The Blammmme Gammmmme! Brought to you by Fancy Feast.

Bravo, forever a staple on my television dial, provides the mindless background noise that I crave while getting dressed in the morning or folding laundry. It seems lately they are playing the Real Housewives series over and over. I must have listened to the same portion of the same episode a thousand times and yesterday was no exception. I turned on the ol' idiotbox just in time to see the train wreck of a face that belongs to "Kim" from said show.



I'm not sure exactly what went wrong there, but yikes. Anyhow, "Kim" was chomping on and spitting out words through her plastic lips-- something to the tune of: "[she] doesn't need negative people in her life. [She's] deleting anyone who isn't positive from her phone... blah, blah, blah, [she] is a positive person, blah, blah, diamonds and boobs."
Something about the way she said this... or possibly her neon outfit and bottomless cleavage, got me thinking about doing something positive with MY life. Here's my idea, tell me what you think:

It will all start with a teeth bleaching session. You see, I'm going to have to have really white teeth in order to start my new career as a game show host.



It will be called The Blame Game! with peppy, canned intro music and glittery prizes such as a lifetime supply of fancy feast kitty chow in a can and a cordless phone!





Contestants will come straight off the set of the Jerry Springer show and the object of the game will be to avoid all the things that make YOU a pathetic loser by blaming OTHER PEOPLE!!!! Contestants will be judged based on their ability to hose the audience into thinking that they, themselves, are not the ones who look down on or belittle others. That they are not selfish, or obnoxious, or rude.
You see, this competition will be for those who have low self-esteem and are wavering on the edge of sociopathic tendencies and personality disorders, however, their goal is to make YOU feel bad about YOURSELF so you don't notice how completely deranged they really are. Its the only way they can make themselves feel better, and the only way they can hope to win our grand prize: A walk-on role on Bravo's latest reality sitcom: So You Think You're a Positive Person?!



In between commercial breaks for Kay Diamonds and the Honda Fit,
I will flash the audience a glamour shot of my pearly white teeth and we will continue with the dramatized nut-flexing to see which woman, and or gay man will rationalize, re-project, and re-distribute all of their pent-up self-loathing most convincingly on a harmless victim chosen at random. It will be mad-cap mayhem coming to you Thursday nights at 9! Stay Tuned!

New Camera!

Hooray! We finally have a new camera. I remember a few years ago when we got our last camera... it was a ten mega pixel wonder. We were so proud of this thing. I actually hope that we don't look back in three years on this one and laugh at ourselves the way we are when we remember getting the Olympus. Not that it wasn't a good camera. It is. Its just getting old. And to be fair its not even in the same class as our new digital SLR. We got the Canon Rebel XSI. Because we're rebels. Anyway, I figured I would post some pictures taken on our new camera, despite the fact that they have been reduced to web quality for the sake of uploading them to the Internet and now they just look like regular blah photos. Try to keep that in mind while you think to yourself: "What? I don't get it?" And enjoy.

First up, a shot of Maya playing the part of Jabba Da Hut.



This photo is taken in a very low lighting area and it still came out pretty clear. Maya is looking up at the last photo I posted in utter disgust:



Okay, enough making fun of poor chubby Maya. Here's a Maya glamour shot. Its a shame that you can't see how crystal clear every little hair is on the Internet. This picture is one of my new favorites of her:



Here's a shot of Midas that I also really like. Bear with me, I actually did take a few photos of things other than my dogs. Its just hard to take pictures of things around you without the world knowing that your house is a mess... haha



I love this one of Midas. How can you not love pugs. They are such fuzzy little people.



Okay, last image featuring family pets. This is a fish that we rescued from certain flushing about three years ago. We think he's about 35 years old. He comes when we call him. He's pink. He's a Gourami. He can suck a whole weekend food disc up to his lips. He made the drive across 5 states with us from Florida to Texas. He's hardcore. I wish you could see how awesome this picture is. When we enlarge it enough, we can see the arteries in his eyeball and the texture on his lips and fins. Its really an incredible picture. Way to go me.



Now for some fun glamour shots of Texas. We took the camera out to one of our favorite places, Bull Creek in Hill Country. This is a great place for people to bring their dogs on the weekend. There is a stream running across bedrock that leads to open (err... standing) water on both sides and behind there are winding trails that take you all over the place. Behind that even are some beautiful hills (which I thought were mountains, since I don't get out much) covered in trees and dotted with some pricey mansions overlooking the cliffs. We were thinking of buying one, but we bought the camera instead.

Huge for the Holidays

Ahhh, its that time of year again. The Season of Weight Gain is upon us, and I love it so. From the first bag of Halloween candy that didn't make it near a single trick-or-treater, to the last of the Christmas cookies, it is a time of year filled with guilt and gluttony and I wouldn't have it any other way.


With only twenty days until I get to go home to see my family for Thanksgiving, thoughts are already turning to what to bring to dinner and how many family pets will throw up in the gorging aftermath. I'm very excited. In our family, the dogs are the "kids" of the family and the holidays are just as much for them as for anyone else. The rest of us have gotten old and crusty, but our dogs still cling to that youthful excitement of everything realated to the holidays and they make it more fun for everyone else.
I was thinking just this as my vet explained to me that Maya would be needing to go on food trials for allergy testing that would require her to forgo Thanksgiving this year. It may sound ridiculous, but to me it was the same as if she had told me that my hypothetical 4 year old child would not be allowed to have dinner with the family. It just is not an option. Granted, the previous portion of the conversation had labeled Maya as "a bit of a Chunker" so she could probably stand to skip it, but really... its just not an option. We're flying all the way to my parent's house in Michigan where we will be greeted by their two dogs and the whole place will end up being kind of a dog fun camp. On Thanksgiving day, they will awake early to survey the Thanksgiving preparations and spend the entire afternoon in close proximity to the oven. My dad will wait until no one is around, or so he thinks, and take turns lifting each dog for an up close smell (and in all likely hood, taste) of the turkey. At dinner time, they will each get to have a taste of the food with their normal meals and then my grandma will feed them tablescraps until they barf. It truly is the most glorious day of their lives, and it only comes once a year.
And Thanksgiving is just the beginning. Next comes Christmas and Midas takes a front seat for this one.
My husband adores the frosted sugar cookies and I made the mistake of giving a chunk to each dog last year. Subsequently, each time I would bake a new batch, Midas would sit in front of the oven and cry. It turns out, frosted sugar cookies send him into a frenzy of desire, and after only a small taste. Never have I had another dog paw at the oven door before or howl at me while I placed the cookies onto cooling racks. At least you can threaten a four-year old with an ass-kickin' and a groundin'.
And when it comes to gifts, I have never had a dog that didn't dive right in and open every wrapped piece of anything in their line of sight. I'm pretty sure they don't REALLY care what they get, but the shear joy of wildly tearing the paper off of soft squeaking items is more than they can handle. So as you can see, the holidays truly are for the dogs. My dogs, at least.
But what I was really trying to say is that personally, I am in for two solid months of temptations, mental calculations, picking, gorging, and finally, whining. It will be interesting to see just how well I can stick to my guns this year as a diabetic noob. I expect more on this subject to follow and invite anyone else to weigh in on the subject too.
I leave you with this holiday classic to get you in the mood:
Twas the Night Before Christmas:

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the store
The people were all in a larger size than before;

The blue jeans were hung by the chimney with care,
So the dryer wouldn't shrink their favorite pair.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of junk food danced in their heads;

And Mike with his pie, and I with my cake
Had just gone to bed holding plates for Godsake.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Put down my plate of cheesey potato mash

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a car full of relatives and cases of beer,

With a little old driver, so lively with spunk,
I knew in a moment, they're probably drunk.

