how much a typo or nonsensical phrase is bothering me. This one is a big deal, trust me.
I get to use all the salty language I like, so if that sort of thing chaps your hide, you should probably go ahead and sneak on out of here.

Now that we've got that straight, I'm going to cover a few items in the order in which they occur to me. I realize that writing conventions dictate that I should tell you what I'm going to tell you, then tell you, and then tell you what I told you, but this isn't a five-paragraph essay, I didn't make an outline, and I don't think any of you are developmentally delayed in any way. This is totally extemporaneous, so work with me, will ya?

Let's start by talking about Christmas Newsletters. You know what I'm talking about, because when you get one, you ask God what you did wrong to deserve to find the literary equivalent of Taco Bell diarrhea in your mailbox. If you yourself distribute a Christmas newsletter, I'm going to ask you to please reconsider this blatant affront to your so-called loved ones. These letters suck, and they probably love you too much to tell you to your face.

I get one every year from my MIL (yes, she lives just across town, and yes, I'm aware of her every move much as NORAD is aware of the movement of every single aircraft traversing the airspace of the good ol' USA at any given moment). Here's the coverage we received this year:

Garrett and Adrienne still live in Atlanta, and Garrett's trophy shop is doing well. Jared graduates high school this year, and Tyler is two years behind him.

The rest of the letter goes something like this: I went to Michigan to see tulips, I went to a conference in New Orleans, I sprained my ankle, I pooped once and saw corn I didn't remember eating, etc. (Ok, ok, that last one wasn't really in the letter!)

Here's my idea for an entertaining (albeit not altogether true) Christmas newsletter:

Well, another year has gone by and I've still failed to achieve my full potential. I've been thinking that perhaps I have some sort of parasite that is preventing me from reaching my goal of world domination. My psychiatrist and I are seriously considering increasing the dosage on my medication (the anti-depressant, not the anti-anxiety), but the last time we did that my ass expanded to about twice it's normal size. The upside is that although I was fat, I wasn't too bummed out about it.

The kids are well and happy, although their academic achievement leads me to believe that neither of them will be setting the world ablaze with amazing scientific discoveries. As for the dogs, we've recently discovered that Bruno and Hoover love bleu cheese, imported beer, and licking each other's ding-dongs. We thought we were getting greyhounds, but I think we may have actually adopted Gay Hounds. In any case, they're just great, and I love the way they howl when I sing It's Raining Men.

See what I mean? Nobody is interested in this sort of stupid, boring minutia. I call to the stand Stephen of Plus Est En Vous, who has informed me via comment that my last post was so boring that he sustained a mild concussion upon being lulled to sleep and subsequently striking his head on his keyboard. I would launch into a grueling examination of the witness, but I have to agree with his contention. Nevermind, Stephen, you're dismissed on the grounds that I can't poke any holes in your premise.

On another note, I have to warn you all against following the procedure I described in the post entitled Dog Language Barrier. I just performed this act with Bruno, who responded this time by jumping on my back and humping me. Seriously. I removed myself from this menage a dog, and he approached me as I sat on the couch and grabbed my leg and proceeded to go to town, whereupon I called him a pervert and squirted him with water. The language barrier is hereby broken, and apparently rubbing your head on your dog's side means, "Go ahead and hump me, big boy!". Who knew?

Let's move on, shall we? I'd also like to talk about my favorite new store at Perimeter Mall, Martin & Osa. Lord, how I love this store! G and I are both totally smitten by this offshoot of American Eagle Outfitters, whose target demographic is grown ups with jobs. As Bob Barker & Drew Carey would say, The Price is Right and the clothes, as I would say, don't make me look like a garden variety idiot. If you have this store locally, please go spend some money so they don't go out of business.

Speaking of G, he and I are celebrating our 18th wedding anniversary on Monday, so I'll just take this moment to say that I love this guy more than cashmere, diamonds, and a perfectly cooked steak. Suffice it to say that without the rays of sunshine that literally shoot out of his ass, my life would be dreary indeed.

Two more items:

I suspect that the employees at JoAnn fabrics are part of some undead army of terrible customer service zombies.
In 2009, I intend to find out who keeps putting those community newspapers on my driveway, and I'm going to cuss them out.

Well, that's about it for now. If you made it all the way through this post, go ahead and award yourself 500 bonus points, and have a drink on me.

The Day After

2008-12-26T18:13:00.000-05:00

Well, it’s the day after Christmas, and I’m reasonably sure that I’m the only person in the universe (or the corporate world, which is one of the planets I live on) who’s working today. As proof, I submit the fact that I’ve received three emails in my work inbox: One from Dell, offering special deals on laptops, another from Expedia, offering special deals on travel, and the last was a forwarded joke from a relative. Oh yeah, my company is hopping today.

Anyway, as I mentioned in the previous post, I’m working on knocking out some of my end-of-year objectives, one of which is writing a user manual for a proprietary software system. Forgive me if this doesn’t bring the juices of my passions to a boil. I’m barely managing a simmer over here. Very Barely.

See what this does for you:

To add an evaluation to the profile, navigate to the Evaluations section by either scrolling down, or select “Change View” from the right navigation bar. Once you click “Add Evaluation”, the form will launch, allowing you to document the activity completely and in compliance with best practices.

Oh yeah, this one is a real page-turner. Honestly, I’m thinking of navigating over to Gilly’s, scrolling on over to the pool table, and clicking some billiards with a pool cue.

Holiday Updates

2008-12-26T11:37:00.008-05:00

I'd be remiss if I didn't start this post by wishing you all slightly belated Happy AlcoHol-idays. Yesterday was my one and only day off work, and I've been struggling to finish all my work objectives for the year, hence the belatedness.

That said, yesterday was fantastic. Here at Casa d'Addie, we've eaten, drank, and made merry until we could take no more. I hope your celebrations have been as much fun as ours.

Let me direct your attention to the picture here, which is one of Garrett's gifts to me. I know it's hard to see exactly what this is, but these are four canvases with the same portrait of our departed buddy, Cosmo, rendered in the pop art Andy Warhol style. I intend to hang them in a square, most likely in my bedroom or office, and I couldn't have been more touched by his thoughtful, labor-intensive gift.

Please take a moment to envision me in a red floor length evening gown singing that Salt N Pepa featuring En Vogue classic, What a Man. That's for you, G!

In other news, this was Bruno & Hoover's first Christmas with us, and I think they'll be looking forward to next year. Santa didn't forget to fill their stockings, and he left them each load of toys (Kong Wubba, long Kong tennis ball retriever, and stuffies) and they got a candy-cane shaped rawhide. For dinner they had a whole turkey neck, an apple, and a bite of roast beef, all of which was well-received.

The human boys seemed to enjoy themselves as well, and Santa was pretty good to them, too. Tyler got an Airsoft gun and 20,000 of the little pellets that are the ammo, and Jared enjoyed playing his electric guitar with his new special effects pedal thingie.

Aside from the lovely merchandise, perhaps the highlight of the day was playing Rock Band with the in-laws (which was preceded by loads of liquid refreshment, by the way). There's just something indescribably amazing about watching my MIL sing Hungry Like The Wolf while my FIL played guitar. You truly had to be there, and I wish you had been.

We Have A Winner!

2008-12-19T22:32:00.005-05:00

Congratulations, Alex, and thanks for playing!

Feel free to redeem your bonus points at any participating retailer.

Of course you're ALL winners, but Alex was the first to guess what I call the dog snuggling procedure I described in the previous post.

Dog Language Barrier

2008-12-19T17:00:00.005-05:00

I don’t mean to brag, but let me tell you, I know how to drive dogs wild with insatiable canine affection. Before someone calls the Don’t Molest Your Hound League (aka the DoMoYoHo League), I just mean that the dogs really like this particular thing I do, which I’ll gladly describe so your hounds can also benefit from this technique:

Get on all fours perpendicular to the hound, who has to be standing up for this to work.
Approach the dog, and place the top of your head on the dog’s side so that your head is touching the hound’s ribs.
Now push your head a bit against the dog until he starts leaning on you (you may want to wear one of those whiplash collars or other suitable medical brace if your dog is especially strong), then move your head in a random pattern all over the dog’s side.

Bruno, in particular, LOVES this procedure. He moans, bends into a semicircle, puts his forepaws on my back, his nose drips, he rubs his face on my neck, and generally makes every imaginable gesture of ecstacy. Eventually he just collapses onto the floor and will stare at me for upwards of an hour after we play this game. When I do this with Hoover, Bruno tries to get into the middle of it and will sometimes growl or pout because he’s not the one getting what he considers to be the hottest action in town.

Ok, hound people, I know you’re going to try it, and I hope your dogs like it as much as mine do. I'm also really enjoying picturing it in my mind, to tell the truth.

Here’s my disclaimer: It does occur to me that there may be some special meaning to this in “dog language”. Hopefully I’m not performing some gesture of submission that means, “Bruno, you are my King. Your every whim will be met cheerfully and on the timetable you specify. You’re welcome to sleep on my bed, eat my dinner, and wear my favorite party dress.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ONE MORE THING! - I have a terribly dirty-sounding name for this activity, and I'm offering 1000 bonus points to the first person who posts a comment with a correct guess of the naughty, naughty nomenclature!

The Name Game

2008-12-19T15:36:00.002-05:00

Ok, Ladies & Gents, you may have noticed that I've changed my banner from "Addie-Tude" to "Confessions of a Trophy Wife". Honestly, I think that title has it all: irony, humor, and that perfect tongue-in-cheekiness. Thanks to Jen for the suggestion!

Over the weekend, I'll toy with changing my address too. Of course the URL switch may turn out to be too much of a stretch of my technical skills, so there's a distinct possibility I'll still be right here Monday.

Either way, please stay tuned!

