My blog friend, June, has this snort-your coffee-out-your-nose funny blog called Bye Bye Pie.  Reading her blog is one of the first things I do in the morning, of course after I get my coffee, so I can snort it out my nose. There's been more than a few times, certain annoying children have stood over me yelling, "Come on, Mom! I'm going to be late for school because you're commenting on that pie lady's blog."
Damn kids. 
Today she asked us to record our evening in photos at precisely 7:57 pm, so that we could all share. 
I was super excited to join in on Miss June's project. 
The first thing to go wrong was the camera. My Hubby's really special camera's thingamajigs didn't seem to be working properly. 
As you can obviously tell,  I'm a total pro when it comes to photography. 
And since he wasn't home and none of us had any sort of clue, we pulled out the old digital camera. 
Then, there was the fact I have problems following simple directions.

I thought Juney said 7:58. Luckily, I wasn't synchronizing a bomb or anything.

Here's the first photo I snapped of our Bella. Life is utter insanity around our house at 7:58.

Now, here's the thing. I am a healthy eater. I make sure my family eats sound, nutritious foods.

Except for Thursday nights.

Thursday nights are a junk food free-for all at my house.

Here's my Tori, with her health-nut dinner. Julia is giving it the thumbs up in her culinary opinion.


There are some people who have a passion for art. Some folks have a passion for sports. Others' passion lies in Pizza Rolls. Bella has a passion for her tennis ball. It consumes her— this passion.


Here we have a pile of puppies, Bella, Delilah and Sophie. Don't you love the way they match my floor? Not many people can say their dogs match their floor. We're special like that.

So, the reason we have Junk Food Thursdays is because my Hubby comes home late on Thursdays. And every reason I can find not to cook is a good one. Since it's just the kids and me, there's no meal. Kids don't need nutrition. They're resilient like that.

My Hubby is not home on Thursdays because that's his shooting club night. Now, relax. Yes, he shoots guns, but he shoots no animals. He's only about targets and clay pigeons. When we moved to our small southern town, we found out that all the men in town get a choice. They can take up shooting or fly Confederate flags from their autos and chew tobacco. He picked the guns.

The women have the choice of becoming Mary Kay representatives or dying their hair platinum blonde and wearing it big. I never could get the big with my inch of hair, but I was down with the blonde. Mary Kay is good, too. I just have very sensitive skin that rashes up from everything.


So, here I am asking My Hubby about his day.

Oh, and by the way, that cheesy photo was taken at a funster AIG convention and given to us as a party favor. Your insurance dollars hard at work for you.

And since I'm kind of looking for something to do on Thursday night, I thought I'd make a personal appeal:

It's a little inside joke that all of us June followers share. We blog folks have our own world that  the rest of you don't even know about! We're planning on taking over the world here, soon.

So, when I'm super bored, eating junk food and waiting for my Hubby to come home, I have a little "coffee" in my Bye Bye Pie mug.
I don't even drink Scotch, but the bottle of vodka in the liquor cabinet was super-sized and I didn't want everyone to think I was some boozed-up, junk-food-eating, blonde Southern girl.

See what I did there, June? I knocked out 2 birds with one stone, sending in my Bye Bye Pie picture at the same time!

My Julia decided to lay down with her 2 pillows of fluff.


And then it was time for tricks. Ok, time for me to brag. These girls are only 10 weeks old and they're already learning their commands. Here they are sitting. I've got some super smart kids.

Oh, it looks like My Hubby has made it home in time for the photo shoot. That phone is permanently glued to his ear. Insurance never sleeps. And yes, that is one of the trucks recalled in the big Toyota recall. Evidently they're not going to make them anymore, since the problem of the gas pedal getting stuck is so dangerous and one they haven't found a solution for! We're so glad he just bought that truck. We like to live on the real side of danger.

Oh-oh, best get rid of the sign! Hi, Honey! On second thought, Hulk, I better rescind my offer. He has lots of guns and a truck with a stuck gas pedal. He could blame everything on the recall. Sorry, Dude.
And look Daddy brought home the bacon or perhaps the chicken wings to top off Junk Food Thursday and clog up our arteries well and good.