More rapid than eagles the courses they came,
And we whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Dinner! now, Candy! now, Pickles and Nuts!

On, Turkey! on Taters! on our hips, thighs, and butts!

Have another Christmas Cookie! Try another slice of pie!

Pile on the conidments, straight to the sky!

As dry heaves that before the wild turkey flew,
Tomorrow we'll make it all better-- With stew!

And then, in a twinkling, I heard, like a hog
The prancing and pawing of each little dog.

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Straight down the hatch went the turkey I had found.

They are dressed all in fur, from their head to their feet,
And all they really care about is a bite of some meat.

A bundle of toys are flung on the floor,
And they know that at Christmas, they'll even get more..

Their eyes how they twinkle, their manners so bad--!
They beg from the table, but we're not even mad!

They'll each get their treats, its the least we could do,
We'll make our pets fat and they'll suffer too!

But back to the story, of how I got fat
I can't blame the dog, the neighbor, or cat

I have a broad face and a round little belly
If we run out of food, I'll eat a bowl full of jelly.

I'm chubby and plump, and its off to the gym;
As the holiday memories start to go dim.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
My trainer had given me something to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
"Do Curls," "Do crunches," man what a jerk.

And laying his finger on my wrist for a pulse.
He made such a face I thought it had to be false.

He sprang to his feet, to his team gave a whistle,
And to me they all flew, with what looked like a Bissle.

But I heard him exclaim, as I faded to sleep,
"Lipo for her, she's the size of a Jeep!"

Jar O' Head

I would like to take a moment to thank my car for its amazing ability to go from 70 miles per hour, highway driving, to a tire screeching 7 miles per hour, Georgetown driving, without self-combusting. Now, when one thinks of big city life, you often think of the traffic and congestion. That should be the last thing you think about when you consider residing in Georgetown.
Georgetown is about thirty miles north of anywhere. It boasts residence to a Quilt and Sew instead of a Joanne Fabric. It has a Beds, Beds, and More instead of a Bed Bath and Beyond. There is a saddle repair shop on the main drag. You would be hardpressed to find a fast food restaurant that didn't prominently feature chicken in a bucket. Its that sort of place. And I always fancied myself as a small town kind of girl, anyway, but I must say... there's something a little off abouut Ol' Georgetown.
First of all, Georgetown is nestled between Sun City and a county law system whose penalty for driving over the speed limit includes death by hanging in town square. At least, I'm pretty sure. Sun City is an "active adult" community. I have never actually been over there, but judging from the traffic and the constant outandaboutness of its residents, I'm guessing the population is just over 765 billion. While I live on a road that has no substantial business ventures, it still takes me several minutes to get out of my driveway. Our grocery store is the last store in existence for 7 light years and it is PACKED to the gills until night fall each day. There isn't even elbow room to walk in the aisles. Sometimes, when I'm there, I worry that I'm on a makeshift rocket aimed at the Anterean culture of Cocoon... why else would so many seniors gather in one place so often... The elderly population here rivals that of Bradenton, FL where I spent 4 years in a town that had the buzz of Jepoardy in the air-- wherever you were-- at around 7pm on week nights. Because of this, you can rest assured that everything closes early and the businesses that dare to stay open risk being labeled as seedy or unscrupulous. The only thing unique about Sun City in comparison to Bradenton is that here, nothing opens early, either. Georgetown Commerce Hours of Operation: 10am-4pm. Closed 12pm-1pm for lunch.
But what does it matter? You have to go to Round Rock if you need anything, anyway. Georgetown is HELL BENT on keeping actual business entities out of city limits. They are however, all for community growth. This is best demonstrated by the fact that since I have moved in a year ago, there are two giant office complexes that remain empty... (well, one contains a Chinese buffet and a medical supply shop) yet despite this, they have built two more giant empty office complexes. That's four complexes, hundreds of empty suites, and acres or unused parking lots. For a year I have been waiting to see what will come fill up these empty storefronts. Much to my disappointment, however, the answer is: NOTHING. Nothing has come here. Well, nothing meaningful anyway. Granted, both complexes are still basically completely empty save for one business in each. Pappa Murphy's pizza, conveniently located across from Dominos (who doesn't deliver most nights, doesn't accept cash or checks and won't let you order online) and a "Mane Tamers" hair cutting place. I assume its for people and not horses, but we do have the saddle shop still... I have yet to ever see a car in the haircuttery's parking lot.
This is probably painting an entirely incorrect picture. As you drive through Georgetown, you're probably imagining a ghost town that serves pizza and offers hair care. This is not so. We do have a fabulous selection of gas stations and banks and a soon to be astronomically sized church. The street that I live on has, in a two and a half mile span, 358 gas stations, 212 banks (none of which are commonly known-- think Juan's Haus of Cash) and one GIANT sized Church with an expansion underway big enough to seat God, himself.
It's always been really funny to me that G-town has so many gas stations. The speed limit is getting slower by the day. Like I said, today I found myself going 7. At first I thought that school had gotten out. But no, everyone is just confused and slow here. So as we're crawling along at break-neck speed, I start to imagine the people of Sun City and how they must run this town. I pictured a group of young seniors... mid 70's, maybe. They want to lower the speed limit from the crusty 25 to a blistery 15. I'm almost certain that to bring a business in or change such a law here, one still has to go before the village elders... and since Sun City is just down the block, I'm thinking they probably have to put on robes that have rope belts and scratchy hoods and talk to a head in a jar. I'm guessing that's why nothing gets done here, why all these empty buildings are here but no businesses can come. No one can get a straight answer from the Wise Old Jar O' Head.


It may be time to move.

Ho, Ho, Holy Hell... Something From the Chimney Fell...

It is a special day, indeed, when something plummets from the sky down the chimney... and the calendar claims to be October.
So, you can imagine the minor coronary embolism I experienced when, as I was minding my own business at the ol' computadora, my fire place begins making a sound that could only be described as the noise a rat would make if you chucked it down an air shaft. Both dogs leapt from their bed and barked like crazy and I swung around so fast in my chair, you would think I had heard someone announce that they were giving away free ice cream sundaes. All eyes were on the mesh gate enclosing the front of the fireplace.
Not quite sure how to take this, I mentioned the incident to some guildies who helpfully suggested that it could be merely a bird.... or Jebus. Either way, it would probably be safe to have a looksee. The sight was particularly horrifying, but only because the inside of my fireplace had become a massive spider and insect condo decorated with dirt and cobwebs from years of unuse. It was pretty disgusting.
But the heavenly treasure that had fallen from the sky was pretty baffling.
It seems that I am now the proud owner of a plastic bag with a magnet in it.
Not like a ziplock, but one of those little plastic pouches that contain screws or tiny allen wrenches if you were to, say, buy a desk to put together. The magnet was smallish and round. I suppose it could be radioactive... I still haven't touched it.
I did, however, take a picture.



Seriously, though. I hope come Christmas time, ol' St. Nick takes a closer look at my wishlist, because a bag o' magnet was not on it.

And the Boobies Have It.

There it is folks. People searching for this image is the cause of 99.99999994% of the hits I get on this blog. It must be highly disappointing as the image has actually been removed... from the original site that I callously stole it from, and consequently from the blog entry that, in fact, claimed the hit count. Sorry pervs. Best of luck in your quest for boobies, be it artisticly inclined, or otherwise.

Running on... well.... caffeine, mostly...

