One of my sisters pointed out something about my blog the other day and it is NECESSARY that I  clear this something up immediately.
She mentioned some of her friends read my blog, (Thanks friends!), and they were wondering if  the various pictures on my Facebook Badge are really me. 
Okay.
After I stopped gasping in mortification, I knew I had some splainin' to do. 
If you look over to the right, you'll see my Facebook Badge. I have a ton of fun on Facebook. I'm not going to go into my FB love, because I've got major stuff to do today, but that is my let-my-hair-down place to go and thanks to my friends, some, (ahem . . . whispers Jody's name) who are even more irreverent than me, we have a hell of a party going on over there all the time. 
The top picture, the girl in the red shirt, that's me. (I love that shirt so much. It's just the perfect red. Not too orangey. Not too hard. Reds are temperamental with me, but this one was born to be my red.) And of course, that's my wonderful Hubby with me.
A few weeks ago, it was "Post Your Celebrity Lookalike As Your Profile Pic" week.  And since I like to be a funster, I posted 2 different celebrities. 
The top one is Annie Lennox. 
I've been asked for the last 20 somethin' years, "Do you know who you look like?" And I've always nodded my head and said, "Yes, Annie Lennox." 

Although, one time as Annie's name was about to fall from my lips, the person doing the asking said, "You look like Ty Pennington."


I was all, "For Real?" 

I was consumed with the peach fuzz on my face for a long time after that.

Then there was the time, my daughter was introduced on the football field before the Friday night game. Her high school has a tradition of introducing all seniors who participate in the games, at the last game of the season. So, the players, cheerleaders, band and colorguard seniors all parade onto the field with their parents flanking them. It's a dressy occasion, so I wore something perhaps with a short dress kind of feel and maybe a little bling and my leggings and stilettos.

Now, I wear heels just about everywhere and let me tell you, it is toouuugh, clomping down the 50 yard line as your spiking heels are flinging up astroturf. Anyway, after they introduced my little dancing daughter, she went off to commandeer her squad and we took our rightful place in the parents' section of the stands. At halftime looking for some cash for the concessions, she found us and informed me that one of her guy friends thought I looked like Victoria Beckham. 

I wept right there in the stands.


So, except for the Dude who obviously needs glasses and the person who thought I looked like a well-muscled, over-gelled, carpenter man, I've always been told I look like Annie. 
Annie sings like a nightingale and has flawless skin, free of any wrinkles. 
I sing like a frog and my crow's feet are more like California Condor feet, 

but I do have blonde, short hair. So, there's that . . .


My first bit of trouble came when FB friends who'd missed my post on the celebrity look-a-like status, started oohing and ahhing over my Annie Lennox pic, saying, "You look AMAZING!" 
And I was all, "Dear God! My high school reunion's coming up! I need to set the record straight or people are going to think I must have suddenly taken up meth."
I didn't think I needed to explain the other picture. 

That is Coco, wife of rapper Ice T, owner of enormous bazoombas and a badonkadonk like no other. Clearly, she is not me with my flat pancake butt. Thus, the reason I posted her pic on my blog, because I'm all about the ironicadelic laughs, no matter how pitiful my attempts.


And so to make this absolutely clear, the beautiful Annie and the pole-dancer giving her best to the lollipop, are both NOT me, even on my best days. 
Having said that, my Hubby threw a new one at me the other day. 
He was on the phone with his people, the Mac customer service line because he thinks they're all there, waiting for his call so they can chit-chat in a best friend kind of way.
I heard him say to Laurie, the poor customer service girl, who had had to do the chatty-chat with him while helping him with whatever Mac triviality that had popped into his Mac head that day, "Where are you Mac people at?"
He laughed after she answered and said, "Oh, they hate my wife there."
So, I immediately knew he was talking about Oregon. 
I've mentioned it before in my blog, but it bears repeating. Those Oregon folks are not nice to my kind. 
And if you're from Oregon, I apologize, but the Land Of The Old Hippies and All Things Granola really  has a deep hatred for girls who like to paint their lips and brush their hair and wear high heels and maybe a little fur, (fake), and some leather, (not fake) and you know, just in general, girls who like to look . . . clean and maintenanced. 
Now, I, myself have no problem with women who think makeup is ridiculous or women who think dreads and hairy armpits are the way to go. I tolerate diversity in grooming. But, don't be hatin' on me because I'm different than your jagged fingernail self. We can all co-exist. 
Except for a few places, like the jewelry store and the one non-Birkenstock shoe shop I found, every Oregonian shot me nasty looks and lobbed snide comments at me. 
Twice. TWICE, I was referred to as Barbie.
And not in a good way like, "Hey, you're looking as fresh as the new Fab Girl, Barbie."
No. 
In a restaurant, I innocently asked my waitress if the long line of both men and women snaking its way through the restaurant was the bathroom line. Our waitress, who wore her gray, witchy hair past her waist and seemed to enjoy flaunting her braless breasts which were also past her waist, in a tight gray t-shirt that read, "Bitch", gave me the scathing once-over and said with just the right sting of snark, "Yup, it's a unisex bathroom, but don't worry Barbie, it shouldn't take too long. Just sit tight with your pretty little self."
Pretty was uttered in a hiss.
I was so wounded. 
My hubby asked poor Mac service girl Laurie if she was like the other Oregonians. Did she wear makeup? 
She did not. Ah-hah! But, she also said she was not prejudiced against girls who did, so I guess all the nice Oregonians were hanging out at their houses doing yard work, while I was there, cause I didn't meet many of them.
So, as my hubby related my story to her, in his effort to describe my Barbie look, he said, "She looks like Bridgitte Nielsen."
And I was all, "COME ON!!!! I look more like Ty Pennington than Brigitte Nielsen!"

And he told her, "Oh, I mean Annie Lennox."


