Well . . .  another year, another dead Kennedy.

If I ever catch myself anywhere close to a ten mile radius of one of these cursed folks, I am running for the hills. Well, maybe not the hills. They seem to have a lot of trouble with those.

It's bad enough I reside in the same country. Every time I travel, I'm always like, "Hold up. Are there any Kennedy's on the slopes this week?"

Even craggy Maria Shriver makes me nervous. So far she seems to have escaped the Kennedy curse. Her only bad luck has been in marrying a bodybuilder/movie star/governor who's strangely attracted to ugly maids. But still. I'm not taking any chances.

And if I'm ever on a plane and a Kennedy boards, I am shrieking off that plane.

Their bad juju becomes your problem when you're trapped 30,000 feet in the air with them. Just ask Caroline Bessette Kennedy and her sister.

That poor sister. What did she ever do?

I mean, Caroline, I'm sure, was like, "Hey, Hey, y'all! I snagged America's handsome prince. Take that Daryl Hannah."

So I understand her being a little blinded to the fact that she was getting into a wee baby airplane. At night. A hazy night. With a husband who hadn't "technically" mastered night flying. A husband who was still on crutches, recovering from a broken ankle. A husband who didn't bother with a silly old flight plan. Or instruments.

I can understand her ignoring all those annoying details so they could get to the Kennedy compound, chop-chop, for one of their 456,000 cousins' wedding. Because, I can guarantee a Kennedy wedding is one rip-roaring good time.

They're Irish Catholic. Rip-roaring times are in their blood. I know of what I speak.

But even with all those glaring warning signs, the fact alone that your husband is a Kennedy should make any logical person put the kibosh on getting into a single engine airplane with him. No matter how hot he is.

And forget about one of those big-jawed Kennedy's driving past in a convertible. I wouldn't be waving. I'd be on the ground, hands over my head, screaming, "CHECK THE DEPOSITORY!"

Which by the way? I have never used the word, depository, in my life. And I used to be a banker.

It seems like a very formal word.

Sort of like vehicle. My sister's boyfriend is in law enforcement and he is the only person I know who refers to a car as a vehicle. It's kind of rubbing off on me.

So now I'm all, "I'll be in my vehicle cleaning out my purse for the next 5 minutes. If you kids are not in my vehicle by the time I crumple up the 78 old grocery receipts in the bottom of said purse, your asses will be washing said vehicle for the rest of your lifetime."

Anyway.

Since we're on the subject of American royalty, I was in Utah a few weeks ago. Salt Lake City, to be exact.

And I did not spot a single Osmond anywhere.

I figured I'd at least see Jimmy at The Cheesecake Factory in Salt Lake City's brand new fancy mall, the one with the retractable roof, but no.

They were probably all too busy flossing their teeth.

I did get to see someone much more amazing than any old Osmond, though.

The parents of all the state qualifiers from our high school were required to go because we don't have a DECA sponsor. You see, our sponsor got arrested.

Dear Blogger, 
Are you trying to kill me? 
I have enough problems in my life that are eventually going to make my head explode, just like that poor Brett Michaels' and his over-processed blonde mane. Namely, dumbass dogs who recently have found it to be super neat to dart into the alligator-infested lake behind our house, tearing at top speed like hairy racehorses until the water is up to their puny-brained heads as I run screaming behind them flinging out an unlimited supply of expletives. 
Once they are in, only their heads visible, looking like decapitated, pouffy-haired bobble dolls, they become instantly stuck in the stinky muck of the lakebed and they writhe about in a stupid, stuck panic. I am then forced to wade into this habitat of water moccasins and gators and yank those half-witted crapheads out of the murky water. Only. Only. To have them race right back in once I spend a backbreaking eternity washing the muck out of their wooly coats. 
And I ask you, Blogger—child of Google—can dogs be mentally challenged? Because if they can, these two need to take the shortest bus possible to Doggy School.
And then there's the fact that my daughters have been swiping my conditioner. I'll be taking a shower and I reach for my blondy blonde conditioner that makes my hair feel like silk and I fumble about and get nothing. And I stand there with unconditioned hair, wet, angry and helpless to the inevitable bad hair day to follow.
And that, mister, is a tragedy.
But, I digress. I really just wanted you to give a bird's eye view of the farcical bullcrap that rules my life. 
So, what I'm trying to say Blogger is, I don't need you adding to my woes. 
You've been f***king with me for awhile now and I've been trying to be all good sporty about it, because I can take the joke-being-on-me better than anyone. (I have 3 older brothers and so I am a professional when it comes to being punked.) 

They're coming for me, here, holsters in place. The stuff of my toddler life.    But, now, now you're messing with my comments and that, Blogger, is where I draw the sweet-girl line. That Blogger, is where my badass girl comes out to play. 