They say the family that eats together, stays together . . .  or something like that.  Tori was too full on Totino Pizza Rolls to eat any wings. Besides, somebody had to take the picture.

At no time, were any of these pictures staged.

So, this is our big life at 7:57 or 8ish at our house. Thanks June for giving us an opportunity to share. I can't wait to see all of my other blog friends' pictures.

Today's Definite Download: The Bee Gee's, "To Love Somebody". See, June loves her some Barry Gibb like I love my Bono. So, for June today, a little Barry and brothers. Enjoy.

I turned on my boob tube last night for a little end-of-the-evening entertainment. 
Before I could even fluff up my pillow for optimal viewing, I was hit with the WORST, I mean, the WORST commercial ever. It was for Pace Picante Sauce and there was this dude dunking his chips into the salsa bottle and chomping away. Gross enough that he was dipping into the jar, but his unsanitary imbibing wasn't even the most skin-crawling part. The whole freakin commercial focused on the sound of this guy smacking and slurping and crunching. No music. Nothing. Just this guy eating like a rabid cow. 
Smacking and chewing loudly are akin to nails on a chalkboard for me. Smacking in my household is a capital offense. Unfortunately, my Hubby is a smacker and it has caused me to almost divorce him and/or murder him at times.
I wanted to leap into the tv screen, jump on that pig dude, wrap my hands around his neck and violently squeeze until every crunched up chip came spewing back out and as he gasped for breath, fragments of chips littering his pig t-shirt, I wanted to hiss, "DON"T YOU EVERRRR EAT LIKE A SLURPY, SMACKY PIG, AGAIN! And for God's sake Man, get a freakin bowl, Pig-Ass!" Then I would have slapped him over and over again. I guarantee he'd never smack again, no matter how much Pace was paying him. 
I really, really hate smacking.
What advertiser reached into the depths of their imagination and said, "You know what would be really great? A commercial where a man is just sitting there, disgustingly eating straight from the jar of salsa and the only sound you hear is his slurpy skin-crawling masticating. Yeah, that would certainly set America consumers on fire!"
I'm going to boycott Pace salsa now. Not that I ever bought it. But, still...
So, as I was clicking around in search of something, I happened upon America's Next Top Model. It was one I'd seen about 450 times, so I changed the channel. But, I have to fess up, before I go on with my Lord, I Was Born A Ramblin' Man story here: I find Jay Manuel so freakin sexy-hot!

And I know, I know. For those of you who follow American's Next Top Model,  you're thinking, "Uh, you do realize?"

And yes, I realize that not only is Jay openly gay, but flamboyantly gay. I mean, Duh, he's made a living as a makeup artist and fashion guy. But, there is just something about him that makes me all a-flutter. Hot man flutter.
Pretty weird, since my type is more macho, grungy, bad boy. Hellooo, Johnny Depp and Gerard Butler.

Jay dyes his hair, white-blonde and tweezes and pencils in his eyebrows, but my goodness, I just can't explain it. Hot Man flutter.

