Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Krispy Kreme K-9s

Laverne sniffed my hand suspiciously. “You’ve been petting someone tall, dark, and handsome,” she said in an accusing voice.

“There’s been no petting in my life in quite some time,” I said, adding, “Maybe we need to get the nose checked?”

“Not human tall, dark, and handsome. Canine. And while you were out fooling around, the cat ate all my food. I’m starving.”

She had me.

Last week, as part of an assignment for the magazine, I spent an afternoon riding with Officer Steve and his dog, Abbas, one of the K-9 teams in our local police department.

Abbas is an 8-year-old Belgian Malinois (pronounced Mal-uh-wah) who was born in the Netherlands and has a pedigree longer than Lindsay Lohan's rap sheet. He’s been certified by the Dutch Royal Police. According to his partner, Officer Steve, Abbas has participated in five arrests, including that of a convicted murderer and a child molester. And get this: every person he’s arrested has made a visit to the emergency room on his way to the pokey. In fact, the convicted murder walks with a limp now. He’s missing the Achilles tendon in his right ankle, thanks to Abbas.

Laverne and Shirley were impressed. Kind of. They began yapping about pursuing a career in law enforcement. Part-time, of course. With doughnuts at least twice a week.

“I don’t think the police department is looking to add dachshunds to the force,” I said. “You can do some damage to a possum, but I don’t think the bad guys would be scared of you.”

“The tax assessor was scared,” Shirley pointed out. “And we instinctively went for the Achilles, just like Abbas did.”

“She was barely five feet tall, and you didn’t even break the skin,” I pointed out. “Plus, police dogs have to be brave enough to go into buildings and clear them so that the human officers are safe. You guys are afraid of leaf blowers and vacuum cleaners.”

The hair on the back of Lavern’s back bristled. “I’ve cleared a room before. Remember the gay decorator?”

“Laverne, crapping on my living room floor cleared the room, yes. But making the decorator gag didn't help me.” I continued, “Here’s something else about Abbas: He’s trained in food refusal so that he can’t be bribed or poisoned. In contrast, I’ve thought about having the two of you tested for Prater-Willi Syndrome, that disease that causes you to keep eating because you never feel full.

They howled at the insult.

I continued, “Remember biting the Domino’s guy when you were trying to get the pizza?”

Shirley growled. “That guy put the pizza in a sheet to be hauled up to the second floor so that your kids could sneak pizzas in after midnight! We weren’t trying to get the pizza. We were alerting you!”

Laverne poked Shirley with her nose and whispered, “I’m pretty sure law enforcement dogs don’t lie.”

Shirley hung her head in shame. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

“Hey, guys,” I said. “Not everyone is cut out for police work. But some make great security guards. Our house has never been broken into, and you keep this yard completely free of squirrels, possums, and UPS guys. You’re pretty awesome at what you do.”

They weren’t convinced. They moped around until I thought to tell them that Abbas is rewarded for his hard work with a piece of PVC pipe.

Turns out, they like the security gig. They get eggs.

Friday, March 26, 2010

There She Is . . .







The prom dress arrived! We ordered it in January, I had panic attacks about its arrival in February, we finally got it in March, and two weeks ago – two measly weeks before the Prom – her high school announced that strapless dresses are prohibited at their prom.

Probably because high school girls wait until ten days before the prom to begin looking for a gown, right?

I kept my cool when thepromdress.com took six weeks to deliver the dress. I even had a good belly laugh when they blamed Chinese New Year for the delay. But when the high school pulled that rule out of its metaphorical ass, my friends, I lost my shit.

I’ve included some pictures of what’s been allowed at high school proms across our great nation in recent years. Take a look at my daughter’s picture, and compare it to what has typically been tolerated.

My hairdresser, Josh, who’s my hairdresser/friend/shrink, came to my house to do her hair. And he brought with him a friend named Bart, who just happens to be a professional makeup artist. When they were finished, I helped her slip into the gown and then buckled her shoes for her. All that was missing was my dad singing his version of the Miss America song (“There she is/Miss America/There she is/My ideal”). His rendition went like this: “There she is, Miss-Cell-a-ne-ous.”

Isn’t she gorgeous in her prohibited gown?