Because, the two of those ladies are easily interchangeable. 
Poor Laurie had to listen as my husband told the rest of the story, which was in a nutshell, that by the time I left Oregon, I felt abused and as much of an outsider as I've ever felt in my life. And that's saying a lot, being the 90 pound dweeb who was always picked last in PE every single time throughout all my years of grade school. 
It wasn't until we crossed the border and found ourselves in Napa, that I found comfort. The first girl we came across was wearing a fur jacket, a plunging lace camisole and red stilettos. She had platinum blonde gloss for hair, jumbo silver hoops in her ears and silvery eye shadow up to her eyebrows. I smiled at her in secret girly-girl language and whispered to my Hubby, "It feels good to be back with my people. I never want to go to that mean place again."
Sorry Oregon, but be nice. We high maintenance queens need love, too. 
So, really all I was trying to tell you Internet, was that this is me. 

Annie Lennox, Ty Pennington, Brigitte Nielsen and Coco the stripper/rapper wife, I am not . . .


This is me, giant Condor Feet around my eyes and Barbie accessories and a perfect red. 
Glad we straightened that out. 
Today's Dooo Itttt Download: The Cure's, "Pictures of You."
I love The Cure. I was so into them back in the day. The Cure brings back memories of simpler days and great heartbreaking angst and passionate loves that consumed me for at least a couple of days. The great lyrics, the sad, mournful vibe they had going on were just perfect snapshots of my life all those years ago. 
If only those pictures were real. 
I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel

I have a bad habit of keeping my cell phone in the car when I'm at home. I always figure if someone needs to call me that desperately, they know my home digits and they know with my super important, busy life, I'm always home with the 3 dogs and the laundry, trying to ignore all of their whiny needs. 

I always forget about this one thing, though. 

The texting. 

And we all know kids are not supposed to be texting from school. Just like we all know that kids DO text from school. My girls don't abuse the forbidden texting. I can tell you this from their cell bills. In fact, my Julia, who's still used to the Catholic school enforcements and an extreme rule abider, never texts me. 

My Victoria will text to inform me she's staying after school for one activity or another or to tell me she forgot her lunch and can I pllleeeeaaase bring her some McDonalds!!! Or there was the one time she brought me to instant tears with her text, "Just wanted u 2 no Mom, I luv u very, very much." 

These kids. They know how to ravish my heart and completely undo me, that's for sure.

The other day around 1:00,  I needed something out of my car. As I stretched across the seat to reach for it, I heard the familiar ring of my text. Picking up my phone, I was stunned to see a text from my Julia— my rule follower—my good girl—the one who is always the odds on favorite to do exactly what is expected of her. Every. Single. Time. 

As I read her words, I could barely breathe. 

It started out with "Mommy Mommy."

To my great regret, I haven't been Mommy for a few years now. With a house full of teenagers and one pre-teen I have evolved into Mom. 

Mommy is when they're sick. Mommy is when they're upset. Mommy is when they're scared. 

Mommy. Mommy.

Something was very wrong in her little girl life. 

It went on to say, "We took a test and this kid cheated off of me and idk how I got the answer and i think im going to get a zero cuz she thinks its me and im gonna cry"

My heart again, stripped raw. 

I didn't know what to do, since she'd texted me this at 10:00 that morning and whatever terrible misunderstanding there'd been, had already gone down. I tried to remain calm. 

I called Debbie, the voice of reason and my guide in this new school of ours. Trying to keep my voice from wobbling I read her the text. She was her usual soothing, logical self, telling me it was probably a matter of someone cheating off of Julia and Julia just thinking she was in the same boat of trouble as the other kid. She told me to just sit tight and wait until the end of the day to find out the real scoop. 

The end of the day was over 3 hours away, an anguished amount of time when you know your little girl needs you to make it all right. 

And I know, I know Internet, you're thinking, "Well, she's certainly making a mountain out of a little pile of mush."

But, here's the thing: The New School has not been without a few bumps on this divergent path of her little life. It's tough to be the new kid coming into a class in the smack-dab middle of the school year. It's even tougher when it's Jr High, where the toxic combination of brash immaturity and hormones-gone-wild, morphs the vast majority of middle schoolers into major assholes. A tough age for any kid, even tougher for a shy, sweet girl in glasses.

Now, don't get me wrong, she LOVES her new school. She loves it. But, I don't think she really understood that for a little while, she would feel overwhelmed, scared, lonely and out of place. 

For a little while. 

On the nights when the new school fears were too big for her little heart, I would rock her and tell her how proud I was of her— of her bravery as she left my car every day and went back again and again into that big world of new teachers, new classes, new kids. She cried on some nights and I put on my strong, encouraging smile when all I really wanted to do was break down and cry big tears with her. 

Because, no matter what happens in my girls' lives, I will forever want to be Mommy and I will always want to safeguard their tender hearts from pain; Even though I know my Mommy role has slipped away and my job now as Mom is to help them find their OWN courage to guard their hearts. 

It's harder to be Mom. Of that, I am convinced. 

I told her on those weepy nights that life will always be full of beginnings and those beginnings can be like stepping off the high dive into the depths of a seemingly, bottomless pool. I told her that fear is only a moment and the only way to deal with fear is to close those eyes and just take that big leap. Because, every change, every chance, every new step will take her higher and closer to a life well lived. 

And I valiantly hope none of my girls take that safe path in life, that path of least resistance. It is only the matter of finding the courage that lies within each of their mighty souls. 

Knowing that my girl had just started to find her way in her new school, her text had me panicked, no matter how sensible Debbie's words were.

I did then what I always do whenever I've got trouble— I called my sister. 

When she picked up the phone, my dam of tears burst. I read her the text through my hiccups. I questioned why I had pulled her out of her little school, the only one she had ever known, the place where no one would ever doubt my girl's honesty. 

My sister did her best to calm me and advised me to meet Julia after school instead of letting her head for the car pool, in case I needed to meet with the teacher, but even more importantly to be there to wrap my little girl into the safe folds of her Mommy's hug. 

Then she gave me the best advice of the day, the kind of advice that only the person who knows me well would give. "See if you can find something, anything that isn't low-cut to wear, even if you have to borrow it."

I dried my tears and found a turtleneck and a blazer. Thank God it's cold around these parts, because the turtleneck's all I've got for appropriate conference-wear and off I went in my covered body. 