Confessions of a Trophy Wife

2008-12-17T17:50:00.002-05:00

Oh, that is a good title, isn't it? I fear the rest of the post will be less provocative, but please do forge ahead with the reading. After all, how boring could it possibly be?

DON'T ANSWER THAT!

Anyway, I'm not a trophy wife because I'm a six foot Brazilian bikini model; I'm a trophy wife because my husband operates the family business, which is a trophy store. I like being married, so my duties with the business are limited to the province of the facetiously entitled V.P. of HR. What this means is that I'm involved whenever there is an employee issue, or in the event of hiring or firing, and I attend the annual Holiday luncheon.

Now that you better understand my role, here are my confessions.

#1. I dread that holiday luncheon all year. Social skills are not a huge part of the trophy manufacture process, and this is always a two hour showcase of that very fact. Since we had the luncheon today, that's approximately 364 days I have to enjoy before the next one. Yay!

#2. Sorry job applicants...I laugh at your resumes. I have some special resume and cover letter tips that I'll share here.

If you have a rose in the header AND footer of your resume, you'd better be applying for a job at a nail salon.
If your cover letter bears the phrase, "I focus on customer delight", you need to know that it's not that kind of job. Look in the Yellow Pages under "Escort Services".
If your introductory paragraph on either of these documents includes the phrase, "Strong attention to derail", please understand that using spell check doesn't catch every error, and it doesn't qualify as fastidiousness.

#3. The real shocker: I have fake trophies. I have two of them, to be exact, but I suppose I could have as many as I want. One of them is a beautiful acrylic emblazoned with the following:

Addie

State of Georgia

Mud Wrestling Champion

Undefeated 2001-2006

I used to have that one on my desk when I worked in the office, and people always thought it was true, and I'd explain that being shorter was a big advantage because of my low center of gravity, and I'd otherwise b.s. endlessly until I made myself laugh.

The most prestigious award I have was actually built by the boys for Mother's Day. It's a wooden three-post trophy with the figure of a lady holding a bouquet of roses atop a large, glistening cup ornament.

The inscription reads:

World's Best Mom

Ever

I love being a trophy wife.

Seeing Is Believing

2008-12-14T14:54:00.001-05:00

Seriously?

Grant Park Candlelight Tour of Homes

2008-12-14T09:48:00.007-05:00

Yesterday G & I spent the evening with the MIL and FIL in Grant Park (near Oakland Cemetery). We started with dinner at Six Feet Under, a restaurant I recommend highly. The entree I ordered was called The Big Tuna, and it was a rare Ahi tuna steak crusted with sesame seeds atop a bed of steamed spinach, all of which was drizzled with a wasabi dressing. It was, in a word, delightful. My suggestion: order The Big Tuna!

After dinner we headed over to take the Grant Park Candlelight Tour of Homes (for info, you can click the title of this post). In general, the homes on the tour are lovingly restored Craftsman and Victorian jewels, and it's fun to see how tastefully and respectfully the owners have brought back their original beauty and luster.

One notable exception on the current tour is the house pictured here. This house, located on Park Street, is 108 years old and has served as a single family home, a church, and a boarding house, and is now owned by a couple who have been renovating it (in a manner of speaking).

I should preface my review of this place by saying that I'm a purist when it comes to historic preservation. I'd rather see one of the grande dames of the mid-Victorian era fall to graceful ruin than see her disrespected.

That said, this house made me very, very sad. The craftsmanship was horrible, the space planning nonsensical, the loving touch of restoration replaced by tasteless devotion to low-end finishes and furnishings. The sense of history is utterly gone from this place, except for the staircase, which is absolutely spectacular, and a hint at the potential of this structure.

Shame on the AJC for this article. Shame on the homeowners for undertaking a renovation that should have been a restoration. Shame on the Grant Park tour committee for putting this sad monument on the tour.

Muzzles Are A Girl's Best Friend

2008-12-13T22:49:00.000-05:00

Feel free to sing along: A kiss on the hand may be quite continental, but muzzles are a girl's best friend.

I'm serious. Consider the following scenario.

I've just returned from an errand to replace my tires, during which I was gone for about two hours. While I'm away from home I always muzzle the boys, just in case. In case of what, I have no idea, but it just seems like a good idea. As soon as I walked in the door, I let the boys outside for some R & R (Romping & Relieving).

As I'm watching them, I notice that Hoover has assumed his predatory position: standing stock still, staring at something like he's been deep in the bush in 'Nam, tail straight up, totally unresponsive. My first thought is that he's spotted a squirrel or something, then I realize that's not the case at all.

He's staring at Bruno. Poor, innocent Bruno is on the other side of the yard, happily returning the contents of his water bowl to Mother Earth, totally unaware that he is being stalked. As Bruno starts to move, Hoover pounces forward a few yards and freezes again, stirring the leaves as bit in the process. Bruno hears the noise, recognizes the predator/prey dynamic, and apparently decides that he will have none of this game.

Every hair on Bruno's back stood on end as he charged forward before Hoover could even react. Flying across the yard, he took about 6 full strides before throwing his shoulder into Hoover and knocking him into the leaves with a rustling thud.

Mind you, all of this happened within seconds, so by the time I got between them there was enough gnashing of teeth and throaty growls to let me know that without the muzzles, this would have been an emergency vet stitch-a-thon.

Is it any wonder I'm signing that song?

Calling All Plumbers

2008-12-12T22:10:00.005-05:00

Excuse me, do you know what a thermocoupler is? How about a gas control valve? Do you own a variety of wrenches, vice-grips, and maybe even a toolbelt? If you answered yes to these questions, can you come over to my house...right now?

As I mentioned in the earlier complain-a-thon that barely passed as a post, my water heater is busted, broken, and/or beat down in some way. G, in his admirable, self-sufficient way, has decided to attempt to fix it. All by himself. Earlier I thought I smelled gas; turns out it was just testosterone. No need to call the fire department after all (although I do love firemen!).

In the last three hours, he's removed the old thermocoupler, and installed a new one. Throughout the process, he instructed me as a surgeon to a scrub nurse in some old movie, "Flashlight! Q-tips! Mirror!" I was just waiting for him to ask for a 10 blade and forceps when he announced that the thermocoupler was not defective after all.

"It must be the damn gas control valve...damn! Lowe's closes in 30 minutes, you coming with me?". I didn't really want to go, but the question was rhetorical, so off we went.

Once we got to Lowe's, he walked at such a pace that I jogged behind him, and still spent the majority of the trip staring at his back and wondering how he could walk so fast. "It must be that eight inch difference in the old inseam", I thought, making myself giggle with unspoken dirty jokes related to measurements and inseams. Feel free to make up a few of your own before reading on...fun, isn't it?

Upon returning home, G walked through the door and said to Bruno, "Bruno, old buddy, I sure wish you could plumb." To which I quipped, "He sure wishes you could, too." It was not well received by the first audience, so I hope you'll all get more out of it than G did.

In any case, I'll summarize by saying that I've heard more explitives, seen more of G's crack, and fetched more odd household items in the last few hours than you could imagine. After all this, the gas control valve didn't work either, something about the thermal coupling switch, so I guess now we should call the manufacturer on Monday, explain the myriad ways in which we've voided the warranty, and hope they'll still help us.

Well, Viriginia, is there really a Santa Claus? I guess we'll find out Monday.

Updates on Nothing in Particular

2008-12-10T16:49:00.001-05:00

It’s been a slow here on Addie-Tude, I know. Who wants to hear my excuses?

No takers, huh? Good!

In any case, it’s been a busy weekend and a hectic beginning of the week, and I haven’t had too much interesting news to report, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I hereby present my Updates on Nothing in Particular.

The Cell Phone Upgrade: I finally made the determination that it was time to ditch my old pink RAZR cell phone, which I’ve had for several years, so we took a little trip over to the store and picked up a new model, and this time I’m rocking a smaller purple Motorola model. I can’t text message for sh*t on this phone, but I guess it’s a small detail, just don’t send me any text messages, because I can’t figure out how to work what I’m informed is “T9”. T9 really, really blows.

The Greyhound Gala: G and I attended this shindig on Saturday night, and it was a great dinner at Blackstone Steakhouse. We had a great time, and I had a fantastic beef tenderloin and key lime pie, and G had entrée envy after tasting my steak and noting that his prime rib was fattier. Isn’t the definition of prime rib a “plate full of fat”? I throw up in my mouth a little just thinking about it.

Work Stuff: I have a million things to finish before the end of the year, not the least of which is my self-assessment for my performance review. I’d rather gargle broken glass. Things in general have been tense around my virtual water cooler, to the extent that one of my colleagues emailed me to ask if the company offers anger management classes. That about sums it up, folks. Tomorrow I’ll be making a rare appearance at the office for the annual Holiday Potluck and Secret Santa exchange, so let the forced merriment commence!

Holiday Shopping: We made some excellent progress on this front over the weekend, and even went a little nuts buying gifts for the dogs. Somehow a stop at Petsmart for treats spiraled into free-for-all of toy and stocking stuffer purchases that cost way more than it should have. All I can say is that we’re officially crazy dog people, and we should have a couple of happy ho-ho-hounds on our hands on Christmas day.

Assorted Things That Are Harshing My Mellow: Mass hysteria about the economy. Auto Company Bailouts. Cold weather. Skinny jeans. Otto Von Crapp. Sophomore Science Project. Junk mail.

Random Things I’m Liking: Christmas trees. Cheap gas. Firefly Sweet Tea Infused Vodka. Raindrops on roses. Whiskers on kittens. Doorbells and sleigh bells and warm woolen mittens. Just kidding on those last few…I just wanted to get that song stuck in your head.

Did it work?

O' Christmas Tree!

2008-12-05T16:51:00.005-05:00

Behold, if you will, my tinsel Christmas tree, a monument to the sparkly, tacky, mid-century holiday aestethic! I love all things retro when they're done with taste, and some things retro even when they're not (case in point). Don't worry; I have a real tree upstairs for the purists around here.