Now that is BADASS!
It all began with my feed. I use Feedburner which is also a child of Google.
And I'm starting to think, is there anything Google doesn't own? 
Rumor has it that Steve Jobs has a Google chip implanted in his brain. 
Anywhoo, my feed got all out of whack and I earnestly tried to fix it. 
Because when you've got whacked out feed, you've got jack. Not nobody, not nothin' knows you're alive because, duh, they ain't getting your feed. 
So, I went over to Feedburner and discovered the problems and guess what Feedburner said about my problems? They said my problems were solvable, but they required some expert technological skills. 
And the techie geeks living in my computer were bent over in a laughter so convulsing, they could have used oxygen masks. 
So, I tried to make sense of the super complicated techie instructions that said things like, "Ram the HTML with the A, E, I, O and U and douche the configuration of the 3rd degree burns with all other sources. Aaaaand, ready, GO!"
So, I cried. 
And then I went to the Help Forum at Feedburner. 
And you'll never guess what? Feedburner has the same helpless Help Forum as you do, Blogger.
And yes, I'm saying exactly what you think I'm saying. I'm saying, you SUCK at being helpful. You're no boy scout, Blogger. That's for sure.  
You've got all these poor bloggers wandering about your desert forums, posting questions, pleading, "Is anyone out there. Please, if there is a God, can you help me!"
And that's it.
A million cries for help met with silence. And that's Just. Like. You. Freakin. Blogger.
And if you do get help from one of those surly tech people in the forum, the answer goes something like this, 
"Activate the URL code of 4752x7ef111rz and smush all your HTML into cursive by enabling the Buddha  . . .  Duh." And then, it's always followed by a, "Dumbass."
So, Blogger, I don't mean to be tacky or anything, but aren't you making a freak load amount of money off of us bloggers little writing backs? Can't you squeak open those tight pockets for some real help for our blogger tribe? Like, I don't know. Maybe, hire real people. You can call. On the phone? And if you do take my suggestion, whatever you do, do NOT hire the techie information folk from GoDaddy.com. 
Those folks are some assbags, there. I actually had a dude there whoosh air aggressively through his nostrils over the phone at me and mutter, "Seriously? I had to get this phone call?" 
But, I got him back when I met a bigwig from GoDaddy.com in San Francisco and I told him all about that mean assbag named DAVID. So, DAVID, even though I don't know your last name, how many Davids can there be working the help lines? Fear for your life, dude. 
Hey Blogger, here's a thought. Stop living your life of champagne wishes and caviar dreams. Stop pouring every red cent of your gazillion dollars into the Google workplace, the happiest place on earth. 
Throw a few paltry dollars into some real help for my desert wandering friends.
Blogger, I'm begging you, let my bloggers go!
So, that's my first gripe. 
Now Blogger, since you've discovered I wasn't as weak-hearted as you thought and I went out and did a Rocky number on my feedburner, you decided to jack me up all over again. 
This week I've been having a hell of a time commenting on other people's blogs. I leave a witty comment  and I check my grammar and spelling and I go hit the comment button and wham, ERROR. And then guess what, Blogger? My witty comment? Gone. Gone into the black hole of the Internet. And then I have to comment again. But, that witty comment is gone out of the other black hole that is now my brain because I've had 3 children and with each of those children a large portion of my brain matter was sucked away during breast feeding. 
I no longer have retentive skills nor, as I found out last weekend, can I limbo as nimbly as I once used to.
So, I found that rather annoying. 
But, then came the BIG problem and I mean BIG. 
You decided to go and jack with my precious, precious commenter's comments. 
Man Blogger, you sure do know how to hit below the belt. 
All bloggers feel the same way about comments. They are like shiny little diamonds all a-glistening, filling you with joy, just at the sight of them. 
There is no better feeling than a blog post that creates a plethora of comments. 
Comments are better than drugs. 
They're endorphins in a batch of words. 
They're shiny, red stilettos that slide perfectly onto your feet.
They're Johnny Depp at your doorstep with a bottle of fine wine and that smile.
They're jeans that make your butt curve into a perfect little apple.
They're Oprah calling you to be her new best friend cause she's kicked Gail to the curb. 
Comments are the nirvana of the blogworld. 
I hear your evil snicker, Blogger. 
Don't think I'm not on to you. 
Here's what's happening:
I go to my Dashboard page and there is that little beckoning siren call stating, 47 comments need moderation.
And I'm all, "The diamonds! Oh, the diamonds!" And with trembling hands, I click on the comments and you'll never guess what, Blogger? Or maybe you can. Because, you know you're a bitch and you just want to f***k with me. 
No unmoderated comments found. 
None. Zero. 
In the meantime, I've got beautiful, beautiful commenters emailing me, saying, "Yo. Didn't you like my comment? Why you gotta censor me?"(My commenters don't really talk like gang members. I am just taking literary license there.)
And I'm writing them back, "Wha? No. I love you! Please, please comment."
You aren't playing nice, Blogger. 
Every day there's 30 comments here, 40 there and I click and, poof, they disappear. 
Some of them are getting through. The penis enhancement comments are most certainly getting through. But the good ones, not so much.
These disappearing comments inhabit my dreams, Blogger. 
What if Stephen Hawking is trying to contact me to tell me exactly where those aliens live and what their intentions are because he knows he is scaring the ever loving snot out of me with his talk of dangerous aliens floating around space in alien ships?
Because I don't have enough to worry about. Now I've got alien invasions occupying my fear-mongering brain. Thanks, Stephen.
Or what if Caesar Millan is sending me comments saying, "Give me your address. Tampon-eating dogs should not be handled by laypersons. I will be right over."
What if I am living in dog hell unnecessarily?
What if one of those comments is from that mean girl who tortured me unmercifully through my angst-filled middle school years? What if she sent me a comment saying, "Hey, it's me Mean Girl. Sorry for everything I put you through. Sorry for taunting you and your skinniness. Sorry for all the mean notes I passed around the class calling you Bony Joanie. Sorry for making fun of your klutziness in PE class. And I'm really sorry for calling you out in front of the whole class for not having enough boobs to wear a training bra yet, while the rest of us 7th grade ladies were down with the bras. I'm really sorry now because you look like you're happy and I'm not because my curves only grew wider and now I sit here in a motorized scooter, too obese for my legs to hold me up. How's that skinny metabolism working out for you?"
I am going to be really bummed if I missed that one, Blogger. 
What if a certain California boy hottie, literary agent or the literary agent of my dreams is trying to comment? What if their comments went something like this, "Yo, forget about the query letter. Send me your novel. I read about your dogs and you deserve a little kindness in your life. Shoot that novel on over here, so we can get started on turning you into the next Jennifer Weiner."
And what if Jennifer Weiner is one of those 47 comments?
And what if that hypnotist sent me a comment saying, "I can hypnotize you so that your hubby's smacky ways won't send you over the edge. Because, I know you've spent 23 years asking politely, then begging, then screaming for him to stop the F***KING SMACKING! This is your only alternative. Call me."
And what if one of these days I've had one food chewing smack too many and I end up stabbing My Hubby with his steak knife?
That blood, Blogger, will be on your hands. 
Or what if Betty White commented, saying, "Hey, I hear you became a fan of me on Facebook and I hear you don't have any more Grandmas left. And if you like, I can be your Grandma and we can drink vodka martinis together and tell dirty jokes and troll for dudes and do just all the other typical grandmotherly and granddaughterly things together."
Or what if a plastic surgeon commented, offering me that full body lift I want to have before my class reunion? What if his only stipulation is I post pics of myself before and after on my blog in only my underthings. I'd be all, "Bring on the camera. Do you want me to drop my jeans right here? And can I change into my boy shorts because these thongs would only frighten my readers away . . . in the before pic."
And who knows, Eddie Vedder might have googled himself, saw my little profession of love and sent a comment my way saying, "Hey Laundry Girl. I wrote a song for you cause I hear you've always wanted a dude to write a song for you. Here's my number, give me a call and I'll sing it to you with my deep, gravely, sexy voice." 
And what if he's waiting by the phone getting all pissed off that he took the time to write this song and I don't even have the decency to call him back? 
Or even better what if Bono commented? What if Bono saw the 5 mazillion tags about him on my blog and came over and looked around and then sent me a comment saying, "I thought you'd like to meet me for a pint and Whatever."
Blogger, I swear, if you made me miss the Whatever with Bono, I will cry and then I will send you a nasty letter and then I will say mean things about you on my blog. 
Because, that sir, is as badass as I get. 
And Cut.
This is Part One of my story because some folks have been getting a little cranky about my long blogs. I'm not sure why. 
 It only takes a few hours out of a day to absorb the 10,000 words of my average posts. 
This is a long post, I know. But it would have been even longer, thanks to what's to come. And what's to come is all about the diamonds. Those glittery, fabulous diamonds. 
Stay tuned. 
Hasta Manana. 
Today's Definite Download: I had something else in store but then . . .  I can't even say it without my heart feeling like a whispery piece of paper being torn in two. 
I have been a Florida girl now for almost all my life. There are certain elements of my world here that I love, that I have never taken for granted.
The spanish moss that drapes from my trees, gray lacy necklaces that sing the songs of the south. 
My bare feet which are calloused with wear because here the earth is meant to be felt, warm and alive under your feet. 
The sun that shines, a constant presence.
And above everything else, there is the  beautiful Gulf of Mexico. 
It happens every time we venture to the beach. The minute we hit the bridge, the Gulf rises up before us, spread out like a glimmering jewel to the edges of the horizon. Sky to sea, everywhere I look its tranquil blue waters confirming what I know to be true. I am home. 