On the way there, I thought about what I could say to this teacher, how I could best defend my daughter, a child she doesn't really know yet. By this time of the year, the teacher, I'm sure, has a firm grasp on the other kids, but my Julia had only been there a short few weeks and with her quiet ways, there probably wasn't much for the teacher to go on. 

I could tell the teacher that this girl of mine would rather die than cheat. 

I could tell her that my Julia insisted on doing all her homework and turning it in, the day we pulled her out of her old school, even after her sister tried to tell her it wouldn't matter in terms of her grade. Julia insisted, because "it was the right thing to do." 

I could let her know that my 12-year-old daughter just put her Barbies away a few months ago, and that this Christmas, she insisted with her hopeful face, pleading for me to say it was so, that Santa WAS real and he WAS coming to her house. 

And, of course, I told that girl of utter sweetness that Santa was definitely coming to bring her surprises for a girl who still believes in the magical mysteries of childhood. 

I could pull out Julia's picture and tell her teacher, that every time I see this photo, I tear up a little at the utter gentleness so vivid there in her little freckle face.

I could tell her that this little girl climbs into the car every day, every single day, bursting with the excitement of what she has learned in her day, filling the car with all her facts and newly learned knowledge. 

I could tell her that every day when she gets home from school, she heads for the johnboat and gets lost studying the drifting tadpoles and little squirmy creatures that inhabit the lake. 

I could tell her that I scream at her sisters and they answer back with teenaged souls full of fiery sass. But, with one cross word to my littlest, she is crushed, her tender soul so hurt by the smallest angers. That I do not yell at my Julia. She does not need it. And she never sasses back. 

I could tell her that most night she finds her way in the dark to the cozy safe spot snuggled between her parents because, she says, "I wake up alone and I feel better when I'm with you."

I could tell her that my 12-year old girl-child helped birth 5 puppies without even a squeal, that when I was busy saving a bleeding pup, she was bringing the rest of the litter into this world with a quiet confidence, helping me to stay calm. 

I could tell her teacher that my girl has an ENORMOUS collection of stuffed animals and almost every one of them she claims came from her grandpa, one of the first loves of her little life. And that I always nod and tell her that yes indeed, that one, too came from Grandpa, because it makes his heartbreaking loss a little easier for all of us.  

I could tell her that I have to pry Julia's troubles from her because she doesn't ever want to be a bother to me, this third child of mine. 

I could tell her that the zero would mean nothing in her life. It would be the fact that this sweet, virtuous girl, just trying to do her best and make her way as the new kid, would be so utterly traumatized from being accused of something she would never, ever do. 

I could tell her that this is Julia Claire, sent down from the heavens above and no tender or sweeter or truer a soul could one wish for in a daughter.  

I could tell her all these things, but it ended up I didn't have to. 

I was parked in the back parking lot waiting for the bell to ring. As soon as it did, I phoned her. She answered with a cheery hello. 

I asked her with my heavy heart how things had turned out and she answered me brightly, "Oh, fine, fine."

It turns out Julia had gotten a problem wrong on her test, a problem where they had to show their work. She said her answer was, "completely off-base." The boy sitting next to her got the same random answer. The teacher announced it was obvious one of them was cheating and that person would definitely be getting a zero. 

The teacher called Julia to her desk and asked her to explain her answer. In the throes of panic, Julia could not explain. Plus, she told me she wasn't even sure HOW she got the answer, thus, the reason for the wrong answer. She said, "I don't know how I got the answer, but I can tell you I didn't cheat. I would never, ever cheat." And then randomly, "My mom doesn't even let me chew gum." She says she doesn't know why she said that, but it just seemed to fit. 

Julia felt like the teacher didn't buy her story about the gum or the cheating and she was so upset until after class when her sweet, true friend told Julia, she'd stuck up for her and told the teacher she would vouch for Julia and the fact that she would never cheat. 

The teacher said, "I know she wouldn't."

I said to Julia as all the angst left my body, "Maybe, next time you send something that disturbing, you could send a followup saying, 'All good'. You know, so your mother won't have a stroke!"

And Julia answered, "Mom, we're not allowed to text at school!"

The teacher followed up the whole cheating ordeal with a lovely email, telling me she knew Julia had never been the one cheating. She also let me in on the fact that Julia is a complete joy to have around. 

I know the feeling well. 

Today's Definite Download: Ben Folds, "The Luckiest." I love this song. I mean, I LOVE this song. It is so simple and utterly lovely. A love song, for my Julia because I am the luckiest. 

And where was I before the day
That I first saw your lovely face?
Now I see it everyday
And I know

That I am
I am
I am
The luckiest

The other night I went to a Mardi Gras party given by a fabulous friend who was born to be a party planner, even though she is not a party planner and she's thinking about a career change to meteorology, which I'm like, "For Real?" 
Because the weather is not even close to being as fun as a party. In fact, the weather most of the time, is booorrrriiing. 
Unless you're a senior citizen. 
I have come to realize senior citizens find weather and conversation that revolves around weather to be one hell of a sizzling good time. Seriously, have you spoken to a senior citizen, lately? 
I was having a conversation with my husband's 85-year old uncle, whom we call Uncle— that's it— just Uncle, about the Tiger Woods debacle. 
I was hypothesizing about Tiger's car accident and his bloody, black-eyed, jacked-up injuries that most certainly did not come from an air bag and the fact that it must really come in handy when you find out your husband's a slimy Ho-Dog, to have an inordinate amount of high-quality golf clubs at your disposal. 
And Uncle said, "I wonder what the temperature was that time of night?"
Seriously. The most salacious story of the year and you want to know the Fahrenheit? 
I'm going to make a concentrated effort when I get older to avoid any subjects of weather and make it a rule to never, ever become an early-bird diner. 
But, anyway, back to my party story. My friend who is tall and blonde and beautiful and from Texas and about the classiest lady I know, gives the most fabulous parties. And since she has also lived part of her life in New Orleans, she is a Nawlin's party girl, through and through. 
I went to the party solo because my Hubby had some pressing family matters involving senior citizens, that did not involve weather conversation. 
Since I have been hitched to this Dude for a very long time and since we are one of those sickening couples who do everything together, (Well . . .  it's not like we're attached to the the hip. He has his interests and I have mine. And we're not annoying in like we finish each other's sentences. And we definitely would NEVER wear matching clothing. If my color scheme even closely resembles his, he'll turn right back around and change, because he doesn't want to look "like a freak". And I always remind him that the matching shirt thing is the least of his worries when it comes to his fear of looking like a freak, since he wears a man purse and pushes his guns around in a stroller. And we're not like John Tesh and Connie Selleca, all preachy to the world on how to keep a marriage ALIVE through the playing of John Tesh music. I would rather walk on hot coals to save my marriage, if that's what it took.  I can guarantee you it would be a hundred times less painful than John Tesh music. And we sleep in a king-sized bed, mainly because he tells me I'm too hot if I even lay so much as a pinky on him during sleep and I hate FEET TOUCHING ME! And for the most part we don't even watch TV anymore in the same room.  And we're definitely, definitely not this couple:) 