Just for the record, my daughter doesn’t attend a Christian high school. It’s a public school. And I’ve no doubt that Flo Rida’s Right Round, with its lyrics about blow jobs ("You turn my head right round/when you go down/when you go down, down") will be in the DJ’s mix at some point during the evening.

Good thing there won’t be any slutty strapless gowns dancing to that song.

Well, actually, there will. Because last week, after I collected myself, I purchased a $26 wrap for her to wear over her $500 dress. Once she’s handed her ticket to the dress Nazi and entered that darkened ballroom, the wrap will be history. And she will have the time of her life dancing to suggestive lyrics in her absolutely decent, very pretty dress that will, most likely, turn a few heads - in a good way.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Beware of Twastikas!


Given all the rancor I aroused by suggesting that Tiger Woods probably won’t change and that Elin should go ahead and cut her losses, I’ve been biting my lip and sitting on my hands since news broke about Sandra Bullock’s marriage troubles.

I can’t stand it any longer.

Jesse James, Bullock’s husband (who, incidentally, claims to be distantly related to the wild west outlaw), seemed like a good guy and a loving husband. Sandy acted like she adored him, and she even gave up on trying to have children of her own so that she could raise his.

They may have given that acting Oscar to the wrong member of the family. He, obviously, wasn't what his wife believed him to be.

Apparently, the mistress, a tattooed hoochie mama named Michelle "Bombshell" Mcgee who files her fingernails into sharp points, has a Nazi tattoo near her private parts.

A swastika tattooed on her twat? Is she sinister, stupid, or just partial to weinerschnitzel?

Although Mr. Monster Garage has been checking under the wrong hood, I could understand if Sandra Bullock didn't tear up her family over one affair. After all, I couldn’t see divorcing my husband when I found out about his first affair. We’d been married for fourteen years and had three children. And if my husband’s story was to be believed, the girl knew he was a millionaire, and she threw herself at him.

Apparently, the same thing happened to Jesse James. Given the fact that Michelle Mcgee sold her story to InTouch Magazine for $30,000, I had to wonder if she had set her sights on him, this woman with the words “Prayerful Sinner” tattooed across her forehead and he was too stupid to see her for what she was.

To all the “Michelles” of the world: stop trying to steal husbands and break up marriages. Seriously, go get your own asshole. Because do you honestly believe he won’t ever in a million years cheat on you? You’re that special? Really?

And here’s a tip for the stupid men (or women) who believe that your sweet young thing is really in love with you: when your IQ reaches 72, SELL!

But today, another “Michelle” came forward. Brigitte Daguerre claims to have had an affair with Jesse James. And she’s number three.

Here’s my advice: divorce him, Sandra. Do it quickly. There’s no vaccine for stupid, so this serial cheater will cheat on you again. Anyway, weren’t you the one who said that if you’d been Elin Woods, you wouldn’t have stopped with the golf club? You would have gotten the baseball bat out?

And for those who want to bring up some ridiculous bullshit about forgiveness, I'd like to remind you of the old saying, “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me”?

Or how about the bumper sticker that simply reads, “Fergit, Hell!”

But I do think it would be fun if someone tattooed “Big F*&%ing Deal” across her titties and made a play for Joe Biden.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

The Tao of Riding in Cabs

Please tell me I’m not special. I’d hate to think that I’m the only person in the world who has terrible luck with New York cab drivers.

Last fall, during the trip to deliver my daughter to her dorm at NYU, I got into a verbal altercation with a cabbie complicated by the fact that his verbiage was, simply put, NOT English.

My ire started when he refused to help us load the six massive suitcases filled with my daughter’s belongings into his trunk. Thankfully, the hotel valet came to our aid.

Once in the car, I said, “We’re going to 75 Third Avenue, at the corner of Third and Eleventh.” We were at 57th street, and I know enough about New York to know that the street numbers get higher as you go north. In other words, number-75 anything is closer to the south end of Manhattan.

The man turned north.

“Excuse me,” I said, “shouldn’t we be heading south?”

“You say sebennty-fife. I go sebennty-fife street.”

“No, I said 75 Third Avenue. Not 75th street. I told you it’s at the corner of Third and Eleventh.”

An argument ensued, but it wasn’t over what I’d said. The man was arguing with me over whether or not 75 Third Avenue was actually at the corner of Third and Eleventh. He insisted it wasn’t possible.