Anyway, I just needed to get that out there. Back to my story.
Finding nothing on the tv, I went to the On Demand stations which are as wonderful an invention as Satellite Radio. 
I'd already seen all the Dog The Bounty Hunters listed, so Dog and Beth's ongoing big-hair love story while hunting down criminals was out. 
I was excited to see my new favorite show was now on the On Demand. It's called "I Survived" and let me tell you, it is RIVETING. It's this show where people recount their true harrowing, escaping-death-by-the-skin-of-their-teeth experiences. There's no reenactments or anything, just the people sitting there, telling their stories and I know that sounds boring, but trust me when I say, you will not be able to move from your chair as they relive their near-death moments. It's always 3 different people and just when somebody's story gets good they flip to the next person and go back and forth through the whole show recounting everyone's gruesome tales. 
The last one I saw had a woman who was mauled by a mountain lion, a hotel clerk who was attacked by an insane dude lurking around the hotel lobby and a man who survived a brutal home invasion where his entire family was killed by his daughter's ex-boyfriend. You just can't make this sort of fantastic shit up! Word of warning: If you're a woman and your husband is out of town, do not watch the show because there is ALWAYS a home invasion. 
I made all the kids and the dogs sleep with me the last time I watched it. Cause, I guess I wanted to make it more convenient for the home invader?
Unfortunately, I'd seen all the the shows listed, so I gave up and went back to regular tv. 
I flipped through a couple of channels when suddenly I was face to face with my nemesis.
What is it now, 34 Kids and Counting?
I started to click past it until I scanned the description about Josh and Anna welcoming their new baby and I figured a little righteous indignation right before bedtime was just the ticket. 
For those of you not in the know, Josh is the first spawn of the neolithic JimBob and Michelle Duggar who believe that reproducing like rabbits is their Christlike duty. 
Josh, evidently, has been schooled well. His young bride got pregnant the second they said their "I do's". 
Not surprising in the least. 
If you witnessed their excruciatingly awkward "courtship" you would understand this lightning fast conception. Their archaic values kept them from anything more intimate than hand-holding during their engagement. These poor kids have never had the teenaged thrill of making out in a back seat or getting a hickey or rounding some bases. The sort of things that conjure up fabulous memories in my book. A few times over. Ok, so a few is being conservative. Shut Up, Sisters of mine. Those days are just a dull haze, so I can't say for sure.
But, these young adults weren't even allowed to KISS until after they were married. 
You can imagine their pent-up frustration. And to the television audience's pain, they took it all out on their hands right in front of their viewing audience. It was cringeworthy. They heavy petted each other's hands through the whole engagement. I felt like I was watching porn for hands. Seriously.
So, I'm sure as soon as Josh had the green light, there were millions more than the usual millions of sperm, screaming in their best William Wallace imitation, "FREEDOM! FREEDOM!"
And Boom! There she was, knocked up. 

Like creepy father, like son.


With only 10 minutes left of the show when I tuned in, it was apparent that little Anna was in heavy labor, pacing like a cat as Josh followed her around like a helpless puppy.