Anyway, I don't know what it is about mid-century architecture and design that intrigues me so much, but maybe it's just that it brings back a simpler time. A time when a gal could drive a car with fins, have cocktail from a glass that looks like a hollowed-out totem pole, and make a meatloaf while wearing stiletto heels, all while her husband puttered away building a bomb shelter wearing a cardigan and smoking a pipe.

I know, if I get bitch-slapped by a feminist, I totally deserve it. Forgive me, I was heavily into Mad Men last season.

In any case, I love this tree. This year I'm having a bit of trouble maintaining the ornament distribution on the lower branches, though, as you can see by all the baubles lying on the floor. Every time Bruno or Hoover walks by and wags his tail, at least one snowflake or disco ball goes flying. Since this tree is stationed near the main entry of my house, this happens a lot.

I like to think of these ornaments on the floor as a side-effect of hound happiness. Framed that way, it doesn't bother me much, especially after a few of those totem-pole cocktails.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Air Quality Issues

2008-12-04T16:07:00.002-05:00

I’m not sure if you all know just how lucky you are. After all, it’s been over 10 days since I’ve posted a word about what comes out of my hounds’ butts. Well, all good things must come to an end, my friends.

Maybe it’s all the excitement we’ve had around here lately, but these guys have been gassy. I’m inclined to say it’s related to an upset in their routines, because the last time anything this foul assaulted my nostrils was when we first brought Bruno home. Sure, I’ve been feeding them yogurt, but they just keep on letting it rip.

Since I work from home, there’s really no respite from the wicked stank. Hoover’s tush is repeating like a Howitzer, and Bruno’s booty is blowing like Old Faithful. I feel like I’m trapped in a phone booth with the star of “4th Meal Me”, the follow-up documentary to “Supersize Me”, in which someone eats only Taco Bell for a month. Smells like day 29, I’d say.

Seriously, a hot dumpster would smell refreshing in comparison, and I think there’s a hole in the ozone layer forming directly above my house. I’m not sure if this headache is garden-variety or methane poisoning, and I’ve reached the point where my fight or flight response is activated every time I hear that subtle little “pfffftt”. If someone in Atlanta did canine colonics, we’d be the first in line.

Since the yogurt isn’t working, I’m giving this 48 hours and we’re going to the vet. If that doesn’t work, I’m moving out of this stink box. Anybody have a couch to spare?

Vacation Update

2008-12-04T05:38:00.004-05:00

We covered a lot of ground during my time off, and I think I can safely say that we did all we could in the short time we had available. I’ll try to summarize here, but I'll leave some of the juicy details for Mom's blog:

Monday: Mom arrived in the evening, and we took the train up to my house, and then hit the Vintage Pizzeria for calzones. After dinner we watched Dancing With the Stars, and went to bed. Overall, a quiet night by necessity. Mom had flown with Prince Valium and didn’t have much wind left in her sails, if you know what I mean.

Tuesday: Mom & I went to the DeKalb Farmer’s Market (the nice one!) to buy shrimp and sausage to create a low country boil for dinner, since Kevin was scheduled to arrive and had never had one. Kevin finally made it in after sitting on the tarmac for an eternity waiting for a gate into Hartsfield. Isn't traveling a blast? After dinner, we played Rock Band until we could take it no more.

Wednesday: We started our day at 11 in the morning at Wine Styles tasting wines for our Thanksgiving dinner, and settled on a couple of nice bottles. Then we headed over to Psycho Tat2 to get Mom's 70th birthday present, which was a dragonfly tattoo. There was a bit of a wait for the tat, so we swung by Mellow Mushroom for a BBQ chicken pizza, which was probably the best pizza I've ever had, and we dropped by the trophy shop before heading back for the tattoo appointment. Once Mom was inked like a rock star, we went to the Buford Highway Farmer's Market for some Korean dumplings for dinner. After dinner, Mom opened her birthday gifts and we played Texas Hold 'Em and drank Jack Daniels. It was a big day!

Thursday: We cooked, we ate, we played Mexican Train Dominoes.

Friday: G and the guys went and got our Christmas tree, which we then spent several hours erecting and decorating. I'm pretty sure we drank after that, but the details are fuzzy now.

Saturday: We hit the High Museum to see the terracotta soldiers of the Qin dynasty and the selected treasures of the Louvre, both of which were very cool exhibits. Once we were sufficiently cultured, we rolled over to The Vortex for ginormous hamburgers, and Mom flirted with our tall, dark and handsome waiter, showing off her tattoo and saying she just might want to take him home to Arkansas. It's amazing what a Corona Light can do!

Sunday: Kevin started our day off with a feast of homemade biscuits and gravy, home fries, and eggs. I'm pleased to say there's at least one cook in the family, and it was fabulous. After breakfast, Mom, Kevin, and I went up to Jeju, and I'll leave it to Mom to describe that on her blog, since I've pretty thoroughly covered the subject in previous posts. After Jeju, Kevin, G, and I hit the pool hall for some billiards, since Mom was too tired to go. During the billiard play, G took an embarrassing photo of me and accidentally texted it to my HR rep at work instead of the friend for whom it was actually intended. Nice work, G! Keep it up and maybe I can come work with you at the shop...wouldn't that be fun?

Monday: Mom was heading back to Hillbilly Heaven, so we packed her up and took her down to the airport. Later that night, we had dinner and martinis at One Midtown Kitchen. If you're local and love food, I highly recommend it.

Tuesday: Kevin's flight took off early in the afternoon, so we had breakfast, ran to the mall, and then I dropped him off at the train station to go to the airport. I went home and vegged out for the rest of the day, at least until Bruno started blowing oats in the living room. Yay!

Fit to Be Tried

2008-12-03T00:01:00.000-05:00

Ladies, have your boobs started to take a roll? Do your previously-perky sweater puppets mock you by staring downward in a sullen gaze? If you answered “yes” to either of these questions, or you suspect your hooters resemble two tube socks tied together and flung around your neck with a couple of bucks worth of change in the toes, you probably need a bra fitting.

Here’s a shocking statistic for you: fully 85% of us gals are wearing the wrong sized bra. That’s a lot of sagging, bagging, and wagging, wouldn’t you say? Bearing this in mind, I had a bra fitting recently, which I’ll describe now without further ado.

Atlanta’s own Phipps Plaza is the home of Intimacy, a veritable wonderland of sensible foundation garments. In addition to a huge inventory, this place is staffed by loads of matronly ladies with bifocals, discerning eyes, and tape measures. As you enter, you may notice that there’s not a droop in sight as the customers leave the store, in stark contrast to their state as they enter the store. You sign in with a hostess, and she adds your name to the list. When your turn is up, one of the bespectacled matrons calls your name and takes you into one of several fitting rooms, which she enters with you.

My fit specialist, Donna, was the first to speak upon closing the curtain. “Let’s get that top off and see what we’re working with here.” I haven’t dated in a long time, but isn’t it customary to buy a gal dinner first? No matter; I do as I’m instructed, and a visual weighing and measuring process begins.

“What size bra are you wearing now?”, she asks briskly.

“36C”, I reply, judging from her face that this is the wrong answer.

“Um-hmmm. Wait here please.”, as if she needed to tell me to wait there, since my other choice was to streak out of the place topless.

Before I even had time to contemplate the idea, Donna was back with a very business-like nude brassiere. With one hand she unsnapped the bra I was wearing and somehow removed it from my person without time for an objection. Now brandishing the serious-looking nude bra, she swung it in front of me with the following instructions:

“Arms straight out” (whereupon Donna stuck my arms through the straps), “Now bend over like you’re touching your toes” (at which point she uh, arranged my goods into the garment), “Now stand back up straight” (and she fastened the hooks).

Bear in mind that the whole process took about 30 seconds, and I had every expectation that she couldn’t possibly have guessed the correct size without a tape measure. Donna, I’m sorry I ever doubted you, girl. Can you ever forgive me?

Upon standing up, I realized that it fit perfectly. I looked thinner. Taller. Just like those gals leaving the store. It was amazing.

“I’ll take it.”, I said, still shocked at how quickly it had all happened.

“I knew you would”, she said, clearly satisfied. “I’ll get you a few more to try and then we’ll check out. By the way, you’re a 32F.” F as in, I can't Freakin' believe what I'm hearing, or how Flipping Fantastic my Fun bags look!

Ladies, you’ve got to give this a try. The holidays are coming…have you thought about what you’ll give your boobies?

Marketing Genius

2008-12-02T15:33:00.005-05:00

Winter does take its toll on our hands, doesn't it?

I was discussing this with my brother this week, and he suggested his favorite hand cream, the unfortunately-named Hand Relief.

Congratulations to the marketing department at Aveda for devising a product name that makes dry skin care sound dirty.

Bravo!

From the Top

2008-12-02T12:30:00.007-05:00

Now that I'm working my way back into the swing of things after my visit with Mom & Kevin, it's time to start blogging about the experiences of the last nine days, and I'll start from the top...literally.

As you may know, I made the terribly ill-advised decision to "temporarily" dye my hair black to lend authenticity to my Halloween costume. After the gothic hue failed to wash out after the prescribed number of shampoos, it became clear that I'd have to either start listening to 9 Inch Nails (again) and shopping at Hot Topic, or I'd have to engage the help of professionals. I chose the latter, and rolled to the hairdresser last Monday morning.

After explaining my hair color indiscretion, I was informed that I had two choices: they could either bleach my entire head and then apply a corrective color (whereupon my hair might fall out), or they could try to apply some highlights (which would be unlikely to cause all-over baldness). After considering the excellent choices presented, I went with the highlights, which I've never had before, chiefly because I don't care for striped hair.