I finally said, “Just humor me, and take us to Third and Eleventh. Forget the 75.”

The man grumbled in Farsi, I think, for the remainder of the ride. Then, when we arrived, he actually stopped the car and pointed across the two-way, four-lane street we were on and said, “Sebennty-fife across street.”

“Yes, I see it. And you’re going to take us over there, since we have six suitcases in the trunk,” I said. “And once we get there, you’re going to help us unload the six suitcases, or NO TIP FOR YOU!”

Yesterday, my girls and I found ourselves once again the unlucky passengers of a crazy New York City cab driver. He was driving like a hamster on heroin while on the phone describing the noise his car was making. “Dit-dit-dit-dit-dit-dit, it goes,” he was saying when the car in front of us stopped abruptly. Our distracted driver slammed on the brakes, and my head slammed into the seat in front of me.

My most bizarre cab driver experience, though, actually happened in Las Vegas. My friend, Fran, and I landed at McCarran International Airport and waited in the perpetually long cab line. When it was our turn, a nice looking fifty-something man wearing cowboy boots, a belt buckle the size of the Hoover Dam, and a bolero took our bags, tipped his Stetson, and said, “Good evening, ladies. Where to?”

A pleasant, English-speaking gentleman who drove safely? We took this man to be the equivalent of winning the taxicab MegaMillions.

Traffic was bad on the Strip, but we enjoyed a pleasant conversation with our driver. It took twenty minutes to go two miles, and by the time we finally pulled into the Aladdin, we had exactly ten minutes until our dinner reservations at Tao, which was more than a ten-minute walk from our hotel. We got out of the cab, and I handed the valet a $20 bill and said, “We have dinner reservations at Tao in ten minutes. Can you hold our bags until we get back?”

“Of course, ma’am,” he said. I looked over to see that no one was waiting for a cab, and then I said to our cab driver, “Is it okay if we just stay with you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he said, quite emphatically.

Now, I understand the rule about waiting in line for a cab. But there was no line. Puzzled, I looked at the valet for help. “Aw, come on, dude,” the valet intervened. “These ladies just need to go to Tao.”

The cab driver hesitated, and then he relented. We jumped back into his car, and he turned right out of the Aladdin and onto the Strip. And that was when he looked into the rearview mirror and said, “Could you tell from my response that I’m married?”

“Huh?” Fran and I looked at one another, wondering what he was getting at.

He quickly explained: “When you asked if you could stay with me, I thought you meant you wanted to STAY with me. I said 'No' because I'm married.”

The old cowboy thought we were propositioning him.

Even in Vegas, I can't get lucky with a cab driver.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Praying (and Playing) for Forgiveness



Some of my readers, all of whom wish to remain Anonymous, have recently pointed out that they believe I’m severely lacking in the forgiveness department.

They could be right.

My kid made it to the finals in a tennis tournament yesterday. I can’t resist bragging just a bit because he’s fourteen, and he was playing in the 16-year-old division. So it’s kind of cool that he made it to the finals, right?

It was cool until his 16-year-old opponent, who’s ranked 10th in the state, made some really bad calls. He cheated my kid!

I wanted to pull a Tonya Harding on him with my kid’s racquet. But that would have ruined an expensive racquet.

What’s the kid doing still playing 16s anyway? He’s ranked tenth in the state and probably should move on up to 18s if he’s hoping for a college scholarship.

I thought about sneaking out to the parking lot and slashing his fat father’s tires. The only problem was figuring out which beige suburban with the “I Love Tennis” bumper sticker belonged to fatty.

I mean, seriously? You’re sitting there with a Bluetooth device in your ear conducting business while your son is cheating a kid nearly two years younger than he is, and you’re proud?

You’re disgusting, your kid is disgusting, and I know a juco coach in Skankbutt, South Dakota, who would be very interested in recruiting him.

I'd also be willing to bet a can of ProPenn hard court balls that the balls you're playing with have lost their bounce.

But I’ve got to forgive. Move on. Let it go. Thank your son for the valuable lesson he taught my kid yesterday.

While I’m not quite at the level of enlightenment that would allow me to do what Jesus would do, I can muster the largesse to do as the bumper sticker on my golfcart asks: “What would Jimmy Buffett do?”