How bout those dog and cat similes there?
At one point, Anna disappeared into the bathroom and Josh started KNOCKING ON THE DOOR AND ASKING HER WHAT SHE WAS DOING?
Come on! I don't care how subservient I might have been fooled into being in my young life, I would have been: "Get the F*#@k away from the door, Dipshit and take the camera crew with you! I've got the runs because I'm about to have a baby, you ass! So, don't freakin be a douche and ask me what I'm doing!!!"
That's what I would have said.
She was just all sweet, discreetly saying she'd be out in a minute. 
Well, thennnn, she comes out and tells him it's time to call the doctor because her contractions are 5 minutes apart. The next thing you know, Josh is announcing to the camera that they've found out their doctor is out of town and Anna isn't that comfortable with any of the other partners in the practice, so they've decided to have the baby AT HOME!
Just like that. 
Now, I don't care if I wasn't "comfortable" with the other doctors. I'd ask, "Have they delivered enough babies that they won't leave anything important in there, like a limb?" And "Do they have a direct line to the epidural man?"
And if the answer was yes on all parts, especially the drugs, I'd be like, "Let's do this!"
Now, Josh and Anna had a Doula, but a Doula according to Wikipedia, the source of all knowledge, is there for non-MEDICAL and non-MIDWIFERY support. Doula's ain't trained to ease a stuck baby out of a tight little orifice without ripping the hell out of a first-time Momma. A Doula ain't got no drugs.
Josh was going to deliver the baby. 
I was as riveted as if I'd been listening to a home invasion story. This doofus 19-year-old used car salesman with his creepy dad's hairstyle, was going to birth his wife's first baby. 
How wackadoodle are these people? I could not believe my ears!
When I was pregnant with the Odawg, my Hubby read and reread the emergency birth section in my What To Expect When Expecting Book. He was hoping we'd get stuck in traffic or a snow storm or something so he'd get to have another Macgyver experience, where he could tell everyone, "And then when she was stuck, I forceped her head with the toilet plunger and tied the cord with dental floss— the waxed kind."
But, since we live in Florida, the chance of getting stuck in a snowstorm was pretty rare. And besides, I wasn't about to let it get that close. I wanted to be near the drugs. 
So, the Doula shows up to give her EMOTIONAL support. Screw the crap out of that! And, of course, Michelle Duggar, who is at another "We're freaks and we're training our children up to be as redunkulous as we are," convention, flies in for the birth with her mullet hair and Amish denim dress.
She brought Jamabamamalama with her or whatever the oldest J girl's name is. I'm sure, you know, to inspire that 16-year-old to find herself a husband this year, one that she'll only hand-groove until the wedding night where she will then start to attain her goal of having more offspring than her momma. Who knows, maybe they could be pregnant at the same time. That would sure be cozy. 
And honestly, with as much contempt as I hold for that backwards-ass mother, when she walked in their house with her raggedy-ass mullet, I was all, "Whew! Michelle is here. If anything goes wrong with little Anna, she's the one you want watchin' your back, since she's popped out a couple dozen." 
So, Anna keeps going from the bed to the bathtub while in active labor. Josh informs the tv screen, she likes the bathtub best. Which is weird because she's in the empty bathtub. I'm all a-yelling at the screen, "Fill the bathtub up with warm water, fools! Everything feels better in a hot bath."
At some point through this show, my shock turned into admiration for this little Duggar wife. 
That's right. I said admiration. 
It was so amazing to watch this sweet, soft-spoken girl summon up all her womanly power. Her quiet strength, the one that resides in the heart of every woman, only visible to the rest of the world at the most trying times, was so palpable, I wanted to reach through the screen and hug her as she labored on. She looked at her Doula, wild-eyed in her pain, almost animalistic as she panted and endured some of the most insufferable pain known to the human race. She birthed a child right there in her bed with such quiet, queenly grace, with stupid Josh helping her, but not really. 
Not really at all. 
This is women's work at its most primal. A mother and child together in the most pivotal moments of each other's lives. 
As their baby came into the world, Josh yammered, Michelle cheered in her tiny baby voice, Jammabammalamma silently wished it were her fulfilling God's sole purpose in life for women and Anna- strong and regal- new mother Anna, rejoiced in her quiet way as their 8 pound baby girl made her way into the world. 
Another Duggar to ridicule.
I might hate the Duggars, but man, do I admire that little Anna. She's my new hero. I heard she was quoted as saying she might want just 2 or 3 kids. The entire Duggar clan gasps. 
Anna, enjoy that sweet little baby and your stupid-haired husband and keep on, keepin' on with your bad self. If your husband ever tries to tell you your role is to be the submissive one, whatever the hell that is, just give him a knee to his caveman parts and tell him: "I labored without the benefit of any drugs. I saved you a fortune in medical expenses. I gave birth to an 8 pound baby in our bed. I am Superwoman, Punk Ass, so fetch me a cocktail, paint my toes scarlet and watch the baby while I go and get me a life."
And then, give me a call. I'll show you what do with a Duggar. 
Today's Download: I've been waiting for the right place for this one. "Blindsided" by Bon Iver. Gosh, I love, love, love Bon Iver. And this song is so quietly beautiful exactly like Anna Duggar, New Mother Extraordinaire. It makes me think of sweet things, like good dreams and soft rain and barefoot weddings and of course, now, Anna Duggar. Oh, this song!
"For the agony I'd rather know, cause blinded I am blindsided." *Big sigh* For Anna, the only Duggar I love. 