The Gulf holds treasures like no other sea. Its fine, white sand as soft as baby powder. The gentle lapping pulse of its warm tides, so much better than the angry, crashing waves of her sister, the Atlantic Ocean. There is no better place to breathe than lolling in her welcoming waters, the taste of salt upon one's lips, its balmy ebb and flow washing away all the troubles of the Earth.

Dolphins swim in close proximity to the beachgoers, delighting the throngs with their frolicking play. And even in the winter, the Gulf entrances. The stingrays glide at the gulf's edge, a beautiful synchronized dance, a show like no other. I feel so fortunate to be witness to it. To all of it, this Gulf of Mexico, one of God's greatest gifts to Mother Earth.
And now all of it lies in peril. Now, a choking, black cloud of poison is making its way insipidly through my beloved waters, and no one can figure out how to stop it. 
The dolphins. The stingrays. The pelicans. The fish of the sea. The vast and varied sea life. All in mortal danger. 
BP, what have you done? 
Damn you BP. Damn you. 
I understand the need for drilling. I am not blind to what needs to be done in order to make us less reliant on unreliable people and places for a necessary resource. 
But, drilling should only be allowed with the most rigorous and exacting safety procedures in place. There is no room for error when it comes to our precious waters.
She is our Gulf. Our beautiful lady. And she cannot be replaced. 
It is being called potentially the worst ecological disaster the nation has ever faced. 
We need to do better by her. 
For today: Randy Newman's "Louisiana 1927". Randy Newman is one of the finest songwriters of our time. His music is brilliant. It's kind of a shame that he's best known for his quirky, "Short People" song because he's just an incredible talent. 
Here's a link to the song because it's just one of those songs you have to hear for yourself.
He wrote "Louisiana 1927" about the devastation caused by The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927. But, I think for today, it is an apt song for my precious Gulf. The oil is flowing that way up towards New Orleans as we speak, choking everything it its path.
Louisiana, Louisiana They're trying to wash us away They're trying to wash us away
Say a prayer today if you can for my friends of the sea and the air and their extraordinary home. Say a prayer for my Gulf of Mexico. May you sparkle again, for all the days to come. 