But what I'm trying to say is, the important stuff — time with our friends, Saturday nights, dinner together, date nights, laughing together until we bust a gut — that's us.  
And we always go to parties together. We're great at going to parties together.
I felt all out of sorts going solo and so I did the next best thing, I forced asked Tim and Michelle to be my dates. 
It was a fabulous party. 
Now, whenever I'm at a party, I like to seek out the dude standing in the corner all alone. Those folks, the ones hovering just on the edge of the periphery like they don't fit, are always the ones with the best stories and I love a good story and I love folks that don't quite fit. The crowd at this gathering was all around suburbia age. But, I noticed a young, stunning girl who looked more like she should be guzzling down cheap beer out of a plastic cup at a frat party than hanging out discussing the almoooost there stock market correction and God's greatest gift to women: Spanx. 
This girl, I am certain, thinks a spanx is a cat-like animal that lives in the jungle. 
So, we talked. And she was a cool girl. 
The party rocked well past the witching hour and it was a little after the witching hour I started missing my hubby. Around this time, his coat would be draped across my shoulders to keep me warm, his big hand would be enveloping mine and we'd be laughing and talking together with all our wonderful friends, just waiting for one to give the signal to the other that it was time to go. 
Not that I wasn't having a good time, mind you. I just like it better when he's around . . .  except if it's anywhere near a toilet. Then, no. 
At one point, late in the night, I plopped myself down on the kitchen floor to give some love to my friend's 3 dogs. Because I don't have enough dog fur already covering my clothes. 
Her little pugs, one that she rescued recently, were cuddly and sweet. 
Miss Young and Beautiful joined me on the floor in her teeny, tiny spanx-less black dress. She'd had a few cocktails and since she didn't have an ounce of body fat, I think she was feelin a groovy kind of buzz from her few cocktails.
I only say this to help explain what happened next. 
We talked about how cute the dogs were as we petted the squirmy blobs of fur. She oohed and ahhed over the rescue pup, telling me how much she loved his little face and how very much she loved, loved, loved, looooved dogs. 
I nodded my head and told her, I too, loved dogs. (I didn't add all the love, love, love, loooooves, since I was driving and therefore, not drinking because if I had been knocking back a few glasses of wine, I would have been ALL about the quadruple love.) I told her I also had 3 dogs, 2 of them being puppies, because I'm all about the dog love . . .  and a masochist, apparently. 
She said, "Ohhhhh, what kind?" As she kissed that little pug right on the mouth. (A sign of a true dog lover.)
"Labradoodles." I answered, waiting for the sparkly excitement that always comes when I announce I own this new kind of hybrid dog.
She tipped her head back and let out a small agonized groan as if I had pained her and said, "Ohhhhh, I haaaaaate those dogs!"
I was so taken aback by her honesty, I burst into laughter. Seriously. It was the most refreshing, real thing, ever. I absolutely loved it. 
She didn't try to apologize for her admission. She just kept kissing the dogs on the mouth and groaning about Labradoodles. 
I related my story to Michelle who fumed over my tale since she owns one of my Labradoodle pups. She traipsed over to Tim, all worked up, and told him about the hater. 
Now, I often say Tim and I were separated at birth. We're The Twins. I am Danny DeVito and he's Arnold Schwarzenegger. We're one brain in polar opposite bodies. For instance, we both love asparagus with a great passion and think Charlize Theron is the most beautiful woman on the planet and we're both the ignored, suck-it-up middle child in enormous families. So, we get each other, totally.
Tim had my reaction, busting a gut at Beautiful Girl's admission. 
Tim and I have decided real candor is simply delightful and we're going to start a whole new trend. 
A mother says, "My 18-month old, Pembroke Hampton, is so advanced for his age. He's reading Shakespeare!"
Just throw your head back and say, "Ohhh, I haaaaate that name! What's wrong, you couldn't think of anything douchier?"
Or better yet, "Ohhh, I haaaate toddlers and their douchy, pretentious parents. How can you tell he's saying, 'To be or not to be' instead of 'I've got crap in my pants'? Seriously, it all sounds the same."
A waitress tells you her life story, even scooching you over to sit down as she takes your order, telling you how swollen her feet are and how she works 2 jobs and . . . 
You say, "Ohhhhh, I haaaate all your talky-talk. I order the wild salmon and this is what I'm hearing, Bwaa, bwaaa, bwaaa, bwaaaa, bwaaaa, bwaaaa. I am not your girlfriend. We are not painting each other's toenails while unloading about our crap day and our PMS. Just.Bring.The.Food.  . . . . please."
A woman made of tendons and skin with no body fat is bragging about her fitness routine. "I do spin twice a day, 7 days a week! Cardio boot camp, Zumba and Pilates are all part of my everyday routine! I'm training for a triathlon and I do yoga for fun!"
You say, "Ohhhh, I haaaaate skinny bitches."
An acquaintance says, "Gwyneth Paltrow is my spiritual guru. Her Goop holds the secrets to the universe."
Hang that head back, "Gawd, I haaaate stupid people."
A parent says, "My little girl is having a recital next week. She plays the violin. Would you like to join us?"
You say, "Oh, I haaaate it when kids are learning how to play musical instruments. They're just so . . . BAD, you know? It hurts my ears. But call me when she gets good, when I can, you know, enjoy it! K?"
Or how about this Dude, "Sorry, I'm tardy to the party. I zoomed over here on my custom-made Harley. I was late cause I had to dock my 60 ft yacht at my 10,000 sq ft beach house. I barely had time to slip into my Gucci jeans and Prada loafers. I was freaking out when I looked at the time on my Rolex. Did you see my Rolex? Hey, what kind of vodka are you serving? Because I can only tolerate diamond-filtered vodka."
That one would get, "Gaaawd, I haaaate dudes who try to overcompensate for their small penis."
And then there's the parent on the sidelines of the soccer field. "That's my boy, #12. See, the ball just flew right by him. That's my Scotty."
And you say, "I haaate Scotty. He sucks! He can't kick a ball! Man, I wish the coach would bench him. S-U-C-K-S the BIG ONE, seriously!"
(I wouldn't really, just so you know!)
Or how about the Dude with the Confederate flag on his back window, the bumper sticker that says, "Save your confederate money boys, the South's gonna rise again"(seen all over my town) and the steel bull's testicles hanging from the back of his Ford F-150.
You hang out the window and declare, "I haaaaate rednecks."
On second thought . . .  maybe that's not such a good idea. 
And finally, your new acquaintance tells you they're a meteorologist. 
You say, "Oh my gaaawwd, I hate meteorologists! That shit is so booorrrring. Please, don't start talking about the weather or you'll force me into pretending to listen as you yap on about your snoozey life's work, when honestly, all I'm really thinking about is my bacon wrapped meat loaf and Johnny Depp."
I think our new trend will be so empowering, Internet. Now, if only I could actually do it. But, I won't because I'm the nice girl. I couldn't hurt someone's feelings if they showed up with a mop on their head and asked me what I thought of their new 'do. I don't have it in me. Tim, on the other hand . . . 
Anyone else have any big, truth-shall-set-you free, statements? I'd love to hear them!!
Today's Dooo Itttt Download: John Mayer's, "Say". It's such a gorgeous song and I know that Johnny didn't mean it this way. I think he was more on point about telling the sweeties in your life, you love them but could we get any more succinct encouragement to tell the tree-hugger to stop being such a Debbie Downer? 
That's all I have to say about that.
Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You'd better know that in the end
Its better to say too much
Then never say what you need to say again
Say what you need to say....