The other day I had some places to go, people to see in my big life. 
So, what this entailed was changing into something besides my jammies and actually doing something with my usual bedhead hair. Well . . . technically I really didn't even style it because one of my important errands was a trip to the hairdresser since my blonde hair is as genuine as John Edwards' flip-floppin' declarations. 
Mr. Slimo's wife and mistress need to take a lesson from these gals here. Super Glue on his gentleman parts might just help him remember that his wife is DYING and he already has a houseful of kids. Ass-bag.
Back to the important stuff, my hair. 
Now, I love my hairdresser. She rocks when it comes to pixie do's. Not every stylist is brave enough to go short-short on a woman. She does, though. She's got mad skills when it comes to scissors and a razor. But . . .
There's this one thing. 
Over the years of having a shorty short do, I have yet to find a single hairdresser who knows how to style my hair after they've cut it. I think it's because most hairdressers have, you know— hair, unlike me with my 30 strands and that's on a good hair day. 
Every durn time, they pull out their round brushes and their big mousses. And I'm kind of not assertive at all when it comes to hairdressers and I just sit there, letting them round my inch of hair with their enormous brush into a big bubble. I don't know why I'm so meek. Probably because I'm just so grateful they're making me look less balding. 
And so when they finish and I have this short bouffant Grandma do, I just smile and thank them and then I go home, wet it down and use my hands, my blow dryer and a few products to gunk it up and make it look bigger than it really is. The same concept as my Victoria's Secret Miraculous bra, actually. I then use a little molding paste and Taa-Daa— I'm sporting the 14-year-old boy look— except for the Miracle Bra part of things. 
It works for me. 
But on this day, I didn't have enough time to go home and unfluff my fluffy hair, so I ran my errands, hoping that my black cashmere dress (that I only get to wear for like our 3 weeks of winter, so I wear the snot out of it), my cool boots and my funky accessories would help counteract my bouffant. 
As soon as I got home, I pulled out my usual, "I like to look homeless while at home" look. 
Two faces have I.
I threw on a bright gold sweatshirt and my fluffy socks. 
I went about my day here, the usual soul-killing chores, not giving my outfit a second thought.  I talked to a neighbor, answered the door to the UPS man with his daily packages for Shopping Boy. I hosted my usual bevy of a million teenage girls coming and going from my house. 
At one point, Julia's other sister/next door neighbor/best friend, Haley came over.  She wandered into the kitchen where I was slaving away and stopped dead in her tracks, giving me the once-over. Now, this is a child who doesn't blink when I'm in my pajamas at 3:00 in the afternoon and my hair is an electrified mess, I've got brownie crumbs in the corners of my mouth and unidentified stains on my wrinkled t-shirt. 
She knows the real me. 
But, she took one look at me and said in this high voice, "Aunt Joann, did you go somewhere todayyyy"
And I was all, "Why yes. I was very busy, very busy with super-important things."
And she said in that same high tone, "Well, you sure look pretty." 
She's a nice girl like that, acknowledging the cool funkiness that I always try to attain with my look. 
It wasn't until later that I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It stopped me dead in my tracks and almost gave me a stroke. 
I saw the reflection of a 70-year-old woman staring back at me. Kind of this look, except without the cigar:

I'd forgotten to take off my funky, fat-beaded necklace and dangly earrings, which were the perfect accents to my sleek black dress.  So, there I stood, with my puffy hair, my blindingly gold sweatshirt and my chunky necklace perched exactly on that sweatshirt like I'd checked out my ensemble that morning and said, "Now, that's a fine-ass look, there."


Dear Lord, all I was missing was some orthopedic shoes and elastic waist pants in a bold pattern and I would have been all set for Mahjong and boiled beets. 
I ran up to my daughter's room and flung open the door. Haley and Julia stared up at me like, "What now, Crazy?"
I blurted out, "You know I didn't do this on purpose, right? You don't have to patronize me. I haven't given in, yet. I'm too young, too young."
Haley eyed me warily and said, "Okayyy."
Julia, who is used to my drama, just said without blinking, "What's patronizing?"
I'm still a little shaky from it all. Just the fact alone, that someone thought I could pull the senior citizen look off has completely shredded the cool, hip perception I had of myself. 
Oh Man, I'm feeling Christmas sweaters looming on the horizon. Somebody save me. 
Today's Definite Download: Go to Itunes today. itunes.com It will take you directly to the Hope for Haiti sight. Some splendid performances by some of the greats of the music world. 100% of the profits will go to aid for Haiti. Enjoy their music, knowing your money isn't going into Steve Jobs pancreatic transplant fund, but to Haiti. 
What the world needs now is love, sweet love. Perhaps if we spread our love a little more, the world would be a softer place. Haiti is calling. If you can, please answer them. 

They were born at dawn on a November morning— blind, unable to walk and closely resembling baby hamsters. 


For the first few weeks, they were no trouble since really all they ever did was eat and sleep and mew like kittens. My Julia, always a constant in their pen.


Their mother ate their poop which was disgusting to watch, but totally appreciated by me. Turns out it was about the only motherly thing she could master—poop eating. And she gets props from me in that category because I think if I were a dog, I'd be like, "Xcuse me Master Person, do you have any of those pooper scoopers and a plastic bag? Cause, you might want to pick up that mess right quick."