Some days I think to myself that I would like to run a marathon. Now, I'm not COMPLETELY dillusional in that I know a 5K is probably the outer limits of anything I could hope to accomplish without some major surgery, performance enhancing drugs, or the life of a beloved family member riding on its completion. But I would love to get involved with charities and do some good for the world as well as for my heart-- which I have come to envision as a cartoon sitting on a lounge chair with a beer hat and a bag of cheetos. So I toss the idea around. I think about training. Whether I'll ever actually do it... I don't know. It doesn't look good. In my search for a book called something to the tune of: "So, You Think Your Fat Ass Can Run a Marathon?" I found this poem (which I have altered ever so slightly):

Ode to Running
By: Dawn Dais (I think)

What's the point of running?
What reason could there be?
Running twenty-six miles
Makes no sense to me.

We have planes, trains, and automobiles,
Helicopters, scooters, and boats.
And if you really, really, need to
You could even ride a goat.

With all these options to move you
Why would you want to run?
Compared to runing for hours
Riding a goat sounds like much more fun.

Running makes you sweaty
And tired and cranky and sore,
And running around in circles
Can be really quite a bore.

But the worst part of running,
What drives me out of my mind,
Are the Chipper Happy Runers
Who are Chipper and Happy all the time.

They get up at 7am
To run too many miles
And whethere it's Mile 1, 5, or 10,
They still have that Chipper, Happy, smile.

I fear that I'm outnumbered,
And they're trying to wear me down,
They're trying to make me chipper
But all I can do is frown.

But I'll be nice to the Chipper People
And I'll tolerate their smiles,
Since they have so much friggin' energy
Maybe I can ride on their backs for awhile.



If I DO ever run a marathon, Half-marathon, 5-K, or hell, participate in the Special Olympics. I will be writing that book.

You Shut Your Mouth When You're Talking to Me

Have you ever been talking to someone and you realize that you're treading uncertain waters and to broach even the most mundane topic can make the words catch in the back of your throat like a dolphin in a tuna net? In this country of free speech where no one seems to mind unloading their political, religious, or sexual preferences all over the bumper of their cars, their wardrobe, and their personal web pages, its kind of laughable that bringing up the subject of myspace or of MMOs or dieting or Macs vs PCs could be a wholly uncomfortable discussion. Yet somehow, it is. Whenever someone asks me if I get into the whole: "Myspace" thing, I feel as though my whole body sighs heavily and I have to prepare to defend myself. Well, it stops here and now. For what I hope to be the last time, I am going to defend some things that are near and dear to my heart and whether that means that I am a raging nerd or not, I don't care. If you read this maybe you'll understand why I think the way I do. If you don't, I'll be watching around every corner for a wedgie so back off.

1. "Myspace is gay."
That has actually been used as an argument from people who meant to dissuade me from the use of this "childish" Internet phenom. People will tell me that its for high school kids. Well, I'm pretty sure that calling things: "gay" is something that should only be reserved for high school kids. That aside, why would high school kids need myspace? They see each other all day in school, do they not? I love myspace because I went to 6 schools as a kid. I lost touch with all my friends until this wonderful little website came into my life. All the people that I loved and thought about over the years are now on myspace and I couldn't be more grateful to have some people back in my life. Its great for networking and job connections and meeting up with old friends when you're back in town. Anyone who thinks they're too cool for myspace is missing out. Have some common sense and take advantage of their security features if that's a concern. Don't post: "What kind of summer fruit are you" quizzes if you don't want to, but its a different world now. The people you grew up with scatter all across the country and all across the world. Being able to stay in touch is pretty nice... or you know... gay...

2. "MMOs are for nerds"
MMO = Massive Multiplayer Online game. I get it. So playing Warcraft doesn't make me chief contender for Homecoming Queen. Since I started playing this game, recently, it has been hovering just below the level of addiction. Not only is it super fun, but I play with people I know and can't see on a regular basis and in three different states. What could be more fun than coming home from a long day at work and slaughtering a horde village with your closest friends from around the globe? So what if its nerdy? This is the most fun hobby I have had in a long time and like myspace, you're missing out if you haven't tried it. Not to mention, I haven't been to a party or gathering since that hasn't had fellow addictees in tow. Lets face it, Warcraft is the new smoking. It gives you an instant connection and something to talk about, even if somewhere there is an illiterate jock telling anyone who will listen that "Warcraft is gay, dude."

3. "She's taking diet pills."
Eating right because you have to or you will die has become kind of a new thing with me. I'm not very good at it, but I try it consistently and I've made some headway... on certain days.... sometimes.
Either way, it always seems that I try my hardest in group settings because that's where it is the hardest. Its not because I'm showing off. That would be totally gay. For example. I was recently at a dinner party where the drinks for the evening were either soda or beer. Water was not on the menu. Next, came the breadsticks, followed by two fattening salads and a french bread style pizza-- all prelude to the dessert.
Now, trust me, I would have loved to pour myself a tumbler of coke, and create a breadstick log cabin on my plate to house my 15 servings of 6 inch thick cheesy pizza and top it with a chunk of cake, but none of these items, save for a scaled back version of the salad, screams diabetic friendly. So I made my choices. No drink, no bread, no dessert. One slice of pizza and a salad. I often wonder if such eating warrants so much attention because it is in fact strange, or is it me? Do people I know expect me to go for broke at the buffet? I don't know. Either way, I recently overheard a friend of mine telling another group of friends that I take diet pills and that's why I have lost weight.
Um, no. I passed on the beer and the cheese fries, thank you. I also have been known to make an appearance at the gym. While I'm not exactly a pillar of fitness and no piece of chocolate is safe within my grasp, I did the work myself. Thanks for the backhanded compliment.

4. "Politicians, aren't we all."
I am so completely disillusioned with politics right now, that I won't even begin to fight with you. But you know what? Obama doesn't have all the answers. He's an amazing speaker... but his promises, too, are outlandish. Pull your head out of your ass and get over yourself. The majority of people who speak with authority on the subject know so, so little in the over all picture of the health of the nation and the consequences and requirements of the campaign promises on both sides. Even if we had a great candidate, there really isn't anything they can do-- politically, their hands are tied in many ways. The best you can do is find someone who closest matches your ideals and cast your vote. So get off your soap box, you sound like a moron. You and I don't know a thing... unless of course you are one of the big business money holders. Then, I suppose you have a major stake in the outcome of everything and a driving force at that. The rest of us are just part of the illusion.

5. "Mac or PC, one is silver and the other is gold. But who cares."

For the love of God, owning a mac doesn't make you an after shot from an episode of "Queer Eye"-- pass it on.

6. "Girls who think other girls who play video games are weird."
When I was seven I sat in Justin Geckle's bedroom playing Mario for the first time with him and Jesse Rivera. It was a defining moment in my life. From Christmas of 1987 I would never be the same and I'm proud to say that even at 28, I can beat any boy* at any game, at any time. I grew up in a neighborhood full of boys and we always played. I moved to a new state and didn't know anyone so I came home and played because I had no one to talk to. I played gameboy in the car because we were always on the road. I read nintendo power magazine. I traded games and new cheat codes.
Fast forward. I married a man who works in the game industry. He's a character designer. I routinely hang out with game designers, environment artists, and animators. How could I not love video games? They surround my life like pugs at your dinner plate and it would be a lot more boring if I didn't share that with them. Sure, I can also make a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies, and I can't ever open pickle jars, but being able to kick your ass at Wii boxing, just makes me that much cooler. Do you see now?