As I get older, there are so many things I wish I hadn't taken for granted. 
Mainly the fact that I could make a lunch out of a thick, cheesy pizza, a colossal ice cream sundae, a party-sized bag of Doritos and wash it all down with an extra thick milkshake and never gain a single pound. 
Man, if I could do that over again, I would be at the Cold Stone Creamery twice a day, weeping as I shoved Birthday Cake ice cream fudged together with Reese's peanut butter cups, Butterfingers and brownies into my overjoyed mouth. 
And to show off my Speedy Gonzales metabolism and my long-forgotten abs, I would wear my bikini everywhere, even to church and to work and when visiting sick people in hospitals. 
I would laugh in the face of every guy who would eventually break my heart. Or better yet, I'd throw a drink in their face before they could step into their future role of slimebucket, telling them that the burning alcohol in their eyes was for the opportunity they would never get, to shit on me. I would smile as I walked away from their shocked, drippy face knowing that there was a beautiful Prince Charming of a man waiting for me just down the curve in the road. 
I would, of course, spend even more time with my father, telling him every single day how much I loved   him and how his love and influence and song-singing had shaped my life, all for the better.
And speaking of good men, I would hop a plane to Australia, find Steve Irwin and wrap myself  around that crazy crocodile hunter's leg, pleading with him to never, ever swim with the big rays.
Same goes for Tim Russert. I would bombard him with daily emails with the one message, "Trust me on this one, GO OUT AND GET YOURSELF AN ANGIOPLASTY REALLY DARN QUICK!!!"
Because for me, there is no more lamentable of a mourning than the loss of grace and goodness on this earth. 
And lose we did, black gaping holes of virtue, gone, with each one of those fine men.
I would relish the luxurious hours I spent in my bed, sleeping peacefully with no obligations to anyone but myself.
I would have stayed out of the sun and not taken my ivory skin for granted, pampering it  and maintaining its lilly whiteness instead of trying to fry it into a bronzed state of perpetual tan,  a hopeless cause. 
I would have soaked in every minute of school, relishing the lectures and the required reading and the pleasure of learning instead of just plugging away to get through it. 
Except for Math. I'll never enjoy math. And maybe geography, too. And you know, science is like a major snoozefest. Seriously, does anyone enjoy the Periodic Table of Elements? Because, if they do, I'd just like to know this one thing—why?
And I know it's awfully vain, but there was this one special thing I would have gloried in, knowing that someday it would come to an end. 
All the attentions of men. 
That's right. I'm not too proud to say it. 
I've always been a flirty girl and I have always luxuriated in the attention of a doting man. And back in the day, doting men were easy to come by, by the handfuls, unbidden and constant. 
I'm not trying to brag, not at all. It's just a known fact of life for women. It's as innate as our breathing, the certain fact that men love us. We are glorified, adored and yes, objectified by men. 
And I for one, like a little objectification. 
I'm not talking sexual harassment, here. I'm just talking about the harmless flirting, the acknowledging looks, the stream of admirers from the pizza boy to the co-workers to the dude turning his head as  he walks down the street and yes, even the construction workers. 
It's something you take for granted until that one day, that inevitable sad day, you're called ma'am and your young flirty girl life becomes an unstoppable slide into the deep, murky pool of matronhood no matter how high your heels or how red your lips.
And please, I've already been tarred and feathered over the ma'am thing thanks to a newspaper editorial I wrote over the horror of being called ma'am for the first time. Let's just say people who are serious about their Confederate flags do not understand the subtleties of tongue-in-cheek humor. 
Among other things. 
But, as my favorite Southerner would say: That's all I have to say about that. 
There are probably some ladies reading this who are horrified at my admissions, but whatev' . . . 
I've never been a huge Gloria Steinem fan. I like my doors opened for me and I never realized how much I would freakin' miss a catcall until I noticed men were looking at me in a different way, in a "Let me help you across the street, ma'am" kind of way. 
Here's a woefully sad True Story:
One day I was in a restaurant having a lovely, lingering lunch with a dear friend. Both my friend and I noticed a gorgeous young man in a beautiful suit, sitting at a table filled with other nice-looking young dudes in impressive suits. This one guy though, with his thick, wavy hair and his sexy stubble kept staring our way. We finally realized to my extreme surprise and pleasure, that he was staring at ME. I say ME with a prepubescent affliction for a Jonas Brother, kind of squeal. 
I just knew it had to be my new rockin' jeans with pockets that are the perfect size for making my ass look 20 years younger than it really is and my freshly-highlighted "blonde" hair. 
I laughed and drank and ate with such a giggly, showy confidence knowing that Girlfriend had it goin' on since he now had the whole table of men gazing my way. 
I thought I would fall off my chair and on to my pretend 20-something-year-old ass when, as he was leaving, he stopped directly in front of me. MEEEEE!
He bent down, bringing his gorgeous face close to mine and with a big, sexy smile, said, "Excuse me, I was eating lunch and I couldn't help but notice you."
And I was all, "Uh-huhhh." Like, of COURSE you did, you sweet thing. Rrrrrrooooowww.
He cocked his gorgeous head and said, "Are you Mrs. Wrigley? Mrs. Anna Wrigley?"
I shook my head no, wondering why Mrs. was even part of the equation. 
And he saaaaiiid, "You look just like my mom's best friend. I haven't seen her in years, but she used to babysit me when I was a little boy. She made the best goulash. Are you sure you're not Mrs. Wrigley?"
The thoughts that ran through my head were (in no certain order): "People still eat goulash?" "I know who I am, assbag and who I am is not the goulash-making Mrs. Wrigley and you've got something brown in your teeth which I am totally not going to tell you about." And most importantly, "I am either going to throw up or burst into hysterical tears and then go buy myself some orthopedic hose and wrap-around shades, draw the curtains and not bother to wax or moisturize ever again."
It was a dark day, Internet. 
But then, a wonderful thing happened. We had a little gathering at our house, a small, informal gathering. And when I say that, what I really mean is, one night our close group of neighbors all got together and had a little too much wine and cocktails. It was an impromptu progressive cocktail party, for wont of a better description. We started out at one neighbor's house and halfway through the night, ambled over to another neighbor's house and at the end of the night, the whole drunken crew ended up at our house for some late-night wine, because we all really needed more wine by this time. 
One of our neighbors, a tall handsome pilot and a dear friend might have had a toxic amount little bit to drink, but I know this has nothing to do with the outcome of where I'm headed. 
He asked if he could use the bathroom and as I led him to the bathroom, I realized one of my Dung Beetles had been using the bathroom as her personal Dung Dump. I quickly threw her makeup and straightener under the sink as he objected to my fussing. As soon as I finished my quick tidy, I turned to him with a smile and told him it was all his. 
He smiled in that admiring way I'd almost forgotten and said, "You're really cute, you know that! I think you're really cute."
Now two things here: He was not in ANY way saying it in a lascivious, lusting kind of way. He was just stating an opinion. 
And two: The fact that he was slurring his words had nothing to do with his ability to have clear and astute observations. 
I shyly thanked him and reminded him to sign our bathroom book. It's a little book someone gave us as a present long ago, a book for guests to sign while doing their business. It has served up some amusing mementoes for us along the way, especially when wine is involved. 