Did you know that 4-month old Labradoodle puppies are morons?


Did you know that they crap 1,762 times a day . . .  on the average?


And that most of those craps are taken in the house because they are equal opportunity crappers?
Did you know that 4-month old Labradoodle puppies have the WORST palate on the face of the earth?
Did you know I found one of my puppies yesterday eating dirt, that's right, dirt? And that she  seemed to be enjoying every single, second of her dirt eating, with her head tilted back towards the  sun, her scruffy chin pure black as if she were George Clooney after a rough night, her eyes closed  as she chewed like she'd uncovered black truffles instead of . . .  you know, dirt.
Did you know that these two bitches are out to kill me before their first birthday?
Did you know that they think when I call their names to come, it means to just keep on, keepin' on  with their bad selves, doing whatever imbecilic puppy thing their little pea brains can think of, like  eating dirt, rolling in poop, running away from me as fast as they can, getting stuck in the bur bushes time after time after freakin' time, ensuring that they will have one million burs to pull out of their fur because I don't have enough to do with my time, I need to spend my valuable life moments  painstakingly pulling out burs?
Did you know that a few days ago after much calling and chasing, they finally, finally got the idea and sped into the house?
Did you know that it was only after they'd been in the house for a few minutes that the smell assailed my nostrils and I realized they were playing tug of war with something in their little bitch mouths?
Did you know that I unwisely stuck my hand on the object, realizing too late that it was a headless, dead bird?
Did you know that it is ungodly to shove your hand into two puppies rancid mouths, as you scrape every bit of rotting bird carcass from their pie-holes?
Did you know there are not enough Yankee Candles in the world to rid your house of the scent of decapitated dead bird?
Did you know that I have a septic tank and one must be very diligent about what does NOT go into the toilet?
Did you know that when girls live under the same roof, their cycles synchronize, everyone going through the same course of nature at the same time?
Did you know that  I have three daughters, all who've reached a womanly age? 
Did you know there are certain times of the month in my house where it's best to start having a cocktail by 7:00 am? And I thought my days of suffering were over the day— to borrow my friend Paula's golden phrase— they took my whore of a uterus out. 
Little did I know, they had just begun.
Did you know that my college girl is home for a visit?
Did you know that even though she has made the Dean's List in her very first semester of college, she is smart on paper, ONLY? In other parts of her life, she closely resembles the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz searching fruitlessly for his brain. Think I'm being mean? She told us recently she wouldn't be able to help us drive in Tennessee because her Florida license doesn't work there. 
Any more questions?
Did you know that I have a life, besides my children and Hubby and housework and sometimes that involves getting out of my slave castle? Okay, so it was for some volunteer work at one of my kid's schools, on this certain day, but still, it's somethin'.
Did you know that, on this certain day, my college girl left the house to . . . ?  Oh, I don't know, eat Taco Bell and spend copious amounts of money at Walmart and whatever else college kids do as evident in her debit card purchases 
Did you know that her one and only job when she left the house after me was to secure the puppies in their crate?
Did you know that she didn't realize she had to LOCK the crate? She just thought if she closed the door, those morons would respect the honor system and stay in their cage. Duh.
Did you know that those little bitches, I'm sure, waited for the second she zoomed away and pushed open that crate door with their little noses, and said, "Oh yeah, Puppy Partayyy Time! You go see where the crazy lady stashed that headless dead bird. I've got a Persian carpet that's calling my name. It's Puppy Crapping Time!"
Did you know that I was gone five hours? 
Five.
Did you know that my husband is a contradiction of a man?
Did you know he's an expert marksman and loves shooting, but only shoots targets and clay pigeons? We had this snarling raccoon on our patio one night and I begged him to, you know, do something and he just didn't have it in him. He said he couldn't harm a helpless animal. Have you ever seen a raccoon's teeth and those gnarly paws?  Helpless? I think not.
Did you know he loves fine wine, entertaining, cooking and shopping for beautiful dishes? 
Did you also know that he loves weaponry of all kinds, anything that has a large engine, video games especially if it's Call of Duty or any sort of killing theme, movies that have no thoughts or emotion to them? It's not worth his time unless it has bombs, killings, and women in tight leather clothing, 
Did you know that even though he works incredibly hard to make a beautiful life for us, he makes sure to have his "me" time? I'm still waiting for mine. So far, my "me" time consists of ME sneaking off to the bathroom, to read a few pages of a book, but even then the dogs always find me.
Did you know that on this day that I speak of, My Hubby found his "me time" by heading off to the shooting range? He brought along with him one of his shooting buddies. 
Did you know that I've given you a few random facts that will all now tie together? Remember the septic tank, three girls on the same cycle, dogs in unlocked crates in an empty house?
Did you know there is a smell more vile than rotting, decapitated dead bird? 
Hard to believe. But there is, Internet, there is. 
