Get your filthy scissors away from my dog!

As I may have mentioned previously, (I say "may" because I can't quite recall if I have or not) I am, as of yet, childless. I have found myself in that category of Yuppy who annoyingly posts pics of their adorable dog dressed in a rubber ducky Halloween costume on Facebook. I am not ashamed of the often manic love that I have for my "fur babies", though many of my friends can't understand my need to talk about my dog's fascination with Snoopy cartoons and interrupt me to discuss the frequency, consistency and smell of their child's bowel movements. How is that more entertaining than a dog watching TV? How??

Anyway, I have to warn you that I am one of those pet parents who was maybe a little too prepared. Meaning I read every dog book available while contemplating what flavor of "poo" to get-- would it be a malti-poo or a cock-a-poo? Perhaps a shitzu-poo would be more to my liking? I had no idea, and I admit that I made that last "poo" up. After choosing my poo (who I will now refer to as "Poo"-- he's anonymous, too ;), I then read various books on puppy rearing, from "Puppies for Dummies" to "Dogue", the dog fashion magazine. I have, like all parents, so I've been told, relaxed a bit in my obsessiveness, but there are several things that I refuse to compromise on. One of them is finding an excellent groomer for Poo. Who knew it would be so difficult to find a competent person to trim my dog's fur, toenails, and express his anal gland? I've learned that it's dang near impossible.

I have no real story here, I just wanted to gripe about the lack of rocket scientists in the dog grooming profession. Now please excuse me-- I've got to get to the mall so that I can put Poo in one of those adorable dog purses that he can peek his head out of. He likes people to stare at him in Banana Republic so that he can practice his impersonation of a therapy dog.

My Prius is Wicked Awesome

I've decided that I'm a hypocrite. I drive a Prius-- OK, laugh it up. And, no, to answer your question, I do not drag race in it. The reason that I'm a hypocrite is that I get very frustrated when people pass me while I'm flying down the interstate. I think that it's assumed that because I drive a small hybrid, that I must also be 175 years old and incapable of driving over 20 mph. Sometimes I like to gun my tiny cylinders into gear and leave those suckers in the dust.

While I resent the assumption that my car goes no faster than a jumped-up golf cart, I very much love the fact that cops seem to automatically give me a pass on speeding tickets. The same annoying assumption about my slowness works in my favor, in that the police are too proud to pull me over with their fancy cars or motorcycles when they feel that they could just as easily pull me over while riding their kid's tri-cycle.

So, there you have it.... I'm a hypocrite. I hope I didn't just jinx myself into earning an as of yet avoided speeding ticket. But, you have to admit, I'll look wicked awesome gunning my Prius up to high gear while earning that ticket.

So, that's embarrassing....

So here's a bit of levity to lighten your day. Several years ago, when I worked in a major US city that will remain nameless, I went to a meeting at an Alderman's office (I'd like to say Alderperson, because she's a woman) with my supervisor. I had taken a pen earlier off of my supervisor's desk when I was discussing a case with him and had it with me in my purse (a new Coach bag--it's a beautiful thing. =) and used it to write notes during the meeting with the Alderperson. She was discussing an ordinance that she was trying to pass, and suddenly I look down at my hands and notice that there is ink all over them, forming little pools of horror in the cracks of my fingers and around my nails. I have nothing to wipe this crap off with, mind you, because I'd left my sani-wipes at the office before I was required to run downstairs on a minute's notice to attend this meeting. Consequently, I have the brilliant idea of licking my forearm like a kitten and attempting to wipe the ink off without getting it onto my suit. Horrible plan, because I managed to simply spread the ink all over my arms and hands. The guy across from me whispered that it was on my face, too--apparently I had struck a look of concerned attention with my chin resting on my hand (yep, just like the famous sculpture). In the end, I looked like a suited, cross-dressing version of Smurfette, complete with blue arms and goatee to match.

Thankfully, my boss just laughed at me when the meeting was over, which wasn't fun because I felt humiliated all over again, so soon after my prior snafu. Turns out he hadn't even noticed what was going on.

I blame his ill gotten pen.

My House is NOT a Dojo

After my husband and I moved into our new house, it quickly became apparent that our new phone number used to belong to a martial arts studio. It was hilarious at first, as I pondered the notion of adopting a really terrible, fake, un-PC accent while I added "son" to the end of everyone's name as I let them know of our upcoming workshop on board-breaking for the low, low price of $250 per head.