I didn't think about it again, until a few days later, when I was cleaning the bathroom. I spotted the book and quickly flicked through it, curious to see what sort of gems our partygoers had left. I didn't notice anything new until I was about to close up the book. There, on the back page, sat all the affirmation I need to keep me going for the rest of my days on this earth:


It did not matter that he was using a term last heard in the 80's. It did not matter that a large amount of alcohol was involved. My dear, lovely friend had seen beyond my crow's feet and my fake ass and had expressed his true feelings.

I called his wife to let her know her husband had made my day. She, in turn, called him, cracking up. He said, "I did what? And who calls anybody a fox anymore? Why didn't I just say she was hot?"


It doesn't matter, my friend, that you don't remember writing such flattering words or that you called me a small, furry mammal. It's there in writing for all the world to see. 
I walk with my head held high today, knowing someone thinks I AM A FOX! 
I might just frame it. 
Today's Definite Download: Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'." Such an awful, fabulous song. 
And I'm gonna go down fighting the ma'am in my highest-heeled dang boots. 
"These boots are made for walking, and that's just what they'll do
one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you."

A little somethin' for my restaurant friend with the brown shit stuck in his teeth. Don't mess with Mrs. Wrigley or you'll get a stiletto in the eye and some rat poison in your goulash. 
"Are you ready boots? Start walkin'!"

The other day, I was in my black hole, (the laundry room), working on the never-freakin-ending laundry, the soul-killing bane of my existence, when I came upon a ball-point pen mark on one of my favorite shirts. 
I immediately thought, "I wonder what time the UPS truck will be here?"

And just so you know, The King of Queens is not my deliveryman. Although, that sure could be some great fun if it were the case.