How can I describe it . . .  hmmm, let's see:  Let's just pretend you walked into your house that had been closed up for the entire day and imagine finding puppy poop everywhere. Because you see, not only do the two Stooges poop in the house, they then plod right through their dung and voila, you have puppy crap tracks ALL. OVER. YOUR. HOUSE. 
Now I apologize Internet, but add to that mix shredded, used tampons EVERYWHERE. THE. EYE. CAN. SEE. Add to that vomitorium mess, piles of puppy puke, because surprisingly, tampons do not digest well in puppies' precarious systems. Add to that gruesome scene whatever the hell other contents they could find in every single one of my wastebaskets throughout the house. 
Did you know that one of those little bitches had the audacity as I stood there overcome by nausea and horror and fire-breathing anger, to greet me with her little waggie tail and then squat right in front of my shocked eyes?
Did you know that I scooped that craphead up, screaming and crying like a madman all the way to the door? 
Did you know that I used up every obscenity in my obscenity vocabulary? Which is a lot of words, Internet, A LOT of words.  
Did you know that I left the entire tribe of three dogs outside as I surveyed the battlefield of shredded feminine products, vomit, poo, snotty tissues, shredded newspaper, two pairs of chewed up undies, one being my hubby's, (talk about an awful palate!), three destroyed flip-flops, and inexplicably an untouched piece of celery? 
I don't understand. They find dirt, used tampons and my hubby's dirty underwear to be delectable, but they take one lick of the celery and decide it's too gross for their gourmand taste-buds? 
I mean, what the hell? I'm not a big fan of celery myself, but I'll sure as shit, take it over dirt and tampons any damn day.
Did you know that while I was sobbing and cursing like a sailor and sliding on my rubber gloves, I looked out the window to see Morono and Moroni, at the foot of the lake?
Did you know that in Florida, the lakes are filled to the brim with alligators, alligators who like to sun themselves on the bank and like to have puppies as delicious afternoon snacks?
Did you know that I ran out of the house like a madwoman, every bit of rage spewing out of me as I screamed and cursed at the top of my lungs, completely uncaring that my "Let's have the prayer meeting at my house. Praise the Lord." neighbors were outside in their backyard?
Did you know that the Crapheads were standing in the muck that clings to the borders of our lake? Muck that smells almost as rancid as headless birds; muck that clings to dog's fur and screaming madwoman's clothes; muck that has to be scrubbed with a vengeance to get rid of the black gunk. 
Did you know that my Hubby is Italian and that the Italian gene for cooking and entertaining and filling up your house with friends and family is the most powerful gene in my Hubby's body?
I bet you can see where this is headed. 
Did you know that my Hubby is the greatest of hosts and if I would let him, he would have people over constantly, plying them with good wine and delicious food?
Did you know that every once and awhile in that man brain of his, he forgets to give me a heads up that he is such a lover of entertaining and just walks into my house with guests?  It truly is only once and awhile. Because, trust me, when I say, he is made VERY aware after unexpected guests leave that I do not appreciate unexpected guests. VERY aware.
Did you know that I walked into my house covered in black muck, dangling two muck-covered puppies from my arms, cursing and screaming like nobody's damn business?
Did you know that I heard a voice say rather weakly, "Hi Honey"?
Did you know that my stupid-ass Hubby decided it would be "neat" to have his shooting buddy over for a little wine and sunset-watching?
Did you know that the reason I didn't slit my Hubby's throat at that moment was because slitting a throat takes careful precision and I was in more of a bent to just stab him over and over again . . .  in a blind, screaming rage?
Did you know that I could only stand there in a mental state very, very close to a nervous breakdown, sputtering,"Their crate wasn't locked. We really don't throw our trash around the house. " 
It was the only thing I could think of in my irrational state, that this shooting buddy would look beyond the poop and the vomit and the chewed up shoes and shredded newspaper and think that this was how we disposed of our tampons, by shredding them and depositing them in all corners of the house . . .  You know, kind of like the Jewish people hang their Mezuzahs in every doorway of their house? We prefer used, shredded tampons as our symbol. 
Did you remember the time I told you the worst thing my dog had ever done to me was ingest an Add-A-Bead necklace on an elastic cord that had to be pulled excruciatingly slowly out of that freakin' dog's hiney?
Well, guess what, Internet? I wasn't even close, not by a long shot. 
Today's Definite Download: Guns N Roses, "Welcome To The Jungle." Man, don't you miss those guys? Don't you miss Axle Rose before he got fat and had a bad face lift and got in bar fights? 
And because, when you're on your knees scrubbing, there is nothing like that bad-ass intro with Slash's fiery guitar to get you in the mood for cleaning up piles of dog poo. And because, there are no more fitting words. I have a suspicion my puppies wrote this song with me in mind.
Welcome to the jungle
It gets worse here everyday
Ya learn ta live like an animal
In the jungle where we play
If you got a hunger for what you see
You'll take it eventually
You can have anything you want
But you better not take it from me
In the jungle
Welcome to the jungle
Watch it bring you to your
sha na na na na na na na
knees, knees
I wanna watch you bleed
Pray for me, Internet.