And that's the list. I could write more but its getting late and I still have to go to the gym before coming home and playing warcraft. Have a great weekend, everyone, and I now have a button on the right side where you can follow my blog. Please do so, or else I will feel like a big, gay nerd.

*Any boy with the exception of Ryan Martin who has always bested me at every game, that Wiley devil.

Terror Wash

That time of year is coming-- my favorite time of year. The fall, before Michigan would turn to a frozen icicle of depression for 7 months and the blistery boredom of summer would come to an end. When I was a kid I loved it because it meant thinking about going back to school. I'm not sure I loved the idea of going back to the classroom as much as I loved the idea of change, and new winter clothes and having a purpose from day to day. But I also love the smell that's in the air and the anticipation of the holidays-- which I have always been a big fan of. Especially now that I don't get to really have them anymore. I love looking at all the autumn decor in the stores and at the years popular halloween costumes and the creepy knicknacks, though I was always fortunate enough to have amazing homemade costumes that weren't cheep and flimsy and although my only real adult experience with trick-or-treaters was disappointing and borderline annoying. Either way, I love the fall. I love Halloween. I love the ramp up for the holiday season... minus the last minute Christmas shoppers and I can't forget to add somewhere to the list the haunted house.

Some of the best years of my life were spent with the cinema crew caravaning from haunt to haunt in the late October months. Even years later when I lived near Halloween Horror Nights in Orlando, the overthetop spectacle of it all didn't live up to the memories I had built of those years with those people... waiting to be scared to death on our nights off. It was good times. So why, you may ask, would the sight of my car covered in an explosion of bird crap and splattered bugs from the Mexican border remind me of those moments and of why I love the fall?

Well, it was actually Mike who came up with it. We had taken my car for a carwash and decided to bring the dogs along. Watching their reactions he said: "This must be like a haunted house to them. To be scared and excited at the same time." He was completely right and it was the funniest thing I have ever seen. As the high pressure water and soap banged against the windows both dogs would leap from driver's to passenger's sides and at the dashboard... barking like crazy-- in an absolute frenzy of nerves. But they weren't scared... not really. Infact, they both looked as if they were having the time of their lives with their tales tightly curled and pinging back and forth and their little faces beaming in between snarls and barks. Maybe its because for a moment they had permission to go completely crazy and let loose to be scared of what was going on while feeling completely safe the whole time. It reminded me of standing in a room with strobe lights blinking and masked chainsaw maniacs lumbering toward me while my brain struggled to make out the shapes of my friends and my sister who were all there and yelling and laughing.

I wonder if they will look back and think of the car wash as being one of the best moments of their lives. Probably not as long as dinner arrives on time with each new day. Either way, I can't wait until fall comes again. I missed it for so long in Florida. I've been waiting forever it seems.








And to all you damn birds: Stay the hell away from my car you little crapbags.

Of Course Its Healthy. Its a Salad, Isn't It?

'
Ordering a salad should automatically score you points for health but anywhere that I have actually attempted this, has ended up a futile mess.

Even your most basic salad usually comes with a heaping ladle of shredded cheese, croutons, bacon bits, and forget it if you order something with meat. Restaurant establishments want to throw fried chicken, greasy ham, or candied walnuts in the mix. Creamy dressings, manadarin slices that have been marinating in sugar water, and my favorite, the random chinese noodle.

Lets face it. You've already got my $15.00, just give me lettuce and vegetables that haven't seen a deep fryer.

Thanks.

From this point on, I'm going to keep a tabulated salad score card and tell you where you can and cannot find "healthy salads."

This is the excitement you have all been waiting for.

Salads that will KILL YOU:
1. Applebees. Anything from there. Ever.
2. Stone Canyon Cafe.
3. Alamo Drafthouse. (Well. Okay. You're asking for it there.)
4. TGIFridays
5. Chuys
6. Casa Ole
7. Chilis

Salads that taste good AND are good for you:
1. Monument Cafe
2. Tropical Smoothie Cafe
3. ???


And on the other extreme. I recently had a $18.00 salad that consisted of lettuce, ceasar dressing, and ONE GRAPE cut in HALF. It would have been fine by me if the salad had cost $0.75, but come on now.

All I'm saying is, why try and eat healthy at all if your salad is going to clog your arteries slightly less than a cheesecake?
Eh?

Thhhhhheeeyyyy'rree GROSS.

What happens when Tony the Tiger, of Frosted Flakes fame, goes into the pizza business? Horrible pizza happens. HORRIBLE pizza.

It looked okay on the box: Tony's Cheese Pizza for one.
Microwavable. Gooey. Delictable? Maybe.


I followed the instructions:
Place a papertowel on microwave safe plate. CHECK.
Place pizza on microwave safe plate. Do not eat frozen. CHECK.
Microwave for 2-3 minutes. CHECK.

I figured 2 minutes and thirty seconds was perfect.

However, when I came back for my pizza a moment later, it had mutated into what can only be described as a medical disaster.

There is a large benign tumor radiating from the center... its flexible, but at the same time has elasticity that allows it to spring back from any prodding into its original position. It has flattened and spread out, taking on portions of the paper towel as its own skin. When pealed from the towel and inspected closer, it is clear that the foundation of said pizza was either a stale, flattened english muffin or a skin-hued frisbee.

A knife and fork will not cut into it.

It smells like a dumpster behind an Italian restaurant.

The dogs are not interested in the least.

I think its trying to get away from the plate...

Anyway. After much consideration, I think, instead of eating it, I'm just going to set it free in the backyard.

Beauty School Drop Out

If anyone needs me for the next 2-3 weeks, I'll be hiding in the closet writing over and over: "I will not cut my own bangs. I will not cut my own bangs. I will not cut my own bangs."

But don't feel bad for me, it actually works out. I just had my eyes dialated and have been walking around with paper sunglasses that I like to call people repellers. Dark places where people can't witness the visual atrocity that is moi, bode well for me.

Dial R for Idiot

Today had all of the neccessary ingredients to be completely sucktastic. I was trapped in a fart cloud, old ladies think I shoplift, I melted a kitchen appliance, my dog ate half an old meatloaf and the cell phone people have declared me ineligable to own a phone that doesn't require an empty tin can to transfer sound.
Bake at the temperature of the inside of my house/oven and yippy skippy, you have a very angry short girl with a lot of dishes to clean.

So much to rant about, where do I begin? Oh, I know. The fart factory. For the second day in a row now, I have been sandwiched between two people on treadmills at the gym-- because if you have ever read my blogs before, you already know that people LOVE to be close to me while I sweat. Today was a new gym high, though, when the guy next to me allowed some bombs to squeak out his sweaty crack. I still had 20 or so minutes of cardio left when the fart fog started choking my will to live. Who DOES THAT? I can't even imagine being okay with letting a few slip by, even if I wasn't in such close proximity to another human being. Fortunately, for me, he left shortly thereafter, presumably to go to the bathroom before he shit his pants. Super.