Anyway, here's the thing:

We get a lot of deliveries around this place. A LOT. 
Between the wine shipments and the shopping boy's addictions, we have developed a deep and abiding relationship with our UPS man. 
He is a stellar man who takes his job above and beyond The Brown. He's learned through our years together that wine is a fussy mistress and doesn't take well to heat. And because of that, he knows my regular schedule, when I'm home and when I'm out. Since an over-21 signature is required for all wine, this can sometimes be a tricky dance. 
He even calls my cell if I'm off my routine and not home when he knocks. 
He has generously rendezvoused with me at a mutual location to deliver the goods a few times over. 
The wine. I'm talking about the wine, Internet. 
He makes a point to meet me with my wine, so that it doesn't get sent back to some overheated warehouse. That's the kind of special he is. 
But, on top of keeping me wine-happy, the man is a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge in brown shorts. I rarely have to Google anymore. I just wait for my UPS man to knock on the door. 
He suggested dabbing a little rubbing alcohol with a clean white cloth and then treating it with Oxyclean. 
My shirt has never looked better. 
And it's not just laundry. He has counseled me on many an issue and never steered me wrong. 
A few weeks ago, Julia had some Spanish homework that had me stumped. Truth be told, I'm absolutely no help unless her homework entails your basic 12-year-old boy's repertoire of Spanish profanities or the phrase, "Abra la ventana, por favor." 
The phrase, "Open the window please" is strangely, the only thing I retained from my high school Spanish class. 
So, we are SET if we're traveling in a Spanish-speaking country and the room is stuffy or I need to tell someone to kiss my ass. Then, I'm all over it, man. 
But, my Mr. Brown absolutely knew the gender of each one of those Spanish words. Of course, Latin countries WOULD sex up their words with male and female roles. They sex up everything they can find in those hot-blooded countries, even proper grammar.
A few years back, I developed a rash on my forearm. Ugly red, bumpy welts ran all the way up my elbow. I was sure it was leprosy and I walked around just waiting for my arm to fall off. But my UPS man took one look and declared it contact dermatitis. 
I told my doctor my UPS man had already diagnosed it as contact dermatitis and my doctor said, "Well, your UPS man knows what he's talking about when it comes to rashes."
Rashes and everything else in the universe.
The Dude is an overflowing fountain of useful information. I can't tell you how many conversations I have that start with, "Well, my UPS man says . . . "
He knew what varmint was eating the grapefruits off my grapefruit tree, (fruit rats) and what kind of trap works best. With one whiff of my pot roast, he suggested I add more red wine and Herbs de Provence. It turned out to be my most succulent pot roast ever. He is the only person I know that can discuss Dylan Thomas with me and agrees that the line, "After the first death, there is no other" is about as perfect as writing gets. He can name the presidents in sequential order and he knows the name of every single bird that dwells on my lake, even correcting me on the fact that the quackers out there are not ducks, but ducks and drakes. I had no idea that only females are ducks. 
He tipped off my hubby to the best spot in the country for catching big-mouthed bass. (And don't ask me where it is, because my eyes glaze over and my hearing shuts down with talk of such stuff.) He even helped my hubby unclog something with something in one of his guns. (Again, I shut down.) The two of them have lively conversations over their mutual impressive knowledge of all things shooting. 
He gave me his top-secret Brie and Fugi Apple Quesadilla recipe which is to DIE for and long before Stacy and Clinton declared it so, he informed me it was now fashionable to wear silver and gold pieces together. He knew why my front yard topiaries were dead at the bottom when my landscaper didn't have a clue: All the male dogs in our neck of the woods who found topiaries to be a close second when there's no fire hydrant to be found. 
He has correctly predicted every American Idol winner in the last 3 seasons. He can name every Osmond Brother including the deaf ones and fat Jimmy and like me, he can recite every single word to Bobby Sherman's "Little Woman." Don't even bother asking how that one came up. 
He knows the best way to get rid of hard water stains and he also knows the exact location of the duodenum in the human body. Once again, this post is long enough, we won't go into the details. 
He reassured me on the whole swine flu vaccine, peppering me with facts and shooting down all the urban myths that were out there, until he convinced me to inoculate my girls with the nasal vaccine.
He's a big fan of Jeffrey Sach's macroeconomics and global development theories. Once again, it's like I'm listening to Charlie Brown's teacher when Mr. UPS is schooling me on macroeconomics. Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah. It's not my idea of great conversation fodder. 
Althoughhhh . . . Bono is a big advocate of all that juju, blaa-blaa economic/development crap and if Bono were to ever have a conversation with me, (God and all the saints willing), I would be all, "OMG, I TOTALLY LOVE macroeconomics so very, very much."

Here's a picture my friend Mary made, HI MARY, with the help of Face in the Hole. And yes that is me in Bono's wife's head, but most days as I'm staring at it, I just pretend that it IS me all wrapped up in Bono's arms and he's planting a big, juicy one on MY cheek, with that scruffy face and sexy mouth. (As she sighs and lingers, staring at the picture, wantonly.)



Mr. UPS agrees with me that Quentin Tarantino is overrated and covers up his lack of plot lines with gratuitous violence. And my Mr. Brown adjusted my camera to the perfect shutter speed for snapping puppies in cracked-out crazy mode and speaking of puppies . . . 
He is my dog whisperer. 
He has guided me through the tricky paths of dogdom; Giving me tips on Miss Paris Hilton when she was a young pup; making sure I was doing everything right during her pregnancy; going through my whelping list with me over and over again and mentoring me through the trials of mothering 2 puppies. 
I swung the door open the other day and said, "The potty training is going to kill me here! These crapheads aren't getting it!"
He calmed me immediately as he put my wine shipment away, (he knows exactly where it goes),  reminding me that 11-week old puppies were the equivalent of a 4-month old baby and that I was expecting entirely too much too soon brought on by the fact that I've had them since the day they were born, thus erroneously assuming that they were more capable than they really are at this age of doing anything but being 11-week old pain in the ass puppies. Then, he gave me a good homemade cleaning solution for pet stains. 
Today, I'm going to ask him what the universal secret is to teaching husbands how to place their underwear in the hamper. I know he'll have the answer. 
Today's Definite Download: Tift Merritt's "Good-Hearted Man." Man, this is just one soulful, kick-ass song filled with big horns and a gospel chorus. It's like a throwback to old Elvis, Memphis-like sound. 
Oh and I'm grateful grateful
Got to say thank you to a good hearted man 
To my Mr. Brown who gives me all his answers. I can't wait to find out about the underwear. 
 