I’m pretty sure Jimmy would pray for him. Or maybe slide a roofing nail under the tire of that Suburban.

Forgive me, Lord.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Maybe Nadal After All

As it turns out, my kid, the great tennis player, is also an amazing writer. Below is an essay he wrote for English class, reprinted with his permission, of course. I've added a couple of editorial comments (in parentheses) for clarification.

Growing up under a sick (disgustingly good, for anyone over 15) athlete puts a lot of expectations on you. Everyone thinks you’re the next version of him. I’m sure Michael Jordan’s boys live in a dark shadow. Some rebel against the idea, and some take it as a challenge. Which is exactly what I did with tennis. It wasn’t planned; I just fell into it.

My mom played tennis in our country club and decided to take me to a clinic. I started playing on a monthly basis, which turned into a weekly basis and, finally, daily. As I progressed, people told me about a place where could really improve. This is where I met Murphy.

I walked up to the court where a teenager was playing better than anyone I had ever seen up close. Murphy was his coach; I instantly asked Murphy to help me.

He was more like a friend then a coach, and my game improved rapidly. Before I knew it, I lived in cheap hotels and was in a new state every weekend (playing tournaments) and out of school at twelve every day. Leaving school early was the coolest thing that had ever happened to me.

Or so I thought.

My best friends became just friends and my friends became just people in the hallway. I wasn’t up-to-date with the latest fashion unless it had to do with a tennis racquet. I had joined the Murphy Payne Witness Protection Program.

After a year, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to put tennis to the side and have more time for friends.

A year has passed, and I’ve led an extremely social lifestyle. I go to school full time and hate it. And as I sit wandering where I would be if I hadn’t quit, I remember what Murphy used to say: “Do you know how many friends I have that I knew in high school?”

I always said no because his point was obvious. He wanted to show me that friends didn’t matter.

Friends do matter, right? They’re the ones who pick you up when you fall. Your brother from another mother. But will I know them ten years from now? Will I still be hanging out with them on weekends?

Of course not. I have big plans for myself. Which makes me think: am I going to be a professional friend?

So as I sit in class realizing how productive the past year could have been, I find myself daydreaming of winning a title. If I had to choose, I’d rather know my buddies on the professional tennis tour than my old high school pals.

I raise my hand to go to the restroom. Not because I need too, but so I can text Murphy.


Mom's note: As much as I would like to think I'm the "sick" athlete/parent, I'm pretty sure he wasn't referring to me. See my last post for an explanation.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Nadal? Not at All

My kid is a great tennis player. And I’m a champion tennis spectator. We make a great pair, this mom who loves tennis and loves her kid and the kid who burns through a pair of tennis shoes every three months when he’s training hard.

Well, we make a great pair when he’s playing and I’m watching. Recently, though, I pointed out that I’ve spent the equivalent of a Mercedes on his tennis lessons and that it should merit me a few free lessons from him.

He graciously took me out to the courts and spent a couple of hours working on my game. Finally, he shook his head in frustration and gave me his assessment:

1. My grip is screwed up. For those who don’t play tennis, it means I hold the racquet wrong.
2. My serve is horrible. Mostly, that’s due to the fact that I hold the racquet wrong.
3. I’m not very coachable. In other words, I wasn’t getting what he was trying to teach me.
4. Basically, as a tennis player, I suck.

After his assessment, whatever game I did have was shot. Every time I served, I heard his voice saying, “You’re not holding the racquet the right way.” In fact, I even double faulted an entire game with his voice echoing in my brain.

Every shot, I heard him telling me I was holding the racquet wrong. I got so confused I couldn’t tell the difference between what was my wrong way and what was his right way.

But the new season started yesterday. And I was in the lineup. In fact, I was playing a position higher than I’ve ever played in my life – all with a screwed up grip and a hideous serve. I had to suck it up and get out on that court and just play the best I knew how.

We won.

Granted, I was playing with a really great partner. And granted, she’s the reason we won. But to my credit, I didn’t cause us to lose. In spite of me, we won.

Let me say it again: we won. And it felt great. I walked just a tiny bit taller for the rest of the day. And of course I let my kid know about the win.

Last night, after I brushed my teeth and washed my face, I walked into my closet and pulled my pajamas out of the drawer. I pulled my sweatshirt off and then peeled off my tennis top. And that’s when I noticed that my tennis skirt was on backwards.