Next on the agenda, I went to my favorite place, HEB. The local grocery store. Here Everything Bites. You see, Mike is going away on a business trip this weekend with a few of his work buddies. They're all driving out to Dallas, so I thought I would be the nice person and buy a cooler and fill it with drinks and snacks for the trip. I picked up a cooler with a price tag that said: $15.97. It was a plastic, red, average cooler. It didn't have wheels or speak Italian, it was just a PLASTIC BOX CAPABLE OF HOLDING ICE! Anyway, after I had loaded my cart with waters, red bulls, gatorade, cookie mix, chips, and various other crap, I get up to the counter and unload it all and lift the cooler so the lady can scan it. She pulls the price ticket off and looks at me funny.
"Is this the ticket?"
Me: "Uh. I think so?"
Her: "Ma'am... I think I'm going to have to scan the actual cooler." (O-kay. I had tried to hand it to her after all.
She rings it up and the damn thing is $69.99!!!! Now. Like a moron, I am so flustered by the fact that she obviously thought I was trying to pull one over on the ol' HEB and take my own discount on something that should never have cost that much to begin with... that I just say: "ice" when she asks if there will be anything else. I should have screamed, "Hell no, I'm not paying SEVENTY DOLLARS for a PLASTIC BOX. I'm ASSUMING it can walk back to the shelf on its, own?" But I just bought it. Like an idiot.

So, so many things running through my head at this point. I walked over to the ice bin, took my ice and lo and behold, I grab the bag that has been torn open. So I point this out to the lady that was bagging my stuff for me and she says to me:
"Excuse me miss, how many bags of ice were you needing today?"
Me: "what? One..."
"Her, well, we took the liberty of putting that in your cart already. Next to your COOLER."
Me: "Thank you. I didn't see that. I need to go stand in traffic now."

So, so many things wrong with this picture and now all I can imagine is how HEB thinks I'm a shoplifter and Mike is going to make me return the $70.00 cooler. Fabulous start to this day. Simply Supreme.

My next adventure was at Cingular where they took down my information and informed me that I am not eligible to upgrade or purchase a new phone from them, even if the one I have currently zaps me in the face when I use it. I will however, be eligible for a brief window of time in August of 2009. YES!

When I got home from this, I discovered that Maya, who is on a fat dog diet has gotten into the trash and eaten half a meatloaf. To celebrate this, I left a hand blender sitting a bit too long in the hot pot of soup I was making and it melted. It looks like it didn't survive a nuclear holocaust.

I hope you are all having a better day. I for one am going to have a drink and watch old sitcoms with my blankey.

The Sweet Life of Being a Pet Owner

Pugs are great for many reasons. They're sweet and loving, small enough to not be a pain in the ass, but big enough not to be annoying... and they have a built in little mood barometer. When the tail is curly, all is well with the world. But when it is straight and floppy, something is amiss.

I received such a warning today on my way home with Midas riding shotgun. I glanced over to find that his tail had straightened out and he had a bizarre look on his face. As if he could answer me, I said: "Aw, Midas, what's wrong."

And he did answer me. He answered me by puking his guts out all over the passenger seat of my car.



Hooray pugs.

Blogafreakinpolooza

Wow, its been so long since I have had the time, and more importantly, the energy to sit down and really complain about life, that I worry I may have lost my readers! Both of them!

I have had a bunch of things floating around in my head, though, that I wanted to tell you about so I'll try to cram it all in here and then maybe not get so behind again. If you're expecting any sort of order or grammatical structure to this, however, you're not likely to find it. Infact, I've already lost my train of thought as my eyes wandered over to Maya who is sitting quietly in the sun chewing the face off a stuffed rabbit.

Okay then.

First off, in my unwellness, I got to spend more time in bed watching TV than I am accustomed to. I kept seeing this annoying Nutri-system commercial over and over again with Jillian Barbiere in it and it really makes me think that the creators of these commercials, or possibly even the entire product line, are men. But not just any man, stupid, stupid men.
I'm not exactly your ladie's lib candiadate of the year-- infact, I hate Hillary Clinton, but I do think that these commercials are mildly offensive!
The first time I ever noticed them was when they boasted the pretty, skinny later who gushed all over about becoming a trophy wife. Wow, what a catch. But I get the idea and blah, blah, blah, didn't think of it again. Until Ms. Jillian Barbiere steps out onto the scene wearing form-fitting blue jeans and a top that shines like a polyester moon. Her big job is to catch a football and announce triumphantly: "Now, how many girls can do that?!"
Ummm... lets see, how many girls in the world minus the ones without arms minus Marcia Brady and I think we've got the answer! What do you mean how many girls can catch a football that is gently tossed in their direction? I don't know about you, but if someone tossed me a football, I would whip off a shoe and hold it up to my face and start talking on it like it was a telephone. THAT IS JUST HOW CONFUSED I WOULD BE.
And when this whole diet revolution first blorted onto the scene a few years back, I never assumed that its shiny, plastic, red-tinted food stuffs were for fat women only... I assumed that they were for fat PEOPLE. How wrong I was, as they have now, due to popular demand, I suppose, come out with a Nutri-System for Men. It is probably a bag of low-fat chips and a video of Jillian Barbiere catching a football in slow-motion set to repeat a thousand times. I don't know. Feel free to watch the above video and see if you get what I'm saying.

Also, be sure to check out my other two blogs below. I decided to split them up for readability sake.

Clearly I can't think of a witty way to end this, so I'm going to crawl into the closet with my plastic hamburger and hide from any footballs which could be wizzing through the air.

Here Piggy, Piggy, Piggy

Advertising. Apparently anyone can do it. Commercials and TV spots are getting worse by the second, it seems. I have thousands of examples of commercials that make my brain hurt, radio spots that grate at my last nerve, and badly photoshopped print ads that put my entire industry to shame. If you're going to hire some girl who can't even catch a football to do your advertising, then make sure that what they're churning out doesn't cross the line from "bad" to "I think I'll go ahead and not use this product."

One such moment occurred for me just yesterday. I had been making sausages for Mike for dinner. I'm not a big sausage fan. You will never ever hear me say, Mmmm, I think I'll have some sausage. Though, I had to admit, as I was cooking them, they smelled pretty darn good. I picked up the package and was looking at the label as I pondered whether or not I would try a piece of one and there it was, this particular sausage manufacturers idea of a great logo:

It was a baby pig nuzzling the face of the mommy pig. Not only did both look sublimely happy, but it pretty much looked like it should be on the cover of a children's book. Well, gee. Can't wait to take a big ol' bite out of that.

Way to go, Slovaceks. I'll be eating your sausage never.

Thumb-Sucking Litterer

I never understood the mentality of someone who could just litter. How could you just toss something on the ground and walk away? I feel guilty for dropping something, for God's sake. I guess its the same mind-set that makes people think its okay to leave their piles of garbage on the seats, floors, and in the cup-holders at the movies. Someone else will clean it up, right?

As if that weren't bad enough, I actually ran into someone who is a truly trying to be an all-around parasite on the planet earth and making brilliant strides in doing so. I was pulling up to one of Georgetown's many 7 minute stop-lights where you sit in long lines and watch tumbleweeds blow past the intersection and something was catching the light in the corner of my eye. It was a van in the lane next to me where a girl, about my age... who I can only assume can't catch a football... had rolled down the window about halfway and was stuffing mounds of trash out onto the road. Cups, fast food bags, and God knows what else were all raining from her window. As she stuffed the last piece out, she settled back into her seat, stuck her thumb into her mouth, and went to town on that baby like it was a trumpet in a jazz band.

Mesmorized by this, she noticed I was looking over at her. I don't think I was leering, and despite my fantasies of rubbing her nose in her garbage mess like a dog, I wasn't giving the stink eye or anything (a look which I have perfected, by the way) I was just looking in that direction.... at the thumb sucking litterer.

Well, stink eye or no stink eye, the fact that I had been looking over there at all was enough to send her into a rage that involved a whole other finger. She started screaming random swear words at me in Spanish and flicking me off, hanging out the window like she was going to somehow REALLY make a point that way. Either way, a reaction was required somehow. I could have been mature and ignored it. I could have started screaming back, though, chances are, I don't want to mess with someone who is tough enough to suck their thumb in public. Anyway, I could have been the bigger person... but I wasn't. Instead, I gestered to myself as if saying: "Me?" and then wiped a fake tear from my eye... which sent her straight over the edge.