They grew into fat lardo puppies in just about a minute's time. Their eyes opened and they began staggering around like drunken sailors. They still spent most of their days in newborn slumber.


They had a real affinity for lounging on their pee pads, obviously a precursor to poop rolling. So thankful, I lucked out on the human thing and wasn't born as a dog. I would have been the prissiest dog ever in the history of dogs.


They began to eat real food which was a royal pain in the ass. I was your typical first-time mom and did everything by the book. My book said to buy the good kind of puppy food, the kind that is more expensive than MY food and process it in a food processor mixed with puppy formula.

That's right, formula for puppies.

And of course, thinned out with only the finest bottled spring water. 
Cause that's what my book said to do. 
I think I bought the wrong book. I think the author of my book is the kind of dog person who has a stroller and matching outfits for her and her dog. 
But, I did it anyway, jacked up my food processor with dog food and puppy formula. I smelled of puppy formula for weeks. I dug ground-up puppy food out of my fingernails constantly. 
They devoured their homemade food, with both paws in the mush. It was a blood bath of mush.

Eating solid food became their passion, often gorging themselves into drunken stupors.



And along with solid food came the Real-Dog poop. Lots and lots of Real-Dog poop.

It was about this time that their mother, Paris Hilton, took this approach to mothering.

She looked in on them from afar, never getting too close and once the real poop showed up, after one heady sniff, she never touched  it again.

Their little systems emptied out constantly. Great for them— the stuff of nightmares for me. Seriously, I dreamt about dog poop, dog crap worming its way into my subconscious.

And no matter what time I'd put them to bed or how hard I'd worn them out, when dawn came, 5 little bundles of fluff would begin their chorus of whines and yelps that the loudest volume on my sound machine could not drown out. And believe me, the waves were crashing at full blast. 
I would curse them as I threw back my covers, still in my REM sleep dreaming of Bono and Johnny Depp. But then, I'd enter the room and flick on the light and 5 little babies would be standing on their back paws, all in a row. Their front paws, impossibly tiny, lined up along the pen wall, peering out as their entire little body wagged furiously with love and adoration for me, their surrogate Momma. It melted me every time. 
I didn't know how I'd ever be able to part with them.

But then, something happened.

Like Forrest Gump, they learned to pump their legs and THEY WERE RUNNINGGGG.

Running and Pooping became their specialties.


I spent my days outside, wheezing and soaked in sweat, as 5 puppies scattered in different directions the second I put them down.

Paris Hilton didn't help much. She'd wander over to see if she could steal any good dog toys. Honestly. Not only is she a crap mom, she would steal all their toys and treats right out of their baby mouths. Never in the history of dogdom has there been such an awful mom.

The puppies would immediately try to jump up and latch on for a little nursing, something she'd given up on long ago, (thus the puppy formula) and off she'd flee. And there they were, right behind her.
Which, I know she's a lousy mom, but still, I think if fanged creatures were trying to leap up and grab onto my taa-taa's, I'd run too.

It was about this time, the creatures of the woods took notice of my runninnnng babies. At first, the only threat was the Bald Eagle that would circle as my pups raced off in 5 different directions. And, I've seen enough birds of the lake get swooped up and carted away by my majestic friends, to know, that a 6- week old puppy is no match for a bald eagle.

Then the pups discovered the crater-sized hole on one of my grandfather oaks. It's the nightclub where all the coral snakes hang out. Those baby pups were drawn to that hole like Tiger Woods to a bevy of skanks. 
The final straw was the scraggly, skin and bones raccoon who stalked my patio, getting up on his hind legs, his nose twitching in the air as my puppies romped just a few feet away.
I wasn't kidding when I said I lived in the sticks. 
I called Wildlife Control and coincidentally they had reports of a rabid raccoon in our area. They were trying to trap him, but in the meantime they suggested keeping the pups inside. 
5 Puppies. Inside. My House. 5 of them.
And the madness began. 
Here they are, with all their pent-up energy, destroying a pair of my leggings, (Paris Hilton included). 