In any case, Sheila agreed that highlights were the way to go, and returned shortly bearing an ominously large bowl of a substance resembling the scouring powder slurry we used in the Army to clean grout. Although my head was swimming with fear and the smell of the Clorox paste, I noted that she also carried a box of foil strips and a brush suitable for basting a ham. After unpacking her implements and cheerfully warning me again that the highlighted strips might "fall out", she set to work applying the paste to tiny sections of hair and covering those sections with foil until I looked like the aforementioned ham.

Once my entire head was hammed out, I was left to sit. For almost an hour. As it turns out, this was ample time to notice that all the hairdressers in this salon were frosted and tipped to within an inch of their lives. It was also time enough to notice that this salon also lacked the requisite rocker-chick stylist, and was completely devoid of gay men. What kind of place was this? Was this even a real hair salon? These questions frightened me badly, but it was really too late to run screaming into the parking lot.

After 2 1/2 hours of foiling, defoiling, washing, re-coloring the bleached streaks, moussing, blowing dry and about half a can of hairspray, I emerged looking like a striped version of Marlo Thomas from That Girl, complete with a flip that swooped, defiant of gravity, from my head approximately six inches. Since my hair no longer looked like it had been styled with boot-black, and none of it had fallen out, I was thrilled, no matter how silly my new 'do.

Behold the power of lowered expectations!

The Tupperware Caper

2008-11-28T13:09:00.001-05:00

I know I have an innocent face, but my MIL has apparently seen right through my otherwise-convincing facade, and has divined that I am a Tupperware-stealer. Even I didn't realize that this numbers amongst my other considerable flaws.

Allow me to direct your attention to the picture for a moment. What you see is apparently a very precious artifact suitable for display in the Smithsonian's Food Storage section. Perhaps you'll see it yourself in person some day. Note the rare Harvest Gold bowl topped with the Dusty Rose "burping" lid. Indeed, it is a remarkable specimen, and yes, I had it in my kitchen.

You're probably wondering how I came to obtain this amazing objet d'art, so I'll explain. On the Sunday following my FIL's big surprise party, we all rolled on down south of town to Maison d'Inlaws for a barbecue. So abundant were the side dishes that I was asked if I'd like to take some home for the kids to eat, and I was pleased to pack up some of the grub. I took some cole slaw in an old Cool Whip container, a cold spaghetti salad in an old sherbet tub, and some baked beans in the much-admired non-disposable Tupperware bowl.

Fast-forward to Thursday. G went to have lunch with his Mom and Grandma (who's visiting from Denver). During the lunch, he was admonished thusly by the MIL:

"Make sure Adrienne gives me my Tupperware back."

Take note, bloggers. I am not to be trusted with food-storage containers. I was so miffed when I heard this that if we hadn't been scheduled to spend Friday evening with Grandma (a perfect opportunity to return the heirloom), I would have FedExed it to her.

On Friday, what do you think was the 1st thing my MIL asked G?

"Did Adrienne bring my Tupperware back?" In case you're wondering, I was standing right there.

As butt-clenchingly irritating as the whole thing has been, at least it makes her Christmas present buying a cinch. You guessed it: Tupperware!

Happy Thanksgiving to You All

2008-11-27T08:26:00.003-05:00

Before I start freaking out over the food preparation so integral to the day's gratitude acknowledgment banquet, I'm permitting myself a quick post to thank you all for the fun, education, and entertainment we've shared these last months.

I really mean it. Thank you and Happy Thanksgiving!

Addie

PS - I'll have lots of things to share when things slow down a bit around my house. I got my hair color corrected (well, sort of), had a bra fitting, went in 1/2 for a tattoo for Mom's 70th birthday (pictures will be posted!), and more.

A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Radical

2008-11-26T05:13:00.003-05:00

I’ll admit this up-front: I’m not really a little bit country, but I can't resist a moderately well-crafted Donnie & Marie reference. I am, however, a little bit radical, as I’ll explain in painful detail below. Quick, get the Motrin!

I thought up the idea for this post on Saturday as I was on my way to Whole Foods to buy my Tea Tree Oil and Cinnamon toothpaste, which is fluoride free…on purpose. I know several people who think I’m off my rocker for not wanting to max out on this chemical, which we’ve all been brought up to believe is so good for our teeth. Besides, the government is supposed to take care of us, right? Or is that right?

Since being diagnosed with Meniere’s Disease a few years back, I’ve started to really question what’s in my food and the products I use daily. The reason those things are connected is because managing this condition is easy, but it requires careful control of sodium. If you’re even a little alert, you can easily find millions of ways that seemingly normal foods are smacked full of the stuff. For example, chicken that is packaged with the encouraging fine-print “Enhanced With Broth!” is really chicken that someone has shot full of salt water to up the weight and thus, the price, and inadvertly, the sodium. Tricky, tricky!

As I’ve worked to manage this condition, I’ve also begun to question other “normal” “enhancements” that are made to the things we consume, and fluoride is one of those things. I won’t go into all the details here, but I do submit a few things for your consideration:

The studies linking fluoride consumption to dental health that are the basis for municipal water fluoridation were conducted in the 1940’s, and although longitudinal studies haven’t borne out the efficacy of this addition, fluoridation has persisted.

Why? It’s clear, if you ask me.

Fluoride is an industrial by-product. The companies that produce this by-product would have to dispose of it in compliance with EPA regulations if they were not able to sell it (yes, SELL it) to municipalities to dump into the water. Those companies have deep pockets, deep pockets lead to lobbyists, lobbyists lead to questionable policies that may or may not be good for you.

While these are valid arguments, what bothers me most is the brainwashing and compulsory nature of the whole thing. In essence, fluoridation is medication without consent. If I drink the same amount of water was G does, then the concentrations in my body will be higher than the concentration in his body by dint of size alone. What if I want to drink water that only has water in it?

There is no other situation I can think of, apart from the military, where Americans who are in complete possession of all their faculties can be made to take a medication or ingest a chemical. The fact that no one questions it is even scarier. It would be outrageous if the government decided that statin drugs are good for heart health, so our water supply will henceforth be loaded up with Lipitor, wouldn't it?

So now you know; I’m a little bit radical and have some kooky thoughts rolling around in my head. Besides, that Tea Tree Oil & Cinnamon toothpaste tastes amazing and has the consistency of tub caulk, which is surprisingly agreeable. Being radical doesn’t have to be unpleasant, after all.

Retarded Grandparents

2008-11-25T06:54:00.000-05:00

Someone sent this email to me, and I thought it was too cute not to share.

After Christmas, a teacher asked her young students how they spent their holiday away from school. One child wrote the following:

We always used to spend the holidays with Grandma and Grandpa. They used to live in a big brick house but Grandpa got retarded and they moved to Florida. Now they live in a tin box and have rocks painted green to look like grass. They ride around on their bicycles and wear name tags because they don't know who they are anymore.

They go to a building called a wreck center, but they must have got it fixed because it is all okay now. They do exercises there, but they don't do them very well. There is a swimming pool too, but all they do is jump up and down in it with hats on.

At their gate, there is a doll house with a little old man sitting in it. He watches all day so nobody can escape. Sometimes they sneak out, and go cruising in their golf carts.

Nobody there cooks, they just eat out. And, they eat the same thing every night --- early birds. Some of the people can't get out past the man in the doll house. The ones who do get out, bring food back to the wrecked center for pot luck instead of birds.

My Grandma says that Grandpa worked all his life to earn his retardment and says I should work hard so I can be retarded someday too. When I earn my retardment, I want to be the man in the doll house. Then I will let people out, so they can visit their grandchildren.

The Dog Doo Detective

2008-11-24T06:17:00.002-05:00

Warning: This is a hard-hitting post about dog poo. If you do not want to read about dog poo, I don't blame you, and I won't know if you just sneak out of here.

Go ahead...I'm not looking! For those of you who stayed...

I have a variety of uneviable jobs around the house, including:

Grocery Getter - Responsible for the eats of all humans and hounds.
Toilet Paper Replacer - Who else is going to do it?
Uni-Brow Separator - Because only Frida can pull off that look.
Ear Hair Trimmer - 'Nuff said.
Toenail Dremmeler - If only I could train the dogs to do this themselves!
and yes, Dog Doo Detective.

Believe it or not, I assumed this duty/doody by choice, because I think the quality and quantity of a dog's, uh, output says a lot about the state of the dog. It also tells me how I need to adjust his diet. Before I go explain, let's all pause a moment to reflect on how happy we are that there's no picture to accompany this post. You're welcome, my friends.

Constipation - It's time to whip out the plain canned pumpkin. No dog-inclusive family should be without this in the cupboard, if you ask me.
Too Small - More veggie mix to add some bulk.
Too Hard - Add more fatty meats.
Too Loose - (I actually haven't run across this yet). Assuming worms weren't the cause, which I'd want to rule out, I'd probably do more necks and let the lean meaty bones do their work.
The Big D - Cooked chicken and rice is the ticket for this, and I need to pick up a few cans to keep next to my emergency pumpkin, because you never know when this one might hit!
Last but certainly not least - Ribbon-Poo - The name says it all, and if you see this variety, it's time to check those glands or roll to the vet. Greyhounds aren't prone to anal gland problems, but better safe than sorry.

If you've read all of this, congratulations. You just might be a Dog Doo Detective, yourself.

Pez Dispenser Time Machine

2008-11-22T10:25:00.006-05:00

What a kooky title...I'm seriously proud of myself!

As you probably know, I'll be having company for Turkey Day, beginning on Monday. Even though that's the case, I'd hate to leave the ol' blog dry heaving until my return, so I'm implementing the Pez Dispenser Time Machine concept. Starting...NOW!

What this means is that every post you'll be reading over the next week or so will be written in advance and dispensed automatically using the publishing options feature. I actually prefer to think of this as a virtual time machine powered by the magical energy of unicorns and fairy-dusted pink electrons, but you're free to envision it in a more practical way, of course.