Of course, now, all of the turtles had finished crossing the road and the light was green. So I drove away and she continued to sit in the intersection shaking her middle finger at me... or drying her thumb in the wind, something like that.

But as I drove away, I couldn't help but wonder:
"WHAT IN THE HELL?!"
First of all, I didn't confront her.
I didn't point and laugh.
I didn't make a snotty face.
And, oh yeah, I DIDN'T DUMP MY TRASH ALL OVER THE ROAD.
As far as I can see, I didn't really do anything that warranted being called a dirty pirate hooker (maybe not exactly what she said) and I'm not even sorry that I caught the thumb-sucking hour in the low-life van. It made my day a little more interesting.
But I guess the whole thing was pretty interesting for her too.
I swear, I couldn't make this crap up. What a world.

Sabotaging Your Own Love

I don't care if you're Mother Theresa, the moment you get on the road, in your little car, everyone is the enemy. You hate everyone simply for existing. There isn't a single other car on the road that is really a good driver. They're going too fast, too slow, you catch them trimming their toenails with no hands or feet on the wheel, they can't use a cell phone and manuever a turn, whatever. You know you hate them. We all hate them. So logically speaking, KNOWING that you hate everyone on the road, it stands to reason that everyone on the road hates you. That said, why would you choose this medium to advertise your cause. How many times have you seen some idiot causing minor gridlock in the passing lane and scoffed to yourself: "Ha, an Obama fan. Figures."
You're not scoring any points for things you stand for when you advertise on your car. Even people I agree with that irritate me on the road, leave me reevaluating my own system of beliefs. Worse yet, the people who raise my blood pressure the most are out there with their: "I'd rather be shooting a deer in the face" bumper stickers and their metal scrotum hanging from the back hitch and that makes me hate hunters and neanderthals THAT MUCH MORE.
So, the moral of the story is, the next time you think its a good idea to Free Tibet, maybe buy a t-shirt or something. Because when you cut me off on I-35 it makes me think that maybe Tibet can kiss my ass too. And the world... can be a better place...

H.E.B. Here Everyone's a Boob

H.E.B. is our local grocery store. The only local grocery store. There is no Albertsons or Kroger that I know of in a 100 mile radius. Just HEBs as far as the eye can see. It stands for "Here Everything's Better" but in reality, I've come to the conclusion that on any given day, at any given time, I would rather remove my fingernails by sanding them down with a piece of sandpaper soaked in sulfuric acid than have to stop by this establishment for any reason. Rather than rant about the many reasons why death is preferable than having to stop in and buy an onion, I think I'll shorten this to two top ten lists. In case you haven't noticed, I have been sick and this marks my return to humanity... or the lack thereof within the public realm.

Part I:
Top Ten Things I Would Rather Do Than Go to HEB
10. See if I can pull a pot roast through my nose- in one nostril out the other.
9. See what the inside of a fire ant hill tastes like.
8. Give up on eating the food sold at HEB and subsist on rocks from now 'til eternity.
7. Carve the first half of the Webster's Dictionary into my arm with a rusty nail.
6. Become a professional country line dancer.
5. Experiment with household cleaning products to find the latest whitening sensation in dental hygiene.
4. See what it feels like to take a deep cleansing breath whilst submerged in a tank full of lemonade.
3. Don an entire wardrobe made of finely woven nose and butt hairs.
2. Only listen to music that features the tinny sounds of the harpsichord.
1. Be on the receiving end of an enema filled with Dave's Insanity Sauce

Part II
Top Ten New Slogans Proposed to HEB for Their Consideration
10. HEB: We Speak Much The English
9. HEB: Where Time Stands Still.
8. HEB: Where Your Will To Live Stands Still... and then Goes In Reverse.
7. HEB: Our Produce Aisle Fits 4
6. HEB: Second Home to the Elderly
5. HEB: Spend Some Time in Our Parking Lots!
4. HEB: Give Us Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Muddled Asses.
3. HEB: Because You Have To!
2. HEB: My Nephew Designed Our Parking Lot!
1. HEB: You Know What They Say About Big Shopping Carts!

The Seedy Underbelly

Every small town has their small shops and stores that make you wonder how the owners make rent. You know the ones, Italian food by Pedro Gonzalez, western-boot repair, and the occassional inspirational gifts by Betty. I've seen lots of places like that in my 28 years of residency on planet Earth. I've often found myself wondering how Dave's Tennis Racket Repair is a legitimate functioning business or how the man selling battery powered light up wall art next to a used vaccuum retailer gain enough profit to make their entreprenuership worthwile. Then I came across a little place in Winter Park, Florida, whose name I must change. We'll call it... Aircraft Parts Supplier. In all the time that I lived out there, worked out there, and frequented the street in which said supplier was located on... it never seemed to have any customers.... during normal 9-5 hours that is. Maybe it was a coincidence, but whenever Mike and I would be coming back from the movies, or bookstore, we would have to stop for someone turning in to their parking lot. Even after midnight. It made me wonder if maybe this place that seemed to sell parts for aircrafts and satellites (because there's a huge consumer drive for those products) in the middle of the night was maybe just a front for... I don't know... a meth lab?! A crack den? A Burlesque house? It just seemed like some sort of cover up so all I do is imagine something seedy with sinister late-night goings on. Incase they have the internet bugged-- I am in no way accusing them of ACTUALLY being a crack den... this is all just speculation... imagination... what have you. Just something that has crossed my mind. This place boasts the traffic of 500 customers a day... but I can't imagine that many people in the Orlando area are desperately seeking wires or replacement parts for satellites. I'm pretty sure the people of Orlando are desperately seeking a beer and some bbq chips. Am I crazy here?
I must be. I have since come upon another entreprenueral anomoly. Its a little place right here in Georgetown called Beds, Beds, and More. They have weird hours that change daily and make little mattress TeePees in triangle formations on the front lawn.I have racked my brain to come up with reasons that this place could possibly be a functioning business enterprise. It is about thirty miles north of any sort of metropolitan area. It is a little out of the way shop that I can't imagine anyone going out of their way to get to. Not to knock them, I'm sure that they carry a quality product, I'm just trying to figure out the financial logisitcs of it. First of all, it is nestled on the outer edge of Wolf Ranch which boasts two high quality competing mattress chains and a sleepnumber superstore. Beds, Beds, and More displays many of its mattresses on the front lawn. Its literally a step up from buying your bed at a garage sale-- appearance wise. I can safely point out that as a consumer, when I was in the market for a new bed a few months ago, Beds, Beds, and More didn't make the cut of places to shop and I would by no means call myself financially well off. Georgetown, however, seems to be a town of people who are fairly pretentious and I'm not saying that to sound like a jerk. "They" have actually gone out of their way to perpetuate the "Georgetown" attitude by launching a T-shirt counter-campaign against neighboring Austin's: "Keep Austin Weird" slogan. Georgetown, with it's conservative and non-eclectic view of life proudly propogates "Keep Georgetown Normal" apparell. So, since Georgetown, in theory, is not a fan of the eclectic and Bed, Beds, and More is certainly of that genre... I am left again to wonder where their customer base is coming from. I seriously doubt that people are driving in from other towns to buy a bed off a lawn... so where is the revenue coming from? WHERE?!!!!
I have tried and tried to make sense of this conundrum, but the only thing my brain can come up with is crack dens and prostitution rings. I'm sorry. Either that, or I should open my own Pug Petting Zoo or something. Maybe I could make and sell toilet paper cozies out of old bubble gum wrappers? Either way, business must be good and I am missing out.