It was Wrestle-Mania twenty-four/seven in their closed up room. Notice the utter chaotic pit-hole the room quickly turned into and also note the filthy windows, smeared by the constant lickings of puppy tongues who lusted for their outside recreation.


Note the puppy paw in the corner, lunging in for the tackle.




Here they are, eating my couch:




And then of course, you can't forget the woman who's fed you and cleaned up after you and bought you all those freakin' dog toys. Let's chew up her coat!


I now knew how I could bear to let them go.

They have all been adopted by their new families, but in their honor, I wanted to spotlight each of them and tell you a little something about my sweet, furry friends.

We named her Lilly. She was the gentlest one of the bunch with fur like a baby duckling, a little cowlick always sticking up on the top of her head.
And yes, that is my pajama-clad leg she is using as her ottoman.

She also went by her alias of Dawwwg-Dizzle.

You know, when she felt like pimpin'.

Lilly went to Grandma and Grandpa where she keeps abreast of all the current events while watching Fox News constantly. Her new name is Zeba, which I'm pretty sure is Aramaic for Bill O' Reilly. She has become the light of their life and we are so very glad for all of them.


Here's Grandpa, the first night we brought his new puppy to him. Before this, Grandpa hadn't bent down since 1978.


Our only boy Jake, went to our dear friends, Tim and Michelle. Jake's not your typical, fearless boy. In fact, Jake was kind of an enormous crybaby. No offense to Tim and Michelle, but he definitely showed all the others what it was like to be a wuss. Even if he is a pansy, Jake is extraordinarily handsome and the first one to understand potty training. He went to a home already occupied by a big, boisterous Lab named Riley. Riley will make a man out of Jake.

And then there was Daisy Mae. Our biggest pup and the most friendly. She loves everything and everybody and led the group when it came to wandering. She was also the one who didn't have a clue about potty training, leaving her trails of piddle everywhere she went.


She went to Bill and Ellen, Tim's parents. Ironically, for a woman who didn't want a barking dog, she got the barkiest dog of them all! No matter. She loves her Daisy, fitting her with a pink collar and matching leash. Daisy now lives on the beach where she frolics in the tides and rolls around in the seaweed and I've been thinking, perhaps I'll offer myself up to Bill and Ellen in a trade adoption. I like pink and I would definitely like to frolic in the tides all day. I'm also potty trained and I only bark at the dung beetles. So, they might just be getting themselves a better deal.

And that left two— Delilah and Sophie. And the thing was, I couldn't choose between the two of them. Just look at them. Could you?

Sophie is a curly girl, ready at all moments to lick you to death. She's smart and sweet and very attached to her sister.

Delilah has soulful black eyes that stare out at you through her shaggy face. She is lively and full of bouncy energy and she cuddles up to her sister when she sleeps.

I couldn't do it. 
I couldn't separate the two. It would have been as heartbreaking as Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice being forced to decide by the cold-hearted Nazi which one of her children she would keep. 
The cold-hearted Nazi would be My Hubby and the thing is, he's not cold-hearted or a Nazi and so, our one-dog household is now filled to the brim with three furry blobs of love, the same amount of Dung Beetles   and a mother who never, ever gets enough sleep.
I, of course, am still picking up puppy poop.
I wouldn't have it any other way. 
Today's Definite Download: U2's, "One." For me, this is as close to gospel as it gets. "We're one, but we're not the same. We get to carry each other. Carry each other. One." Bono wrote it that way on purpose. We GET to carry each other. He said there is no bigger privilege in life than to lift each other up. 
I opened my newspaper yesterday because I'm an old-fogie like that. Even though I get my news online, I still like my coffee and newspaper in the morning.  
The newspaper read, "Over 200,000 dead." 
200,000. 
Haiti weeps and I witness it from the safety of my newsprint and my comfy home. 
200,000.
This Friday, June 22nd at 8:00 pm, Bono will join George Clooney and a bevy of other stars in a telethon to aid the utter devastation that is now Haiti. If you have any extra to give, Haiti needs us, needs us desperately. If you can find it in your heart and in your wallet, please give. 
"One love. One blood. One life. You got to do what you should. One life with each other. Sisters. Brothers. One life but we're not to same. We get to carry each other, carry each other. One...life. One."
We get to carry each other. How privileged are we.