With age comes wisdom. 
And wrinkles and fatty places that were never there before and this one hair that pops up constantly in the middle of my chin and then there's the inability to crash, anymore, wherever there is floorspace. I was boarding a flight recently when I noticed these kids with overstuffed backpacks waiting for a flight that had been delayed for hours. While everyone around them was grousing and relaying their flight statuses into their cell phones, and angrily plugging away on their laptops, these kids were sprawled out on the floor, mouths hanging open, sound asleep, oblivious to the misery around them. 
I was so jealous. 
Nowadays, I need my big, plumpy mattress, my down pillows, my whispery-soft sheets. 
Nowadays, I wouldn't dare sleep in public because I wouldn't be able to hold my stomach in while unconscious. 
Nora Ephron wrote a book a few years back, "I Feel Bad About My Neck And Other Thoughts On Being A Woman."
I didn't get what she was referring to at the time. I wish I still didn't. 
I was in the Costco recently and as I whizzed through the makeup aisle, a bold sign captured my attention. It read in huge block letters, mocking me for all the world to see, "Got Turkey Neck?"
I stopped in my tracks. Here was a ginormous display of Strivectin Neck Cream with the words emblazoned across the package, matching the huge display, asking the hideous question, "Got Turkey Neck?"

I stood there a good 10 minutes contemplating that damn cream.


I thought, "Why yes, yes I do have turkey neck and it is unfortunate enough that I have it, without you, you douche bag company taunting me over it." I swear I felt like there were a bunch of 20-something year-old ad men, peeking out from behind that display with their peaches and cream complexions and their smooth necks, sing-songing and pointing, "You've got the turkeyyy neck! You've got the turkeyyy neck!"
I was sorely tempted to raise my middle finger at that damn display. 
Now, if it had been packaged in an ultra discreet, attractive looking jar, I would have snatched it up before you could let out a single gobble. 
Because, I am fighting this good fight with every bit of mettle I have and I did not need a stupid package announcing to the world what I have been trying to camouflage with artfully placed scarves. 
I couldn't buy it. No matter how much I needed its miracle salve, mainly, well . . . because of the hot, Latin cashier-man in my life. 
You see, I'm having a relationship with my Costco cashier-man. 
It's an unspoken torrid thing we've got going on. He flirts with me unabashedly and I acknowledge it with grateful adoration and my own expertise flirting skills. 
I've got mad flirting skills. 
He calls me, "Mi Amor" and he holds his hand to his heart when he declares he'd be hurt if if I was unfaithful and found myself in someone else's line. He comments on all my purchases, approving of my giant tubs of  hummus and my serious taste in French cheeses and my knowledge of the undiscovered wines, splendid in their taste, yet still under-the-radar priced. He is the one who taught me to microwave my Kashi bars for 12 seconds, just enough time to make the caramel warm and gooey. He tells me if I ever feel like sharing, when it comes to their ridiculous chicken pot pie or their sinful, unequivocally the world's best chocolate fudge cake, he's my man, as he smiles showing off his pearly straight whites in his big, handsome face. 
There was no way I would ruin our relationship with turkey neck cream. 
I really have to wonder, who labeled a woman's aging skin, turkey neck? Growing older has enough indignities. You realize this the first time you have a mammogram. But, at least squashing your taa-taa's into a pancake is a safeguard for your health. 
But, to be compared to a turkey's neck? 

I don't think you can get much more ugly. Think about it.


Here's a true story to cement my point:
When the Odawg was a kindergartner, we went to Grandma's Huggin' Farm. A wonderful, real-life farm where children are able to interact with animals— feeding chickens, milking cows, petting pigs, the whole manure and hay experience. 
The animals at this farm are so accustomed to children, they know who's inside that big yellow school bus when it pulls up right outside their fence. As I helped unload children, I was greeted by a phalanx of farm creatures racing up to greet us. 
It was the most delightful sight, dozens of animals big and small scurrying to greet our little tykes. I was so caught up in their friendliness, it took me a second to realize the children were screaming. I turned back to the little tykes just in time to see them fleeing to the safe confines of the bus as they shrieked, "THE TURKEYS! THE TURKEYS!" 
I turned back to the barnyard to check out the source of their distress and there, right on the front lines, racing to greet the children were a whole gang of those creepy looking gobblers. 
I'd never thought about how incredibly hideous they were, before. So unsightly, they frightened the snot out of kindergartners. 
The only other experience I'd had with turkeys was one of bright, happy memories. 
Mainly because the thought of turkeys brought back the days when I was young with no use for turkey neck cream or tweezers stashed in my purse, ready at all times, to pluck out that damn chin hair. 
See, once long ago, when the world was a brighter place, I used to have this side job for an organization called Ducks Unlimited. 
I was, what you might call, a Hostess with the Mostest. 
Ducks Unlimited is devoted to the conservation of wetlands and waterfowl.
On paper, that is. 
Here in the Deep South, Ducks Unlimited is an organization for hunters with deep pockets
And do not hate me, Internet. I had no moral code back then. I was more about the cash paid under the table for a very cushy job. 
My cushy job entailed milling about at their monthly dinners, talking it up with the hunters, encouraging them to empty their deep pockets for the organization, handing out duck calls, holding their raffle tickets and sitting by their side as their good luck charm, and for the most part, just basically flirting it up with some drunk, good old Southern boys. 
During those banquets, a few of those Southern boys taught me how to call a wild turkey. 
They proclaimed me a natural turkey caller. I figured they were just trying to get my young, single, non-turkey neck self to sit on their laps. Which I did NOT, I will state. Except for that one guy . . . the hot one, the only guy at the banquet under 40 without a pot belly and a wedding ring. 
I didn't give my turkey call another thought except at drunk times fun gatherings with friends, when I felt the need to gobble like the wildest of turkeys. 
But then, one day, many years later, when I was a wedded, more sedate girl, I found myself hiking in Muir Woods. As we walked the trails of this redwood forest, suddenly 2 turkeys waddled out of the underbrush. We stopped and quietly watched them until the thought occurred to me to let my own wild turkey, free. 
I trilled my gobble and to our hiking party's shock and delight, those 2 turkeys, just came scurrying over my way. And I have to say, when I saw those 2 uglies, every bit of their wattle just a-jiggling, I got a little frightened and hid behind my Hubby. 
So just so you know Internet, if you ever have a dire need for a turkey caller, as long as it doesn't involve killing the turkey, give me a ring. 
I've got mad turkey-calling skills. 
It's funny how the talk of turkeys defines 2 polar opposite moments of my womanhood. 
Somewhere between being paid to be the young, pretty thing in a room full of drunken good old boys to needing a cream that taunts my tired neck, I have known joy and sorrow, beauty and wisdom in every, one of the surrounding years. I have found love and birthed 3 children with my strong, capable body. I have lived a good life and discovered the truth that no matter my age, I will celebrate the beauty that it means to be called a woman.
It still sucks to have a turkey neck. 
A few days ago, I was at Sephora, my candy store, stocking up on a few essentials. To my surprise, there was a straight dude working behind the counter. He was quite a sullen young chap and I figured it was because he was probably taunted by his straight buddies for knowing way too much about plumping lipgloss. 
As he sullenly rang up my purchases, he informed me that I was eligible for a beauty bonus. He held out 3 products for me to choose from and there— there shining like the brightest beacon, was my turkey neck cream. 
I murmured, "I'll take the turkey neck cream."
He spat out, "What?"
I said quietly, "The turkey neck cream."
He said with great exasperation, "WhAT?"
I said, "Turkey Neck. Turkey Neck. TURKEY NECK, OKAY?"
I wanted to add, "Assbag."
But, I didn't. I'm a nice old hag. 
Catherine Denueve has said that aging should not be feared, but instead it should be gracefully welcomed. 
But, she's freakin' Catherine Denueve. She can welcome age all she wants with her stunning cheekbones and face like no other. No one's even going to consider her turkey neck with that kind of beauty. 
Crap, I wouldn't even bother to brush my hair, if I were Catherine  Denueve. But I'm not, so I am slathering on turkey neck cream. 
There I said it. 
The sample's almost gone and it's making my wattle look less . . .  wattley. 
So, I've got to pull out my secret weapon. The Hubby