Brought Down by the BBQ

It has happened again, in a small, midwestern town, another family has been torn about by barbeque. My family.

It all started pleasantly enough on a warm, sunny, Texas afternoon at the dog park. Everyone was happy and relaxed when we got in the car to go home and my thoughts began to wander to lunch. What could I grab quickly on the way home. I would pass a handful of Chicken Shacks en route, but they have yet to sound the least bit appetizing. Then I remembered that The Pit Barbeque had a drive-thru. I had never eaten there before, but I figured I could grab some lean sliced turkey and share it with the dogs. I thought that would be really NICE of me.

So I did just that and the ride home got curiouser and curiouser. First I had the bag of meat on the passenger seat since both dogs prefer to ride on my lap but Maya had slithered over to the passenger side and was rubbing up against the bag like a cat does to a stranger's leg.

I moved the bags to the backseat and Maya promptly collapsed into a pile on the passenger seat-- playing dead-- where she remained until we got home.

Once home, I emptied several large pieces into both her and Midas' bowls and some onto a plate for myself. By the time I walked to the table Maya was already at my heels with eyes as wide as saucers, desperately perched on the tips of her toes.

Here's where I made the mistake of brushing her off and sitting down to eat my own food. Her little, tiny, kolache body exploded into a ferocious stream of smeeps and woofs and growls the likes of which I have never heard. I'm pretty sure that cussing was involved and also a musing over why in all the time we have lived here, she hasn't had fresh turkey slices before.

When I went back to the kitchen for a glass of water, I broke down and gave them each a few more pieces by hand. Like a wide eyed, mechanical duck, Maya slurped down the pieces without even considering chewing.

We haven't spoken since her little outburst. She is sitting in the corner giving me the stink eye and occassionaly checking the contents of her empty food bowl.

It is a sad and tragic thing when families are ruined by the wonders of barbeque. Maybe Maya will come around... but most likely she's going to have the Turkey Trots.

The Short and the Fat of it.

The drawstring is one of those amazing inventions that appeals to the dog on so many levels. I couldn't tell you what a single one of those levels are, but the appeal is there, none-the-less, and so came an end to yet another pair of gym pants.
Actually, that's not completely true. Despite the fact that I had apparently interrupted an intense game of tug-o-war with my pants the other night, the damage was pretty minor. Thing 1 and Thing 2 had managed to create a hole the size of a quarter where the drawstring used to feed through the top of my pants. Does anyone really like drawstring pants anyway? As long as I continue to wear my pseudo mu-mu as the top half of this fashion don't, no one will notice that I am in fact, a hobo. I also have two other pairs of workout pants. One of them is a little tight. The other is a classic capri which shows off my other fashion dilemma-- socks that bulge out of my shoes because I never seem to have any pairs that actually fit.
It took me three days of convincing myself that I needed new workout attire and then reconvincing myself that I'm not going to the gym to make friends, and what I have is fine. And so, the angry hobo in me lost and I made the trek out to the outer excrement of Round Rock to "shop."

I forgot how annoying and frustrating it is to shop for gym clothes when you are a short person. First of all, what happened to the good ol' days when you could go to the store and buy a pair of sweatpants? Sure, they aren't fashion forward, but what does one do in sweatpants? Clean the grout in the bathroom, lay around with a runny nose, go to the gym. This is an essential "feel sorry for me" piece of attire and it has most definitely gone by the wayside! Now what are you faced with when you go to the store? Cute little gym "outfits." I'm sorry, but I never ever see anyone at the gym with the "matching hoodie." I don't know where these people are working out, but the athletic wear section is filled with these items. Next you will be overwhelmed by the selection of $50 workout shirts. I'm at a loss for how to even describe these to you.

Who is wearing these? Generally, I'm surrounded by people in old "paint the house" T-shirts that say things like: "I got a hot carl at Carlsbad Canyon Cafe."
But anyway, I came for pants. Now workout pants typically come in three sizes. Small, Medium, and Large.
It doesn't matter which size I choose, the fit will be exactly the same but the legs will get longer. Because people who work out aren't fat-- just really, really tall.

In most places I can go try on a pair of jeans and if they aren't "petite" they will undoubtedly be a little long on me. But not workout pants. Noooo. Gym pants are insanely "don't try walking in these suckers" too long for me. When I try them on, it makes it look like I am missing a portion of my leg. Fortunately, that isn't too much of a problem, because apparently, the cool, hip thing to do today-- 200-freaking8-- is wear capris!

This is truly awesome because the length problem doesn't go away just because I'm now wearing a size small capri pant-- oh no. Instead of coming mid-calf, they skim just above the bulging socks.

(*Bulging Sock-- a. Condition where the heel of your sock falls somewhere around your ankle, creating an odd sock-bubble-formation when combined with shoes. Most likely the result of accidentally wearing your husbands socks to the gym. b. Condition thereby which an unfortunately endowed male creates a fake crotch bulge by way of sock to be used in much the same way a peacock's plumage display would attract a mate.)

Even if I happened, on the off chance, to be wearing socks that actually fit me, these pants put the whore in horrifying. And there you have it folks. While you can find these pants in a stunning array of polyester, thermal mesh, and just plain cotton, the length options leave much to be desired for a girl who can still wear high heels without making men in the same room extremely uncomfortable.

So, I broke down and went to the "petite" section of the store. I HATE this section because apparently to the retail buyers, "petite" is synonymous with "shrinking old women." It doesn't mean "short" it means "osteoporosis." The clothes on display in the petite section are only meant to be seen on the bodies of little old women who wear plastic sun visors and spend their days at Tuesday Morning. Naturally, in said department's one rack display of "athletic wear" I found a colorful array of sea foam green track suits which boast several features including: flame retardancy, water resistance, and a shiny top coat. For added style, a cotton white racing strip is added on the side of the pants and on the (wait for it) (wait for it) matching hoodie. Annnnd they are capri pants.
Granted, the pants from this department would have the correct mid-calf fit on me-- but I still don't feel I'm ready to dive headlong into sea foam green.

I spent an hour looking for exercise pants and finally... FINALLY found a decent pair. ONE decent pair. It was in the juniors department. I'm not even sure what that means. I know I shopped there when I was in high school. But anways, they are navy blue with a yellow stripe. I wasn't exactly going for a color scheme, black or grey would have been best, but these pants fit and I could walk in them. SUCCESS. Maybe they will be the ones that help me shed 300 pounds. Then I'd probably feel great just wearing gym shorts... and that's a whole other ball game.

And They're Going to Change the World?

2008. It's an unfortunate year for names when it comes to elections and the race to public office. At least out here it is. I'm going to go for the big guns first and run through our presidential hopefuls.
First off, there is Barack Hussein Obama. I still wake up every morning, stretch, and stumble out of bed thinking "Wow. We're going to elect someone president who is named Hussein Obama. Wow. Too bad there are no good bagel places in Georgetown." Trust me, no one knows better than me that a name is just that, but frankly, I'm no democrat, and more importantly, my maiden name was Anger. Everyone asked me "hehe, are you angry" as if they were the first ones to ever think that one up and you know what? I am angry. Possibly the most angry person in a ten mile area at any given time. So what does that say?
Okay, it probably doesn't say that Obama lives in caves and keeps terrorist blueprints in his underwear drawer but the fact remains that it probably does quietly strike a little chord in the hearts of all Americans that just says a single, barely audible: "yeesh."