However you choose to imagine it, please stay tuned for such topics as:

The Dog Doo Detective

That Darn Dickens!

The Tupperware Caper...and more!

Of course I'll try to sneak in some real-time posts, too, just to keep things in context, but either way, you won't be lacking in your Vitamin A.

Pushing My Buttons

2008-11-20T17:45:00.007-05:00

After almost 18 years of marriage, G does know how to push my buttons, and sometimes he even does so without knowing it. A good example of this took place on our way home from the SEGC meeting on Wednesday night.

As I've blogged previously, I hate when people point out that I am glue-stick white from my scalp to the tips of my toes. Be that as it may, we had the following conversation in the car.

Him: "You look super-freakin' white tonight. Extra white."

Me, not hiding my irritation well: "What are you talking about?"

Him: "You know, you look like an extra from that vampire movie, you know the one, Talking to The Vampire."

Me: "I think you mean Interview With a Vampire."

Him: "Yeah, that's it...maybe it's the hair."

How am I insulted? Let me count the ways!

1. I know I'm white. In case you're wondering, I'll still be pale tomorrow. And basically every tomorrow forever.

2. I'd like to think that if I had been cast for such a movie, I'd at least get a speaking part and not be an extra.

3. I know the black hair is a disaster...does he have to keep reminding me?

4. Last but not least: Talking to the Vampire? Really? Maybe G knows something I don't know, like maybe that was Anne Rice's working title for the book, or not...because that title STINKS!

Since I'm grievously insulted by the whole thing, I'll also take this opportunity to debunk another one of G's illusions: it's not flan & gypsum, it's flotsam & jetsam.

Addicted to Wordles

2008-11-20T12:35:00.001-05:00

Yes, I know I've "wordled" before, but I just can't help doing it again. Since the wordle is based on how many times certain words are used in your blog, it's an ever-changing kaleidoscope of linguistic frequency algorithms. Just kidding...it's just fun, ok?

If you want to create your own, the title of this post links to the site that does all the work for you. By the way, the name of the font shown above is "Loved by the King". Well, G, I guess that would be you!

Six More Things

2008-11-19T16:22:00.005-05:00

Ah, memories…remember the last meme we had? Since the Six Things People Don’t Know About Me was so much fun, I’m reviving the concept with Six Things I’d Change If Money Were No Object.

In case you’re not familiar with the meme concept, here’s a definition: a blog meme is a question or topic that’s started by one person, who then “tags” other bloggers to answer the same question or address the same topic. The people tagged by the first person then tags others. It’s a form of viral fun that would never have been possible if Al Gore hadn’t invented the internet. Thanks, Al!

Without further ado, here are my Six Things I’d Change If Money Were No Object.

1. I’d quit my job, and I’d do it with style. Since I have all the cash I need in this scenario, I’d invest in a flamboyant pink rhinestone pantsuit such as might be worn by the love child of Liberace and Dolly Parton, and I’d top it off with a red beehive wig with a white cowgirl hat perched atop. Even though I hate to fly, I’d get a first-class ticket and limo service to the corporate office, and I’d sashay up to the executive suite, belt out a rousing rendition of Take This Job and Shove It, tender my resignation letter out of my décolleté, shout “Kiss My Grits” a la Flo from Mel’s Diner, and I’d mosey on out the door. I hate to think what I might do if I didn't like my job.

2. I'd convince G to sell the business. Without our pesky money-garnering activities, we could pal around together endlessly. We'd spend our time helping with greyhound rescue, taking classes like cooking and welding and whatever suited us, and we'd shop and travel and have loads of laughs.

3. The cars would be next to go. First, I'd get rid of Otto VonCrapp (my car), and I'd replace him with a 1964 Ford Falcon Futura convertible. I'd get G a '65 Mustang Fastback coupe with pony interiors, or a Shelby Cobra. We'd also get some kind of tricked out hybrid SUV for road trips and dog hauling, but I haven't given that nearly the daydream time I've devoted to the muscle cars, so the details are sketchy.

4. Home renovations! Once we had a ton of free time and sweet wheels, I'd have all the things done to my house we've discussed since we bought the place, which includes landscaping, replacing the driveway, having the exterior stairs redone, rewiring the electrical system, new plumbing, and a new workshop for G's hobby of making furniture.

5. From the vanity file, I'd have a little work done. Suffice it to say that I'd no longer have more chins than a Chinese phonebook. Oh, what a happy day that would be!

6. Finally, I'd take the boys on trips to far-flung exotic locales. We'd try to speak the language, eat the local cuisine, and see the sights. I'd document it all in as funny a way possible in my book A Broad's Adventures Abroad, which I have yet to pitch to an agent, but I've got plenty of time for that.

Thanks for reading...now it's your turn! I hereby tag Mom, Alex, Jen, Stephen, Maria, and Zan.

Another Special Day

2008-11-18T13:42:00.005-05:00

The past week has been a birthday fandango around here, and today is no exception as I wish my boy Bruno a Happy 5th Birthday. Bruno, formerly known as Butterfly Flight, was the most successful racer in his litter of six, and ran 137 races, winning 15 and placing 2nd in 26. Butterfly Flight was a standout as a racer, and I’m proud of his professional accomplishments.

As successful as he was at the track, Bruno really hit his stride as a friend and companion for our family. We chose him specifically because he was so gentle with our elderly dog Cosmo, and he even allowed the old gent to walk right under him when we first met in January. He was a perfect companion for Cosmo during his last days, and a great comfort when the Cos left us, following us from room to room, always ready to offer a lean or lay his head on our laps.

Wonderfully laid-back and calm, he’s a great Ambassadog at Meet & Greets, and his striking good looks never fail to attract some attention. On the other hand, he’s very protective of his home and family, and is part of that rare fraternity of the guard-dog greyhound. I won’t soon forget the day I let him into the back yard not knowing Mark the exterminator was out there; I heard the most alarming barking and growling and found that Bruno had Mark cornered and cowering against the house. As laid-back as he is, Bruno is no pushover, something I can’t help respecting.

Of course Bruno has my love as well as my respect, and it’s really his gentle heart and sweetness that I love most. As my introduction to this wonderful breed, I’d never hesitate to add another retired racer to my family, and it’s because of Bruno that we adopted Hoover to complete our family.

Happy Birthday, Mr. B., you’ll always be a champion to us!

My Co-Workers

2008-11-17T12:16:00.005-05:00

One of the distinct perks of the virtual office is the ability to choose your own office mates, rather than having that decision made by some uncaring, remote hiring authority. My colleagues don't gossip by the water cooler, stink the place up by microwaving garlic-laden frozen entrees, or steal my pens. I submit this picture as proof of their impeccable professional behavior in the office.

The guest bed is behind my computer desk in my office, and this is how Bruno & Hoover pass the time while I'm working. Note that a collar is all that's required to be in compliance with my business casual dress code. For the dogs, that is.

Weekend Update

2008-11-17T08:18:00.001-05:00

This has been a helluva weekend and a bit of a long one, hence the lack of postings. Heneater be damned, I’m back!

I’m starting with Thursday, which probably included the funniest moment of the week. Because we’re having company over the next few weeks, we decided to engage a house cleaning service to cut down on the preparations. It was awkward, to say the least, since I’ve never had this sort of service and I was working from my home office downstairs while the cleaners were working on the upstairs. During the process, I could hear the ladies chatting through the vents, which was fine, except that at one point I heard one of them say, “Ewwww gross!”. I often think that myself while cleaning, but I have to wonder what, exactly, they had found that was so disgusting. It was mortifying and funny at the same time.

Friday I took the day off because Garrett’s sister Kris and her kids were set to arrive mid-afternoon, and I wanted to run some errands and buy some groceries. As I was making my appointed rounds, I gave myself a terrible headache singing Total Eclipse of the Heart in the car. As if I’ve ever lived in a powder keg, much less gave off sparks. Ridiculous!

Saturday’s party for the FIL went off without a hitch, and he was completely surprised. We had family from as far as Denver, Dallas, and Mobile who came in for the shindig, but still we managed to catch him unawares. The surprise was almost spoiled in the morning, though, as G’s other two sisters were shopping at CVS when my FIL actually entered the store to make a purchase of his own, causing the sisters to have to crouch in the back of the store until he left. Close call, indeed.

On the subject of the other two sisters, they each brought their men with them on the trip. Kendra’s fiancé seems to be a nice, down-to-earth sort of fellow, so I’m glad for the two of them. Kayla, who is 25, is dating a man who appears to be in his late 40’s, and who is also clearly, obviously, and apparently gay. Although I’m not the only one who made this observation, I take full responsibility for it, and I’m prepared to stand by it until such time as we catch him in the arms of another man or hear him singing the soundtrack of Rent. I’m just sayin’.

On another note, Mom celebrated her 70th birthday yesterday, prompting an in-depth discussion on the difference between the terms: old vs. antique, used vs. vintage. I much prefer antique and vintage, don’t you? Happy Birthday, Mom!

All in all, a successful weekend. As I mentioned last week, the fence is moving right along, with the two sides essentially complete. Complete enough that the dogs can’t escape, which is paramount. Hooray, G!

This week promises yet more fun an excitement as we prepare for Mom and Kevin to make the scene at our casa. In the meantime, have a groovy week!

Unflattering Word Verification

2008-11-12T17:14:00.005-05:00

All I wanted to do is post an innocent comment on a blog, and I was unfairly confronted with what I consider to be a mildly insulting word verification.

"heneater"...is that all you've got? Is this supposed to hurt my feelings?

Here's the deal, Blogger: if I get a word verification that says "hamface" or "meatbutt", I'm out of here. Fair warning!