Now, if I could just stumble across a cream that says, "Got Ab Fat?" We'd be all set.


Today's Magnificent Download: The Boss's "No Surrender." The live, stripped down, acoustical version. So much better than the frenzied, commercial score. The live version showcases the amazing storytelling abilities of Bruce. He was truly the Boss of Rock n Roll for my generation, more than worthy of his esteemed title. 
I did notice the last time he was in town, Bruce has not succumbed to the turkey neck cream. He could probably use a little. 
I also noticed that the man can arch himself backwards into a full backbend at the microphone without using anything but the strength that lies in his powerful 60-year old body. 

No Surrender, Man. No Surrender.

We made a promise we swore we'd always remember
No retreat no surrender
Like soldiers in the winter's night with a vow to defend
No retreat no surrender

Now young faces grow sad and old and hearts of fire grow cold
We swore blood brothers against the wind
I'm ready to grow young again
And hear your sister's voice calling us home across the open yards
Well maybe we could cut someplace of our own
With these drums and these guitars

Blood brothers in the stormy night with a vow to defend
No retreat no surrender

I'm still planning on posting about Christmas, but since we're already at New Year's Eve, I thought I'd talk about New Year's Resolutions first. 
My blog friend June, whose blog is cackling good fun, asked her readers recently to post their New Year's resolutions. 
One reader posted she was going to be more aggressive in her jewelry-wearing. 
I can't stop thinking about that resolution. I think it might just be the best resolution I've ever heard. 
In that same vein, I've decided to make a list of resolutions like that: attainable ones that won't cause too much exertion, so I don't feel like a loser on January 2nd when they're already down the toilet.
Here's mine:
❉ I will attempt to be targeted for a full body scan at the airport.  Easy enough. 
Our airport just got one of those kinky machines. And for whatever reason, since 9/11, I have been picked out of the line every dang time for special screenings. I've had pat-downs, wandings. I've  been selected to go through the puffy air thing. I've had to take a sip out of my water bottle in front  of those ultra-serious security team dudes before the no-liquid rule was put in place. The thought  did flash through my mind for a millisecond to take a sip and immediately crash to the ground,  writhing around like nobody's business . . . you know, for laughs. But, I hear those Homeland  Security people have the worst sense of humor.
I'm not sure if it's my imposing pixie cut or my leggings or my intimidating stature of 5' almost 4"  that causes them to feel I'm a sure bet for committing jihad on the plane, but, honestly, I kind of like  all the extra attention. And I bet it feels a little thrilling to know as you're walking through that X-ray-vision machine, that somebody's lookin' at your nekked self. I'll probably suggestively shimmy my  way through. Or, since they make you raise your hands up, maybe a little naked YMCA dance for  their viewing pleasure to liven up all the naked viewing they have to watch all day. 


❉ Get my Hubby to stop wearing his khaki shirt with the large-mouthed bass emblazoned across the back. He wears it entirely too much because honestly, I think it makes him feel, you know, more mannish with the wildlife and all on it, but  . . . it's a LARGE MOUTH BASS across his BACK. The girls tell him outright how ungodly it is. I prefer more subtle tactics like, "I'm not sure khaki is your color. I think you're more of a primary color person." I know I could lose it in the mountainous pile of laundry, but that would be dirty pool and I don't do dirty pool.


❉ Advise the young mom at school about good bras. This is a biggie, the hardest one to accomplish since it's going to be really tough for me to walk up to her, having never met her and say, "Excuse me, but get thee to Victoria's Secret and ask for the bra fitter right away." This poor girl has the worst bras known to man. She must buy them at Big Lots in the clearance aisle, a dozen for a dollar, because, when I say this girl is going to poke her eye out one of these days, I mean . . .  seriously. I see her walking down the hallways and she is just abouncing and not in a good way and I'm thinking, why don't any of her friends step up and take her to the mall? They are not good friends.