Now, I realize that tennis skirts can get all twisted around. But this wasn’t just a tennis skirt. It was one with the compression shorts built into it. I don’t know how, but I wore that sucker backwards all day long and never even noticed.

Did I mention that we won? Even with my screwed up grip and my hideous serve and my backwards skirt?

I’m going to have to wear that skirt backwards for the rest of the season.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Whatever is a Girl to Do?


I almost lost a dachshund. If I hadn’t been wearing my red Baywatch swimsuit the other day when Shirley fell into the pond, she would have drowned.

I was sitting on my back porch enjoying a rare day of sunshine when I heard a strange-sounding “thunk.”

I looked up to see that Shirley was in over her head. And given the fact that her legs are two inches long, she was not going to be able to pull herself out.

Thank God I was there. And thank God I didn’t have to do CPR, because there’s no telling what she’d eaten that day. But God knows I would have done anything to save that little dog because I love her and because I need the great anecdotes she consistently supplies, especially since I’m apparently allowed to only write about my pets.

My kids have already extracted a promise that I will not write about them without first securing permission concerning the subject matter. In fact, my oldest daughter didn’t speak to me for several weeks after the Mt. Rushmorgan entry.

My ex threatened to sue me for writing about him. Since he realized that I’m not liable for pointing out that he makes Alec Baldwin look like Mother Theresa, he’s taken to having the kids beg me not to write about him. So I’ll lay off him for a while but with this warning, one of my favorite quotes (and one he abhors): “If you don’t want it told, don’t do it.” That, by the way, is courtesy of the great modern-day philosopher Jimmy Buffett. We’ll cross our fingers, kids.

I can’t write about my church, either. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually written about my church. Probably because this is not a blog about church. But I won't write about my church because I'm tired of silly people thinking my blog is an appropriate place to vent their frustrations about a place I love.

And according to the blog trolls, I can’t write about my divorce, my faults, addiction, my taste for beer, or Tiger Woods. Or sex. Especially not sex.

Thankfully, one anonymous blog troll was kind enough to tell me what I’m allowed to write about. The person wrote, “Can you shut the heck up and focus on talking about your dogs, a bengal cat or whatever?"

Whatever? I wish someone would tell me the topics included in that category.

So Shirley almost died. I pulled her out, dried her off, and fried her an egg to comfort her. She licked the plate clean, then looked up at me and said, “I need to warn you that if you write about this incident in your little blog, I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Your lawyer? Since when do you have a lawyer?” I asked.

“Since I read your blog the other day on animal rights’ attorneys. I called the real estate attorney who lives down the street. He’s got some time on his hands these days, what with the real estate slowdown, and he said it was only a matter of time before we could slap you with a libel suit.”

She looked around the kitchen. “Before long, I’ll own this house, and you’ll be the maid. And I’ll require two eggs over easy and two slices of toast cut into one-inch cubes every morning.”

“Dammit! What am I going to write about now?” I asked my dog.

She burped and said, “I’d write about 'whatever.' But I wouldn’t piss off that cat. She’s already trying to kill you for calling her a tainted pussy.”

Whatever.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Syphilis, Herpes, and Other Wounds that Fester


References to The Addams Family sitcom happened at least once a week when I was a kid. Given the fact that I have more hair than a yak and wore glasses as a child, I was often called “Cousin Itt.” In fact, if I flipped my hair over my face and put my glasses on, I was a dead ringer for Itt.

I’m not Itt anymore, though. I’m Uncle Fester. Because after I read some of the anonymous comments by my readers, I’m angry enough that I could stick a lightbulb in my mouth and illuminate the inside of an orangutang.

The biggest charge for me is the suggestion that, until I change my behavior and my attitude, I don’t deserve to be loved. It’s funny, but I remember holding each one of my children for the first time and thinking I loved them just because they were mine. Perfectionism – thinking I had to be perfect in order to earn love – caused me considerable heartache. I gave it up, and I like myself a whole lot better now. If anyone else decides to love me, that’s the double stuff in my Oreo.