Ikea & Ding Dongs

2008-11-12T08:04:00.007-05:00

Last night's agenda included lots of errands, starting with a trip to Ikea. While G loves Ikea, I have a love/hate relationship with this Swedish-flat-pack-megastore. I'll start with the bad news:

The Hate:

The whole experience is a hassle, from the parking lot to the maze-like layout, to the checkouts.

It's virtually impossible to go there without buying something that wasn't on the list, and I always spend more than I'd planned.

The Love:

I can buy cheap glasses and plates, so that I don't freak out when one gets broken or chipped.

Candles - ridiculously cheap.

An unrivaled selection of organizational buckets.

A pretty decent cafeteria that offers a delicious mozzarella, red pepper, and basil focaccia sandwich.

Last night, as I was enjoying the aforementioned focaccia sandwich at the Ikeateria, Jared piped up and said, "Well, I found out today that I can put a whole Ding Dong in my mouth.".

After the moment of silence that normally follows such an ambiguous declaration, I asked, "You can put what in your mouth?".

"A Ding Dong...Mom, it's a little chocolate cake! Geez!"

Like it's my fault I didn't know what he meant. You should have seen the Argyle sweater he was wearing.

Find the Hound

2008-11-10T21:30:00.007-05:00

Can you find the hound?

Still don't see him?

Brindle is good camoflage, isn't it?

Springtime Fresh Improvisation

2008-11-10T08:21:00.001-05:00

As we all know, I work from my home office and I love it.

What’s not so great is that the bathroom outside my office is the main can used by the kids, and they are responsible for cleaning and stocking it. Needless to say, sometimes it just doesn’t happen, and I’m waiting for the Skankville Texaco to call and tell me they want their bathroom back.

That’s not the worst of it.

So I go to use the bathroom and I’m chagrined to find that there’s no toilet paper (I noticed this too late, of course). Great…now what?

Oh, I know, Kleenex! Um, there’s no box in here, either. What is this, a 3rd world country? This just keeps getting better and better.

Ok, let’s look in the trash can. Candy wrappers…nope! Soda can…no wonder I’ve seen ants down here. Tissue that someone’s already blown his nose on…last resort, we’ll set it aside.

And then, like a beacon of hope, I spied my savior in the bottom of the trash can – a used dryer sheet. This is no way to start a day, I’m telling ya.

Weekend Update

2008-11-09T20:03:00.002-05:00

As we’re edging ever closer to the upcoming family get-togethers, the to-do lists are growing accordingly. While I’ve failed miserably at finding a wagon wheel that was apparently critical for the décor, I’ve made some progress in my concept for the tablescapes. You read that right; I said tablescapes, which is solid proof that I’m really a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. Add to that evidence the George Michael CD’s, and it’s an iron-clad case. Guilty as charged.

Be that as it may, I’m not sure how that squares with an important epiphany I had on Saturday while G was watching some old Dirty Harry movie: Clint Eastwood was HOT in his prime. Seriously hot, people. If Young Clint showed up on my doorstep tomorrow, I can’t promise that I wouldn’t hook up with him while G sat on the bed crying. Hey, it was Billy Joel who said that honesty is such a lonely word!

Otto VonCrapp (my new name for my car) seems to be doing pretty well at the moment thanks to the mad man-skills of G and T, who have replaced my rear brakes. I’m not sure what else they did to Otto, but he’s really running well. Knock wood, throw salt over your shoulder, and clutch the pearls, please.

On the topic of man-skills, the erection of the fence is going very well, thanks to hours in the yard, power tools, lots of colorful language, and enough wood and concrete to encase a pod of killer whales. At least one side, if not two, will be complete in time for the next weekend update. It would have been done today, but we had plans this afternoon.

That’s right…today G & I rolled to the adoption kennel in Acworth to help bathe a new batch of hounds who’ve just retired from racing. It’s a beautiful group of hounds, and we had a ‘crack squad’ of bathers today, rolling through those baths in no time. Seriously, as sweet and patient as these guys and gals were, I doubt they’ll last long at the kennel.

I have one happy tid-bit to wrap up the weekend update. You’ll be pleased to know that Cal, the manorexic child discussed in the post below, actually ate something at my house on Saturday night. One grilled chicken tender wrapped in an X-Treme Fiber tortilla, to be exact. I wish he’d have eaten more chicken, but glad he showed restraint on those tortillas. More than one of those and your colon is guaranteed to spew like Vesuvius. I’ll leave you with that happy thought.

Have a great week!

Situation-Specific Manorexia Nervosa

2008-11-08T15:51:00.000-05:00

Jared and Tyler have some really great friends, so we're very lucky in this regard. The way I see it, we're also lucky that hardly a weekend goes by that doesn't include one of more of these great guys sleeping in the basement and making themselves at home. They play video games, watch movies, and eat ridiculous amounts of food.

The one notable exception is Jared's pal Cal. Cal never eats anything.

Not because he doesn't eat in general, because I'm sure he does. He's a tall fellow with enormous feet and a Varsity football letter. I should say he never eats anything at my house, because he normally noshes on rice cakes and turkey breast and drinks soy milk, none of which normally make it to my grocery list. Given enough notice of his arrival, I could stock up on these items, but the visits are usually pretty spontaneous. Since he eats in general but not at my house, I have coined the name of a new disorder...Situation-Specific Manorexia Nervosa. I added the "Nervosa" for myself, because it makes me so damn nervous.

Yes, folks, that's what I do with that expensive partial doctorate in Clinical Psychology...I make up fake disorders to describe teenage behavior. As if all teenage behavior isn't at least a little bit strange.

A Human Confession

2008-11-08T07:22:00.001-05:00

There have been a lot of canine apologies, partial acceptances, and confessions swirling around the blog ring this week. I thought I might mix it up a bit with a human confession, so here goes...

I am obsessed with my ClustrMap. Totally.

It's like unwrapping a Christmas present every day when I look to see where my visitors live, and it's a steady source of curiosity. For example, I don't know anyone who lives in the Pacific Northwest, but I have a big dot there. Is it the same person who's visited several times, or several people who've visited once? Come on, Mystery Dot, reveal yourself!

I also really enjoy speculating about the far-flung, international dots. I can't help but wonder what someone in South Korea, Bulgaria, or Rio de Janiero would think about the strange things I post here. Note to Self: Try not to cause an international incident.

How about you...have you checked your ClustrMap today?

Let The Drama Begin

2008-11-07T16:47:00.004-05:00

I promised you all some drama and irritation around the occasion of my father-in-law’s surprise 60th birthday party, which is scheduled for Saturday the 15th, and I like to think I’m a woman of my word.

G, the kids and I are on the “Ambiance Committee” of this soiree, which will be taking place in a big meeting room at the in-laws’ church. The theme is old-timey cowboys and cowgirls a la Roy Rogers & Dale Evans, which should be fun.

Of course G takes his responsibility to the ambiance very seriously, as he does with all his endeavors. In keeping with the gravity of his position, Wednesday he went down to the church to meet his Mom to survey the room and plan all the knick-knackery that will fill the space with country and western je ne sais quoi.

During this meeting, she cautioned him that he’s not allowed to affix anything to the walls or otherwise cause any damage. The first time she warned him about it was sufficient. The second time it was patronizing. The third time he had a minor stroke. When she sent him an email containing the same admonition, he responded as shown below:

Mother - You can assure everyone that I have no intention of affixing, attaching, leaning anything against or otherwise touching the walls. I can also put the boys on an armed watch and establish a barbed wire perimeter to insure no party participants touch the walls.

Care to wager about how many more wall-related warnings he’ll receive?

Vote For First Pet

2008-11-07T12:37:00.002-05:00

As you may be aware, President-Elect Obama has promised his daughters a dog. Please click the link in the title to vote Greyhound for First Pet. I love the idea of greyhounds getting this kind of recognition. If you've seen the Barney Cam Holiday videos, you can probably imagine how much faster a greyhound could give us a tour! Or we might only see one room if the First Hound felt like staying on the sofa.

Either way, let's all cast our ballots one more time this week. Democracy marches on!

Bite Me

2008-11-05T14:58:00.001-05:00

I’m sure we’ve all seen or experienced that old practical joke wherein someone puts a “Kick Me” sign on someone else’s back. It’s a real gem, isn’t it?

I don’t know what it is about Hoover, but it’s almost as if he’s wearing a sign that says, “Bite Me” that only dogs can read. It must be something subtle in his body language that I’m not picking up on, because I’ve seen him nipped at by dogs in a variety of situations.

Even Bruno bit him on Monday during a hot pursuit after a squirrel in the yard. They were outside eating their dinner, so they weren’t muzzled, and my best guess is that Hoover must have bumped into Bruno while they pursued the squirrel, and that’s when it got ugly. I really couldn’t tell what happened as I shot across the yard toward the two of them, but the end result was two small bites: one on Hoover’s face, the other on his behind (the indignity!). To Bruno’s credit, he did stop immediately and cowered when I charged across the lawn yelling, “Bruno! Done!”. He was in trouble, and he knew it, but that was a small consolation to Hoover, I’m afraid.

Poor Hoover is just the sweetest, goofiest dog you could imagine, so it does bother me when he’s on the receiving end of nips and bites. He’s like that kid in elementary school who would eat paste or pick his nose; he’s just seems like such an easy target, I guess.

The Kind Stranger

2008-11-05T08:41:00.004-05:00

Many thanks to the One Minute Writer for suggesting the subject of this post. The prompt for today is "Write about something nice a stranger did for you".

Last year G & I celebrated our 17th anniversary in Denver as we were visiting relatives for Christmas, and he gave me a very unusual and lovely silver bracelet. The next day, which was a Saturday, we went to a brewery tour in the distant mountains, and I couldn't resist wearing the bracelet. We had a great time on the tour, but I realized that the bracelet was missing when we returned to Aunt Heather's and Uncle Clay's house. We searched high and low in the car and the house, and we retraced my steps, to no avail. I must have lost the bracelet on the brewery tour, but there was no time to find out; our flight was departing on Sunday.