Around 4 years ago, Miss Paris Hilton was just a little tyke, herself. One day, Julia came to me and said, "Momma, Bella has something shiny sticking out of her butt."
This is never good news.
With half-closed eyes in a wince, I lifted Miss Hilton's tail and did indeed see something gold and shiny, cascading down from the place where I reaaaaalllly didn't want to stick my face. 
I groaned upon closer inspection when I realized it was a necklace.  
An Add-A-Bead necklace. 
The ones with individual, small gold beads. 
I stress the word individual. 
I swallowed hard and turned to Julia and said shakily, "Go get me a pair of rubber gloves."
It was a very long necklace and to add to the fun, the necklace string was elastic.
That's right— like a rubber-band.  And boy, did it ever stretch.
I'm sure Paris Hilton found it on the floor of one of the Dung Beetles' rooms, (since the floor is where they keep all their jewelry), and thought to herself, an elastic Add-A-Bead necklace would most certainly make a fine, delectable snack. 
Now . . .  there are times in life when it is a complete pleasure to linger, moments that are worth savoring, things you never want to see end. A succulent glass of wine. A hot dream involving Bono and leather. A glorious sunset. An amazing vacation. The company of a charming man. A silly moment with a sweet-faced toddler. Savoring a heavenly slice of Campfire Pie at Cindy's Backstreet Kitchen in St. Helena, California. 
All beautiful moments to linger in.
Pulling an elastic beaded necklace in slow motion out of a nervous dog's ass is not one of those times. 
It was one of the most vile moments of my life as I painstakingly pulled very slowly, hoping to God my puppy's rectum wouldn't freeze up and snap off those beads into a deep, black abyss, a chasm way too horrifying for me to explore. 
She came out of it unscathed. I can't say the same for me. 
I took away from that spectacularly icky experience, 2 bits of wisdom. The de-assing of that stinkin' necklace would be the worst thing that stupid dog would put me through and dogs will eat anything. 
About 2 weeks ago, my puppies leapt over the walls of the Mac Daddy penthouse my hubby had built for them. Since they are growing into giant, mutant puppies, this was an easy feat. 

I knew it was time to bring out the crate. But, truly I didn't have the heart.

People who crate-train, swear by it. We bought the crate for Bella because of all the crate-swearers. I found I did more swearing with it than anything else, honestly.

There was that first night we brought her home. We encouraged her to think of it as her own little nest with her toys and blankie, but like me, I think she looked at those wires and thought, "Great. I've been sent to dog prison! What did I do? Who are these jailers?"
She cried. She cried a lot. 
It was Julia who noticed the cries becoming sharper. 
She came flying downstairs to tell us the dog's mouth was stuck around the wire. 
We ran up and found her trapped, her mouth yawning open, her tooth hooked around a wire, most certainly from an attempt to gnaw her way to freedom. 
My Hubby tried valiantly for several minutes to wedge her free. He finally looked at me and said, "I think I'm going to have to break the tooth."
I urged him to keep trying and finally after agonizing minutes, we were able to wrangle the hysterical puppy free.
She has slept snuggled between us ever since. Here she is on Bella's Bed, as she now refers to it, lounging with the Lovely Lena. 

Delilah and Sophie scaled the walls in the middle of the night. After escaping, they huddled up together in one mop-head bundle and simply fell asleep.


Since that night, I've only had to lay out their favorite blankie, bid them goodnight and close the doors. Simple and sweet. 
That is, until two nights ago. 
I woke up, as usual at the dawn's breaking, to the sounds of their cries and soft scratches at my door. No matter how tired I am, I love their waggy-body greeting, the way they cover me in their puppy kisses, overjoyed to greet me every single morning. 
But on this morning, something was different. 
There were shredded strings of leather, everywhere. EVERYWHERE. 
Looking around, I couldn't figure out what in the world they'd chewed up. Did the Village People break in while I was sleeping and the watchdogs shred them to death?

And then I saw it.


They had eaten my couch. 
The corner of my beautiful couch looked like Annie Oakley's Wild West Jacket. 
I wish I could show you just for the shock value alone, but alas, we are still having uploading problems here and I am like the scarecrow, if I only had a brain, when it comes to technology. And my Hubby refuses to leave work to help me upload the camera so I can get these pictures on my durn blog. 
He's mean like that. 
Trust me when I say it's bad. But since I have no pictures, here's a picture of them wrestling around on a pile of laundry while destroying my Longaberger napkin basket, just to give you a miniscule inkling of their propensity for vandalism. (My hubby wouldn't have been so eager to snap this moment, if he actually realized the RIDICULOUS price of anything Longaberger.)

And guess what? There ARE worse things a puppy can do to you than force you to play tug of war with their ass! You figure this out when you no longer have anywhere to sit.


I now understand my mother-in-law's bewilderment when the girls were little and busy coloring on walls and leaving a path of destruction in their wake. She asked me, her brows knit in a tight frown,"Now, explain to me why your generation doesn't believe in plopping kids in a playpen?" 
Crates. A good thing. A very good thing. 
Today's Definite Download: Black Eyed Peas, "I Gotta Feeling" Have I mentioned how much I love Will.i.am.?  Like I would give anything to be a part of his posse—just the person who holds his umbrella when it rains or the person who holds the bodyguard's umbrella—just to be next to him—to inhale his musical brilliance. I love him like that.  
My Hubby might have some really sweet tickets lined up for tonight's concert. I'm not feeling that fancy today. I haven't been sleeping well, (stories you won't believe for another day). I may or may not have a little stomach bug coming on. It's freezing cold and supposed to be even colder tonight, BUT, if these tickets materialize, I am sliding on my stilettos, glossing up my lips and braving the arctic winds, cause "I gotta feelin that tonight's gonna be a good night, that tonight's gonna be a good, good night."
Tonight's the night, let's live it up
I got my money, let's spend it up
Go out and smash it like oh my God
Jump off that sofa, let's get, get off
At least he HAS a sofa. That's all I'm sayin'.