The same person told me to stop complaining about my divorce and just “tough it,” while expressing sympathy for my brother because he was “betrayed by his brother-in-law.” Let me tell you something: my brother didn’t have to be tested for HIV, herpes, chlamydia, genital warts, syphilis, gonorrhea, hepatitis, crabs, scabies, and the general skank crud because my husband betrayed him. I did. So save your “he was betrayed” sympathy for him; he doesn’t want it.

Another person questions whether or not I’m even a Christian because my “frequent rants” don’t reflect Christ or His command to love our enemies.

My answer is also my favorite line from Mary Poppins: “I never explain anything.” The reason? Because it’s a stupid question.

I understand that because I grew up in a preacher’s family people expect certain things from me. But I’m not a preacher’s kid any longer, and my blog has nothing to do with my brother’s church. Sure, people from the church read it, and that’s wonderful. I welcome all readers regardless of race, creed, color, religion, national origin, sex, or Facebook status. But I’m writing to entertain. Not to enlighten, preach, teach, or be an example. If you’re entertained, I’ve done my job. If you’re pissed, please, please, please leave a comment! I’ll respond after I’ve let it fester a while.

Monday, March 8, 2010

It's All Going to the Dogs

Laverne and Shirley actually brought me the paper Saturday morning.

“Read it! Read it out loud!” they barked, their little tails wagging in anticipation.

“Why the sudden interest in current events?” I asked my dachshunds, thrilled that they actually fetched me the paper. Then I spotted the Wall Street Journal article on animal rights in Switzerland.

Voters in Switzerland would be going to the polls the next day, the article said, to vote on a referendum that would compel every town in the country to provide legal representation for animals.

Switzerland, more commonly known for its cheese and tight-lipped bankers, is also the most pro-animal-rights nation on the planet. For example, prospective dog owners must take a four-hour course before being allowed to purchase a pet. By contrast, new parents in our country don’t get that much instruction before leaving the hospital with their infant.

In addition, “social” Swiss animals – birds, pigs, fish, and yaks, to name a few – cannot be purchased alone. They must be provided a companion. Every a sole needs a soulmate, I guess. And get this: sick fish cannot just be flushed down the toilet. Swiss law dictates they be quickly bashed in the head or placed in a mixture of water and clove oil dissolved in alcohol.

Bella, the kitty cat, piped up: “Send me to Switzerland. I’d love to get away from these stupid dogs, and I could make a nice living taking care of all the sick fish.”

“Here’s something you would like, Bella,” I said to my kitty, “In Switzerland, it is illegal to deprive a pussy of human of human contact for more than 24 hours.”

“Whatever.” Bella jumped on my head and dug her claws in. “That law benefits humans, not cats.”

If the measure passed, the article went on to say, animals in Switzerland would be guaranteed the right to an attorney. And if they could not afford an attorney, one would be provided at the expense of the government.

“The only animal I know that can afford an attorney is Trouble, the Maltese who inherited $12 million when Leona Helmsley died. And I’ll bet that dog has a rich lawyer,” I said.

Laverne and Shirley ignored my snide remarks and howled in joyous support of the referendum.

“What would you two possibly need a lawyer for?” I asked.

The first complaint filed by their attorney, they explained, would be for my failure to provide proper nourishment.

“Your bowls are never empty! How can you say I don’t feed you?”

The key phrase, apparently, is “ proper nourishment.” According to Laverne and Shirley, dachshunds require fried eggs at least every other day to maintain the shine in their coats. Dry kibble is the equivalent of feeding my kids Cocoa Puffs for every meal.

“Okay. I’ll try to do better,” I promised. “Is that all?”

They were just getting started. The shock collars had to go. Air conditioning in the summer would be a new requirement. They needed crushed ice, not cubes, in their water dish on days when the high would be over 80 degrees. But their biggest beef? Recently, our vet recommended that I purchase health insurance for my dogs, citing a dachshund’s propensity for back problems and the age of my dogs. Laverne and Shirley are pissed at my refusal to purchase medical and dental insurance. They’re scared I’ll just put them down and buy a $400 purebred replacement the next day.

I decided to change the subject and went back to the Wall Street Journal. The biggest proponent of the Swiss referendum, according to the article, is a 51-year-old Swiss attorney named Antoine Goetschel, who is the animal rights public defender in Zurich. Last month, he took an amateur angler to court for abusing a 22-pound pike. The fisherman had to fight the fish for ten minutes before reeling it in, and that, according to Goetschel, constituted prolonged fish agony that could be considered cruel.