On Monday I called the brewery and they said that a woman had left her phone number and stated that she'd found a beautiful silver bracelet. I called the number, and spoke to this woman (who had also been on vacation from Chicago) and told her the story of why the bracelet was so meaningful to me. We laughed, I cried, and we exchanged information. I received the bracelet in the mail soon thereafter, carefully wrapped in tissue with a note that said, "Happy Anniversary - Again!".

A Little Suggestion

2008-11-03T11:53:00.003-05:00

Please excuse this interruption of our regularly-scheduled frivolity. Once total mind-control has been achieved, you will be returned to your regular lives. Although you will feel compelled to do exactly as I command, you will be totally unaware of the suggestion imparted in this post.

Imagine yourself for a moment in a happy, warm, and comfortable place such as a book store or public library. You notice that you are very relaxed, and a bit sleepy in this environment. All around you, you notice people are reading Fair Tax: The Truth by Neal Boortz, and they are smiling contentedly as they begin to understand the simple principles. As you read this, you will notice that you're becoming more sleepy by the moment. Your eyelids are becoming heavier and heavier, and as you drift off into a twilight state, your singleminded intention is to learn all you can about the Fair Tax. You must educate yourself about the Fair Tax. The Fair Tax is your friend. Take a few moments to revel in your new sense of closeness with the Fair Tax.

Now you will begin returning to the present time and place. As your consciousness reawakens to your physical environment, you may feel compelled to read and explore some new ideas. This is a healthy response and such inpulses should be heeded as soon as possible.

You're welcome.

Weekend Update

2008-11-02T23:14:00.003-05:00

Well, the weekend is drawing to a close with a few news items and updates:

The Cell Phone Sabbath was a partial success, with only one instance of voicemail checking. Not bad for a hardcore addict, if you ask me. Maybe next Sunday will be more successful.

In other news, my Mom started her very own blog this weekend. Hillbilly Heaven is now the worldwide web’s home for her musings on scrapbooking, animals, and who knows what else. Welcome to the blogosphere, Mommarino!

Back here at my house, G got the car up and running. He replaced the battery (again!), said the magic chant 52 times while walking backwards in a circle carrying a candle, and he sacrificed a goat. Ok, not all of that is true, but I had you going, didn’t I?

G and the boys worked on the post holes for the new fence today and they dug lots of drainage trenches using a preposterous-looking gas-powered auger. Viva testosterone!

We found out on Saturday that our neighbors on one side are oddly attached to the 4 foot chain-link fence separating our yards, and they object to the erection of the lovely wooden privacy fence my menfolk will be installing soon. This requires a wholesale scrapping of our original plan, and will force us to lose about 2 feet of real estate to allow them to keep that hideous relic. Strange indeed.

In an incredible feat, we remembered to reset all of our clocks, avoiding our usual “spring forward, fall back” confusion. Now if I can figure out how to set the clock on the new microwave, I’ll be kickin’ like kung fu.

Finally, I got to use the word “erection” in a post. All in all, a good weekend.

Cell Phone Sabbath

2008-11-02T08:06:00.002-05:00

Maybe I'm the only person who feels this way, but I suspect I'm not. My cell phone drives me crazy.

Not because I don't want to talk to my friends and family, because that's not the case. It's just that the damn thing rings incessantly. Sure, it's convenient to be able to call home from the grocery store and find out whether or not we're out of sour cream, but is it really necessary to be so in touch all the time?

I suspect this is just some kind of masochistic digital-age addiction, and I intend to find out. I've turned my phone off as of sundown yesterday, and I'm leaving it off until 8:00am Monday. For crying out loud, I'm a corporate trainer, not a brain surgeon who needs to be on call. I can be out of touch for36 hours or so.

At least I think I can.

Hot Sweaty Meatball

2008-11-01T15:06:00.001-04:00

G wears those contact lenses that are meant to be left in for a month, and they're great. Once he has them in, he can totally forget them, which is both the best and the worst feature.

Since he started wearing these contacts, he has not once remembered to remove them on time. About every two months, he wakes up one morning with debilitating pain and at least one eye that's bulging, throbbing, and feels like a "hot sweaty meatball". When this happens, he has to remove the lenses and "go commando" with no vision correction for a day or so, which in and of itself is a huge safety issue.

He won't get Lasik, he won't wear glasses, and he won't change these contacts on time. I'm not his Mother, and I don't want to be. At the same time, I don't want him to lose an eye over his carelessness. To nag, or not to nag, that is the question.

Keeping It Real

2008-11-01T08:49:00.003-04:00

Now that my kids are older, Halloween is a different experience. When the kids were younger, we were all wrapped up in carving pumpkins, creating costumes, and trick-or-treating. Everyone was involved, and it was a big deal. This year, G was out making deliveries until about 9pm, Jared went to the football game, and Tyler took off to trick-or-treat with his friends, which left me and the dogs to greet the ghouls and goblins. It was kind of a drag, but I stationed myself by the door with some vodka, a peanut butter sandwich, my laptop, and my candy bucket.

Suddenly, there's a knock at the door, and it was the Bosslady and her good pal Vanessa. Noticing that I was not only alone, but also watching HGTV and reading blog comments, the Bosslady (who can be relied on for keeping it real) said, "Addie, you're like a drag-queen shut-in with your HGTV and your blog on Halloween!"

I wonder what she would have thought if she'd seen me washing down my peanut butter sandwich with vodka tonics?

Happy Halloween!

2008-10-31T15:32:00.000-04:00

A cabbie picks up a Nun. She gets into the cab, and notices that the VERY handsome cab driver won't stop staring at her.

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."

A Slow News Week

2008-10-30T05:09:00.002-04:00

It's been another slow news week for the blog, so I'm sharing this picture that never fails to make me laugh. If you sing that old Anita Ward disco song Ring My Bell, it makes it even better.

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!

The Naughty Hat

2008-10-29T08:08:00.005-04:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, I know it will be hard to believe that the angel pictured here earned the dubious honor of wearing the naughty hat last night. The infraction: bad manners (gasp!).

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.

A Lovely Centerpiece

2008-10-27T17:38:00.001-04:00

In more recent reminiscences, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention a few things about the big Halloween party we're been preparing for these many weeks. After loads of preparation and planning, the Haunting of Admiral Drive took place on Saturday.

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.

High School Memories

2008-10-27T15:27:00.005-04:00

I know some people remember high school fondly. If this describes you, you probably had the most fashionable clothes, you didn't ride the bus senior year, and you probably weren't an Academic Decathlete and delegate to the Model United Nations.

Not that everything about high school stunk. I still remember the day Ms. Carlos returned a short story I wrote and looked me in the eye and said, "You, Miss Hall, are a writer." I gained my love of public speaking in high school, too, thanks to Mr. Shone and Ms. Gill. In other areas I wasn't so successful, most notably sports, which is not surprising, really, since I graduated at five foot nothing, and had the motor skills of a newborn calf and the upper body strength of a three year old girl.

In any case, I had some great friends, one of whom was Martin Gaxiola. I just heard from him a couple of days back, and I'm amazed by what he's done since we graduated Thunderbird High School in 1989. I'm so impressed, in fact, that I've added his website to my link-o-rama. This is some serious flamenco, folks.

Weighty Matters

2008-10-25T07:32:00.003-04:00

I do obsess over my pets, and my current obsession is their weight. Because of their past career as professional athletes, I recognize that their bones and joints have endured much more stress than the average pet, and I don’t want to add to that stress by having them carry extra weight.

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.

Fahrvergnugen

2008-10-24T14:59:00.005-04:00

Dear Volkswagen,

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.

Sincerely,

Addie

One of Those Faces

2008-10-24T06:36:00.005-04:00

I like tattoos. In fact, I have two. One of them is stupid and I don’t think about it much, in contrast to the other very special one that is pictured here. What I don’t have is a tattoo on my forehead that says, “Tell Me Everything!”, although I might as well.

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.

Once You Go Black

2008-10-22T12:32:00.007-04:00

Oh boy. I’ve really done it now.

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!

Spoiled

2008-10-21T11:00:00.002-04:00

I've been accused of spoiling my pets; can you believe it? Maybe these pictures of Bruno will be the wake-up call I need to admit that might be true.

Hoover gets the star treatment too, so don't worry about him.

The Waffle Iron

2008-10-20T13:34:00.009-04:00

Now that the weather has cooled down significantly, I want to share the ultimate foot warming technology that may already be right at your fingertips. First, some background on how I came about this discovery.

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.

The Coffin Project

2008-10-18T17:01:00.002-04:00

For the last 3 weeks, G has been constructing a full size coffin in front of our house. I'm not worried, though, since I know this is destined to be a Halloween party prop, and a very central one at that: the beverage cooler.

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."

Active Vocabulary

2008-10-17T16:56:00.000-04:00

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.

Infotainment

Enthusivasm

Motivism

Kickin’ Like Kung Fu

Beauteous Maximus

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?

Dissatisfied Customers

2008-10-13T13:47:00.005-04:00

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I've started feeding my dogs raw food. The staples of their diet are really raw chicken backs and necks, along with occasional servings of veggie mix. Veggie mix is basically pureed greens, fruit, and assorted vegetables with ground beef or organ meats for flavor. The latest batch included yellow squash, broccoli, spinach, apples, a plum, and some raw ground beef. Next time it will include different ingredients to add variety to their diets, and will also be based on what's on sale. It sounds complicated, but it's really not rocket surgery. Or brain science. Or whatever.

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!"

Stupid Commercials

2008-10-12T06:56:00.003-04:00

Ok, I know I'm not the only one who hates certain commercials, and yes, my parents did teach me that old chestnut, "If you don't have anything nice to say, say nothing at all.". I just can't help it.