Everyone should have a bra fitting. I remember the first time the bra fitter approached me when I was headed to the dressing room with some underthings in hand. She asked me if she could help select the perfect bra for me and I was all, sure, why the hell not. I'm always up for a new experience. I got a little creeped out, though, when she came into the dressing room with me and started adjusting and sizing me up. I started thinking, maybe she was just POSING as a bra fitter. Maybe she was really some weirdo getting her jollies on and I was the innocent victim of a phony bra fitter! It's happened before.

But, I threw caution and my taa-taa's to the wind and let her measure and adjust and before you knew it, I found out I was a totally different size than what I thought and I was instantly in the perfect, perfect bra for me. Because, as we girls all know, all taa-taas are different and the bra that works on one person, might just not work for you. And this poor girl's got nothing working for her. I really have to tell her.
❉ Use the word Crap-Head more. I really like that word. Crap-Head.
❉ Pattern my relationship with The Hubby after Dog the Bounty Hunter and his wife. Is her name Pam? I don't think it is, but she looks like a Pam with that fantastically awful bad hair. I mean, they might just be the world's worst dressers with their ultra-tight leathers and their matching bad perms and their feathered jewelry, but man, are they ever good to each other. 
Even in the midst of Pam barreling down the road in her big-ass SUV hunting down the bail jumpers, Dog is walkie talkieing her from the other SUV and saying, "I love you Pam." as he's holding a semi-automatic up to some bad guy they've just caught. And she's all ready to kick ass with her bad self and hair, but she always has a sweet, "I love you too, Dog." for him. 
And oh my goodness, when the bail jumper was trying to get away and Baby Lyssa was the lookout cause she's like 80 pounds and she doesn't have the heft of Pam, so they keep her out of harm's way and the bail jumper ran right into Baby Lyssa's path and whacked her up a couple of times, I thought Pam was going to freakin' kill that bail jumper! Forget about Dog and his big muscles and his semi-automatic weapons and his feathered jewelry, Pam was taking this dude down just with her big hairstyle and enormous taa-taa's and the fury in her from this bail jumper messing with Baby Lyssa. When they finally got this guy shackled and into the car, Pam was spewing threats over the walkie-talkie at him, telling him she would be at every one of his bail hearings because you DO. NOT. MESS. WITH. BABY. LYSSA. And the thing is, Baby Lyssa's like 30. She's not a baby. And she's Dog's daughter. She's not even Pam's Baby Lyssa, but Pam loves her that much because she's a part of Dog and I just think that's so sweet to want to kill a bail jumper over love. 
I really want to have a relationship more like Dog and Pam except . . .  my love is big enough to tolerate a wide-mouthed bass shirt, but if The Hubby ever came home with a feathered earring and a leather vest, I'd be all—No, my love has limits. 

❉ Work on my triceps. Because nothing says, "I've given up" more than triceps that keep waving long after you've stopped. If I don't tighten up those triceps, I might as well start wearing mom jeans and Celine Dion concert t-shirts, tucked in.

❉ Spread the word that there is NO WAY that those people on the eHarmony commercials really had to use a dating site to find someone. I mean, every single, dang one of them is movie-star beautiful. I think one guy might even be Jake Gyllenhal's twin brother.

If those kind of people are all over the eHarmony site, I think all single people should run, not walk, to their computer and forget about going to bars and church quilting groups and gyms with your makeup and hair perfect. Why bother, when there are so many stunning people looking for love on the internet?



❉ Bring sexy back. Well, I'll have to wait until I get enough tricep dips in first.
❉ Wear stilettos at all times. Victoria Beckham claims this is her secret for keeping so thin. She says she even exercises in her Manolo Blahniks. Although, I do think she's neglecting to mention the fact that her daily food intake consists of a piece of celery. On a splurge day, she probably includes a grape; but hey, I'm willing to give the shoe thing a try. If Pam can go on bounty hunts in her stilettos, I can sure manage a car pool in them. The wearing of stilettos will help in bringing sexy back, too. 

❉ So, here's my last one, my most serious one. I will, I will, I will get my novel out there and shop it around. It will happen. I will work fast and furious, vowing to ignore My Hubby, the girls, the dogs, the house and anything else that gets in the way of my goal. I swear this to you, Internet. I will do it. This is my year. I can so feel it in my bones . . . and stilettos.

Today's Do It Download: My last Holiday Song--Johnny Otis' "Happy New Year Baby" a big, bluesy song that just sums up the best of New Year's resolutions. "I'm gonna give up chasin' women, whiskey-drinkin' too, stop my bally-hooin', yeah I'm done mistreatin' you. Happy New Year Baby. Happy New Year to You....I'm gonna give you all my money to buy the things you choose. I'll even steal and borrow and pawn my clothes and shoes to keep you happy, baby, happy the whole year through....If you love me sweet and pretty, I'll buy you a big brass bed. If I catch you cheating, I'll fill you full of lead...Happy New Year Baby. Happy New Year To You."

Man, nothing says love better than brass beds and bullets. 
Happy, Happy New Year, All You Darling, Wonderful Crap-Heads. I wish for you and your loved ones, a year full of promise and love, laughter and peace and as many new shoes as your little hearts desire.
XXXXXOOOOOO