The situation took a turn from hilarious to annoying, however, when I repeatedly heard the same response when I said that my house, is not, in fact, Master Dumbly's Martial Arts Studio and Dojo, regardless of what the circa 1998 website may be espousing. I went as far as to research the place to see if it had a new phone number where I could refer people (and possibly mail them some UFC approved arm pads), but I came up dry. Apparently, Master Dumbly's has vanished before our karate-deprived eyes. Meanwhile, I feel like someone who received the old phone number of a person with bad credit, where the horrible, half automated, half real-life person refuses to believe that I do not owe $375 to JewelryTV.com for charging some cuff links in the shape of dalmatians, and that no, I am not Mary Smith, have no idea who Mary Smith is and do not know where she could be hiding. Next time, I'm telling whoever calls that Mary Smith and Master Dumbly flew off to Ecuador while dodging the mafia to elope and have their human/alien hybrid love child.

Oh, and for the record in case you didn't catch it, my house is NOT a dojo.

Amazonian Mistake

The other day, I received one of those pesky cards left by the postman/woman/person saying that I had a package that could be picked up after April 17. I say that the card is pesky, but it's only pesky in certain circumstances. Sometimes you realize that the card is leading you to that fabulous pair of shoes that you found online for half price. But other times it's a fruit cake from your great-aunt that you can't even re-gift unless someone in your office needs a door stop. Today, that card was definitely pesky.

I went to the post office to pick up my mystery package that was too important to be left at my door, and was, as usual, cut in line by someone. The cutter was an old man with hearing aids, and I chose to believe that the hearing aids somehow indicated that the man has not only partly lost his ability to hear, but also to realize that someone was there before him. I, as cut-ee, was very proud of myself for being the bigger person.

I received my package and could barely wait to get into my poorly parked car to see what Santa Mail had brought me.... only to open the package and find a size L/XL pair of what I believe are UFC approved fighting armpads. I didn't even know those guys wore armpads. You'd think that with the head bashing and embracing, which is more than a little homo-erotic, that the fighters would have more on their worry list than rug burn on their elbows.

Needless to say, I had not ordered them, and am only assuming that Amazon made a mistake, if, in fact the mystery fighting equipment was sent from Amazon.... which is still my favorite online shopping site even though they were a bit off their game today. I hope there's not someone out there who has burned elbows because I have their stuff. I feel like finding out the intended recipient and sending them some aloe vera gel. Or perhaps a fruit cake.

Fortune Cookie Requirement

I just decided over the weekend that fortune cookies need to be more in depth. I got one on Sunday after feasting on a shrimp-filled Chinese buffet that read: "You will never want for a steady income." OK..... so what exactly does that mean? Does it mean that I'll make a gob-zillion dollars after inventing some phenomenal, life changing product (if you have any ideas as to this mystery product, please send them my way.... unless the idea involves anything even remotely resembling Crocs or a Snuggie, BARF!) with a trust fund that will pay me $100K a month without having to lift a finger? OR... does this mean that I'll have a steady income cleaning port-a-potties after Lynrd Skynrd concerts? I hope those people get paid a lot.

But, back to my point-- I really think that fortune cookies need to get a bit more futuristic, and have some sort of Harry Potter-esque hologram that pops up and explains to you what your fortune actually means. Ok, so maybe Dumbledore is inappropriate, but I could really go for an elderly wise bald man with a flowing golden robe who tells me that my "steady income" will be gained by taking over for Mike on "Dirty Jobs" and having to muck about in various farmyard goo while performing dental work on a sheep with halitosis, or being part of a multi-million dollar lawsuit where I pull an Erin Brokovich and reap the rewards.

Tell me, wise man! I need to know so I can plan what to wear next week.

under the couch cushion

So you know how when you lose something really important, or maybe even something unimportant, the first place that you look is…. that's right, folks, it's under the couch cushion. Now, I know it's not all hidden gems in there, but amidst the debris of loose change, dog hair, jolly rancher wrappers from 1998, and, yes, trapped farts, you are bound to find something that you've been searching for, or even something that you didn't even realize you had lost. Case in point: my brother found my step-mom's brother's wallet trapped in our family couch a couple of years ago. The funny thing was that the license in the wallet had expired 15 years ago. Did we know it was missing? Of course not. Was it probably a big pain in the you-know-what to replace everything in it? You know it was.

So my point is this: though there is every bit of randomness and detritus that most closely resembles a geriatric candy dish (so that's where I left my unwrapped Werther's Originals, keys to the 1988 Ford Taurus, and buttons from garments that have long been donated to Goodwill!) hidden inside the bowels of the most comfortable resting place known to man, i.e., your couch (complete with the perfect impression left by your rear end), there are also some surprises that are sure to remind you that even the smallest things can make your day beautiful. Now that I think about it, under the couch cushion, while being like your grandmother's candy dish (yeah, I know I mentioned it earlier) is also kinda like life, don't you think?