Seriously, folks, sometimes when I'm trying to enjoy vegging out in front of the old boob tube, my stupor is rudely interrupted by a marketing attempt that really, totally, blows. So much so, in fact, that sometimes I'm almost happy that I have only one good ear to hear the stupidity. I know, I know...I could just change the channel, but then how could I share my observations?

Without further preamble, here are a couple of commercials that have helped me to understand the temporary insanity defense, 30 seconds at a time.

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!

Txt Msg Luv

2008-10-11T10:16:00.004-04:00

In case there was ever any doubt, I have conclusive proof that the romance is still alive and well in my marriage after all these years. Behold the text message I received from G last night, the 2nd text message he has ever successfully sent, I might add.

wish you were here my butt itches

Isn't that sweet? He was missing me!

How romantic!

Hypochondria

2008-10-10T20:04:00.003-04:00

In passing, G & I have both mentioned feeling old over the last week, which was just the spark to ignite my ever-smoldering bonfire of hypochondria. The more I think about it, the funnier it is, which is reason enough to think about it, and yes, blog about it. My profile does promise to bore you with my daily details, and far be it from me to break such a solemn vow.

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?

All About The Jeffersons

2008-10-10T14:55:00.005-04:00

I know a lot of people say that they’re “all about the Benjamins”, but I’m all about The Jeffersons. Not the Jefferson on the $2 bill. The Jeffersons, as in George and Weesie, and more specifically their theme song, Movin’ On Up.

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…

A Special Shout-Out

2008-10-09T12:41:00.005-04:00

There’s a photo on my desk of a boy around 4 years old, and he’s got small tree branches tucked into his green t-shirt. His arms, raised just above his shoulders, end with tiny hands gnarled into grasping claws, and the scary look on his face lets you know this is no ordinary boy…this is a tree monster.

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.

This post is a special birthday shout-out to Tyler, who is smart, funny, quirky, unselfish, warm, and witty. Always ready with a smile or a kind act, he's just a pleasure to know and love.

Happy Birthday, Tyler!

I’m so proud of you, and I love you like a fat kid loves cake.

Songs & Suds

2008-10-07T13:10:00.001-04:00

Last night after spreading mulch until well after dark (which is easier said than done, by the way), the crew came inside and started working on various projects. Jared played guitar and worked on a song he’s writing about Beowulf for a literature project, and Tyler worked on the computer and did some laundry. I began to put together some mailings for the business, and Garrett cleaned the kitchen during the commercials while watching Panic Room.

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:

Beowulf, Beowulf
You’ve had epic adventures
Beowulf, Beowulf
You encountered some monsters
Beowulf, Beowulf
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.

Busted, Busted
You never load the dishwasher
Busted, Busted
I find your dishes in the sink
Busted, Busted
I’ve washed them all!

Captain Crankypants

2008-10-06T17:02:00.001-04:00

As the title suggests, I’m really in a rare mood today. Today began as no Monday should, with Bruno standing by my bedside barking for his breakfast at the crack of dawn. I fired off a warning shot with my spray bottle of water, prompting him to circle the bed and bark at Garrett. Another squirt, more barking. Squirt, woof, squirt, woof, squirt, SQUIRT, SQUIRT. He finally got the picture and flopped down on his bed with a grunt. Hoover, who had been pacing silently in the hope that Bruno’s performance would result in breakfast, also threw himself back in his bed with a heavy sigh. For the record, the only way to get a warm reception while waking me up is to approach with a cup of coffee, a plate of eggs benedict, and a few kind words about how beautiful I look without makeup.

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.

Red Isn't My Color

2008-10-06T07:02:00.000-04:00

As I've mentioned before, I don't like the sun. I go out of my way to avoid scorching my ridiculously lily-white skin. As you can see by the picture, I failed miserably at this on Saturday at Greyfest despite my best efforts.

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.

To Each His Own

2008-10-05T17:54:00.003-04:00

It's been quite a weekend for us, and we've done and seen lots of things. On the way to Greyfest, the best of our weekend adventures, we stopped at a WalMart to look for a charger for the digital camera (you know, the one I never get to use!).

Some of you know that I don't care for WalMart for many reasons which may warrant their own dedicated post sometime. As much as I don't like the place, I have to admit it does offer some good people-watching from time to time, and this is a pretty good example of it.

You may not be able to see it well here, but the script in the middle of the tailgate says "TM", as in Tony Montana, as in Al Pacino, as in Scarface. People are funny, aren't they?

A Steaming Bag of Coffee

2008-10-03T07:51:00.000-04:00

I understand that I, myself, harbor some strange ideas. Some examples:

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?

Dog Wisdom

2008-10-02T17:00:00.000-04:00

I orginally took this photo for a post on Hoover's blog, but I had a thought about it and wanted to post it here too.

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?

Hard Hitting Issues

2008-10-01T17:20:00.001-04:00

I really respect you all for your willingness to read this blog as we explore the hard-hitting issues of today. I recognize that you have a choice in your blog reading material, and yet here you are, reading this. I applaud you.

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?

Weird Items On My To-Do List

2008-09-30T17:16:00.000-04:00

I was just thinking of some of my upcoming projects and how strange my list would look to anyone else. In the spirit of not taking myself too seriously and unbridled exhibitionism of my most boring details, here you have it:

o Get a Digital Camera of My Own – We have one, but it seems that Garrett has custody and I only have supervised visitation of this little piece of equipment. You guessed it…many of the pictures here are from my cell phone, which is the visual equivalent of listening to that crackly old recording of Yes, We Have No Bananas instead of your iPod.

o Make More Dog Collars – As some of you know, G & I have been working on developing custom laser-engraved leather martingale/sighthound collars, and we need to make more prototypes until we get them just right. I’d be happy to post pictures of some collars we’ve already made, but I’ll have to do that after I take care of item #1.

o Visit a Fire Station – Yes, poor me…I have to go and see some firemen, but it’s for the good of my child. Jared is thinking of various careers right now, and fire fighting has made the list, so we’ll be on a fact-finding mission. It's official business...really!

o Make a Lily Munster Dress – G & I will be Herman & Lily this Halloween (his idea!), and I have a strange aversion to those pre-made costumes. Now I have no choice but to dust off the old sewing machine and do what I can with my limited pattern-making ability. I actually wanted to be Elvira, Mistress of the Dark this year, but the kids were not amused.

What strange things do you have on your list?

Checking My Calendar

2008-09-29T20:12:00.007-04:00

Today I visited one of those downscale big-box retailers (the kind that has groceries, patio furniture, sewing notions, and auto parts), and I just had to check my calendar when I got home.

Hmmm...sure enough, it is still September.

Why then, just a few aisles from the Halloween costumes, were they already selling holiday ornaments?

ARE THEY SERIOUS?

Make no mistake, I love the holidays. I love the food, the fun, the festive decorations, the booze, the presents, the time with friends and family, the whole deal.

What I do not love is the sales aspect that ruins the fun of it. The holiday season is not meant to begin nearly 3 months ahead of time so some mega-conglomerate can sell people more stuff they don't need that will wind up in a landfill. What's next...Santa suits for sale next to the 4th of July t-shirts?

Hurry up, folks, go get your ornaments! You have just under 11 weeks to prepare for Hanukkah,12 weeks for Christmas and Kwanzaa. Yes, I know Kwanzaa isn't real, but I don't have time to debate that. I have to go write my letter to Santa now.

Happy Holidays!

Home Remedies

2008-09-29T10:30:00.001-04:00

Home remedies have always fascinated me, and while I have my favorites (like most people I know), my willingness to try new ones is always directly proportional to my misery. After coming down with a cold on Saturday that came complete with fever, cold sweats, and aches, I'm prepared to share what may just be the ultimate cure. I've never recovered this quickly from a cold that started so ominously, so I think this really works.

I've always sworn by vodka as a terrific cold and flu medicine, and I normally add an ounce or so to a cup of tea with lemon and honey several times a day. This time I googled "home remedies" and came up with a new adaptation of my vodka cure, and here it is:

1 1/2 oz. of vodka every 2-3 hours

In between vodka doses, drink as much of the concoction below as you can:

In a big pot, boil 2 quarts of water and add 2 large chopped onions, 6 or 7 inches of fresh ginger root (grated), and one head of garlic (smashed and chopped). Let this simmer for 10 minutes or so and then turn off the heat. Drink this steadily throughout the day until it's gone.

My theory on why this works: garlic and onions have antibacterial properties, ginger is an known anti-inflammatory, and of course hydration is key to getting better from a cold. Of course the vodka just makes you feel better, but I've also known Russians who swear it kills germs.

On the subject of the vodka, the bottle pictured here is Tito's Handmade Vodka, by far the best vodka I've ever tasted. Yes...Tito's is better than Ketel One, Grey Goose, Stoli...you name it. It's also domestically produced, has won international awards, has been written up in many national magazines and newspapers - and it's pretty inexpensive. If you like vodka, you've got to try Tito's.

On another note, the remedy described above is meant to be taken on its own, NOT in combination with over the counter medications. The Mom in me is forcing me to say that Acetaminophen and Ibuprofen are very dangerous when taken with alcohol.

In any case, I hope you all escape cold and flu season unscathed, but if you do catch a bug and decide to try the remedy above, let me know what you think.

My Closet Door

2008-09-27T11:30:00.001-04:00

This is my closet door, and everything behind this door is crap. I had this depressing revelation last night as I was getting ready for Alison's birthday party. My displeasure with my wardrobe mounted with each hanger I slid from right to left. Every single garment I own is either too big, too small, out of style, played out, or otherwise unacceptable.

Quite honestly, I'd rather eat broken glass than go shopping, but I've almost reached the point where I'd rather go shopping than continue to stare blankly at my current selection of horrors.