Next there is Mike Huckabee. The fact that he did not campaign with banners, buttons, and t-shirts that said: "I Heart Hucakabee" is just a waste of brain power. Huckabee. Huckabeeeeee. Was this a character on a Nick-jr cartoon? Huckabee Hound?

Ron Paul. Don't get me wrong. I am a Ron Paul supporter... even though he has no chance of being elected president. How's that for dedication. But Ron Paul? He has two first names! Like Ricky Bobby! He should be in Nascar or starring in a movie with Will Farrell at the very least.

Hillary Clinton. What's wrong with Hillary Clinton? Don't get me started. But when it comes to her name, the only thing she really has costing her points is the fact that we already know it-- and the woman behind it. Wow, that was a little harsh. Really, I have nothing against her... I just don't want to see her in the Oval Office again. Hopefully this won't mean digging my eyeballs out of my sockets with a melon baller...

I think that about covers the big dogs. Now we come down to the little local election deals. Infact, I am willing to expand this category to not only poll candidates, but to anyone out here with a stupid sign on the side of the road displaying their name. That way I can include Jose Cuervo Real Estate. No embellishment needed.

The following names are littered along the central Texas highways. Enjoy:
Chody
Duty (sorry, in my head it sounds like Doody. Like poopy. I know, I'm five.)
Spanky
Gattis (the name of a pizza conglomerate of sorts... possibly the owner-- could never think of this person and not think "extra mushrooms.")
Acock (again, I am five.)
Thomas Kincaid (shares the name with a man who does commercialized paintings that make old women swoon but are really not good.)
Gore and Kilgore (seriously.)
Crabb
Strange
Daniel Boone
Jimmy Fallon
Stubblefield
and Camille Glasscock.....to name a few.

Either way, be sure to get out there and vote, otherwise you'll have no one to blame when someone you don't like gets into office and your life either continues to suck or starts to suck at a more rapid pace.

Oy with the Poodles Already.

My grandfather on my mother's side always used to say: "If you don't like dogs, you ain't no damn good." Or... something to that effect. If I said I believed that to be one of the single most definable traits in a person, that would probably raise many an eyebrow. I cannot, however, tell a lie. I'm not saying you have to love dogs to the extreme that I love mine-- in that not everyone has birthday presents for their dogs once a year and dainty leather flower collars... but if you think dogs are "icky" I don't see us buying matching friendship necklaces anytime soon.

Most of my days, as of late, have been filled with taking the dogs out to the dogpark for some excercise. My goal is to show up there at least once without someone pointing out the adorable little meatball or pointing to Maya and saying: "Wow, she's really round." Anyway, its not such a bad time for me either. Its some excercise walking around the grounds and dodging pecans (they are trying to kill me from above as well as the ground) and its also a nice place to sit and read school books while Maya eats sticks and Midas rolls in stink spots.

The park is pretty new, and already there are some regulars. There is another man who brings his two pugs and a lady that has a large poodle and a pug. A man with two Welsh Corgis (Midas hates this guy as much as Kate Winslett, I don't know why) a lady and her jack russell and another lady with a great dane that are often there when we are. One by one, Midas is training each dog to use me as their personal obstacle course. Its really very embarrassing.

When Midas is at the dog park he likes to run in long, wide, loops at top speed. Sometimes he'll do figure 8's but at some point during his laps, he always has to run between my legs. That's where he always ends up. A momma's boy to the core, he just wouldn't be comfortable anywhere else. Dog by dog, he is teaching everyone to do this. I'm not kidding, both the great dane, the grande sized poodle, and at least one other pug have taken to trying to wedge themselves between my legs in the course of their running. Be that as it may, I have yet to actually wipe out and land completely on my ass. This involves a lot of straddling and hopping and I am a little disturbed by the fact that this is viewed as an acceptable thing to dogs. It seems to amuse the other people enough, though. Maybe that has to do with the fact that, Giselle Bundchen, I am not. I could maybe hit 5'3" if heels were involved and at the dogpark, they certainly are not.

Aside from Midas, the one dog that I have to look out for every single time is the big poodle. That thing's head comes up to just below my chest. Can you picture it trying to use my legs as a tunnel? Its not pretty. I don't know what he gets out of it, but I usually end up feeling violated and at a loss for balance.

So anyway. I was just wondering if anyone else has these sorts of problems. No? I didn't think so.

Brad Pitt: Why I Couldn't Give a Shit

Here it is Sunday and I have had the opportunity to see a few movies this weekend. Inevitably, as I talk about said movies with friends of the female persuasion, the oohing and the ahhing and the gushing will ultimately consume the entire conversation at the very mention of the name: Brad Pitt.
Am I the only one who doesn't find him attractive in the least? Not only Mr. Pitt, but most male actors in general. I don't think any of them are all that great. Not Matt Damon, not Matthew Mc...an..ah...hey... not Ben Affleck... and definately not Brad Pitt. I have never been the type of girl who could get caught up in that fake crush garbage over Ashton Kutcher or Justin Timberlake and I'm glad for that. I remember when I was in high school. I had befriended a girl who was absolutely convinced that Eddie Vedder was her man. The whole wife thing was barely a blemish on the fact that she was going to eventually marry him and have his nasty little babies. I think of that every now and then when a girl flips out over some guy in a movie. I think of my crazed high school friend that most likely carved the various combinations of her and his name into her arm.

Granted most girls who think Brad is just the cutest aren't sending away for locks of his hair in the mail, but I always wondered why it was that I wasn't impressed with the on-air male persona. Is it my lack of imagination or is it that sports heros are much better looking. I think it could be the latter. Anyway, it reminded me of this conversation I had about a year ago. I was at dinner with Mike and our close friend, Wayne. It was just after I had lost a job and was feeling borderline hysterical... but as usual, a good dinner with friends can do wonders. We were all making a list of our top five "celebrity crushes" and all of us were having a really hard time, but it was pretty darn funny. I actually went back and looked at the final list that I had left on a blog for Wayne and in just a year, I think I can make some changes for the better.

It is my hope that this list will make me a little more normal, a little less practical, and a little more... ehhhh. Retarded.
Anyway, here goes:

Jenny's list o' celebrity crushes:
1. Brett Favre-- football star
Seriously. Sports stars are the way to go. Forget those fruity actor boys.


2. Jeff Francoeur-- baseball star
The crazy wife person hanging on him is inconsequentional:


3. Scott Patterson-- baseball star TURNED actor
Now is a good time to point out that this list is not in any specific order:


4. John Cusack-- Actor
I'm talking Better Off Dead Cusack and NOT Being John Malkovich Cusack:


5. Michael Cera-- Actor
This one took some work. I normally go for older men... but for Michael Cera, I am 8 years his senior. Yikes:


6. Mark Ruffalo-- Actor
Since I was edging my way to junior high before Michael Cera could eat solid foods, I think I deserve a back-up. If Mark Ruffallo could just do a few more decent movies and promise to never attempt facial hair again, it would be okay:


There you have it. My five, plus one, list of non-Pitts that are worthy of the girly-girl attention. My absolute favorite, though, is this guy:

So hands off.
Last year's bumped candidates include:
David Schwimmer,

Jake Gylenhall,

Jonathon Crombie,

Andy Roddick,

and JJ Redick.
I could probably be convinced to keep Jonathon Crombie, but the rest are all so yesterday.
By the way that is Hurley with Mike in that picture. She is a neighbors dog and our very good buddy. She has a little crush on Mike as well!