“I could’ve popped that pike in two minutes,” the 7-pound Bella boasted.

I continued reading. “Goetschel is a vegetarian who has no pets and avoids taking medication because of his opposition to research on lab animals. He became interested in animal rights at the age of 23, when an accident left him unable to speak for 10 days, helping him understand the plight of animals who can't express themselves.”

“I have no use for vegetarians,” Bella sniffed.

“A lawyer who can’t talk is appealing,” I pointed out.

“We need someone like him!” Laverne and Shirley yapped in unison. “A voice insisting on equal rights for all, starting with mandatory health insurance.”

Wait a minute. Lawyers, government, and mandatory health insurance. Where have I heard that before?

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Assholes Anonymous

It seems the Fundamentalist Police have a warrant out for my arrest. Anonymous has filed a complaint against me for rebellion, alcohol consumption, cursing, crude references to sexual activity, and trying to destroy 40 years’ worth of ministry. For a complete list of the charges, go to http://graceadams-sandpapers.blogspot.com/2010/02/combatting-assholiness.html

She’s right. I’m rebellious. I haven’t washed my hair in three days, and I left my bed unmade this morning.

As for the boozing and bad language, I plead guilty as charged. In fact, just so everyone knows how bad I am, in the past week I’ve had two beers and a glass of cabernet. I’ve said “ass” six times, “shit” twice, and “hump” four times.

Just so we’re clear, I only said the word “hump.” Since I’m not married, I didn’t actually hump. That could get me stoned.

But trying to destroy 40 years’ worth of ministry? I’m not guilty of that. First of all, I wouldn’t do that. I love the church, and I love my family. Secondly, it’s impossible. Thinking I could single-handedly take down that institution is giving myself way too much credit. I’d have to have an ego bigger than my ass to think I was that important. (Dang. I said “ass” again).

Basically, Anonymous wants me to shut the hell up because, in her words, she’s feeling very protective of my brother, seeing as how he must feel so betrayed over the breakup of MY marriage.

This woman drives a tricycle.

She has, however, graciously offered to drop the charges if I will see a counselor on the other side of town and only write things she considers helpful to humanity.

My counselor in Roswell will happily confirm my presence in her office more than fifty times in the past two years. Good thing I sold my soul for money, or I wouldn’t be able to afford the expensive therapy.

And here’s a helpful hint for humanity, something my therapist has been trying to hammer into my head: Don’t let people like Anonymous stop you from telling the truth. For the first thirty-five years of my life, I tried to live up to the impossible standard of being perfect so that no one would ever say the preacher did a bad job of raising his daughter. Quite frankly, perfectionism doesn’t work for me. I’m human. That’s my truth.

Unfortunately, Anonymous appointed herself the judge and jury in my case. She won’t appreciate my truthfulness. And since I’m so unrepentantly trying to hurt my brother, who she feels the need to protect, I’m screwed.

I hope there’s enough spandex on the planet to cover her tricycle-riding ass.

And I hope they serve beer in hell.

Friday, March 5, 2010

A Pain (or two) in the Neck


Recently, a neighbor took the time to walk across the street and ring my doorbell to inform me that he is unable to sit on his front porch in the afternoon and enjoy a glass of wine because my dachshunds bark too much.

Seriously? It’s been cold enough to freeze the balls off the monkey statue next to my pool (pictured above), and you’re sitting on your front porch with a glass of wine? The only other time we’ve talked, you were putting your garbage in my yard so that the truck would get it on their “return trip” down our street. I’ve got news for you, neighbor: I’ve never seen a garbage man go both ways. I wonder if you're really rowing with both oars.

But being the good neighbor that I am, I have already contacted the Invisible Fence people about purchasing bark collars for my dogs. The reason I haven’t done it sooner is that they already wear the Invisible Fence collars to keep them in the yard, and I didn’t want them to be confused about why they were getting zapped in the neck.

It’s too bad Puppy Tweets aren't available yet.

What are Puppy Tweets? Mattel is getting ready to roll out a product that allows dogs to use Twitter. The special collar is pre-loaded with 500 phrases, and every time the dog moves or barks, the owner receives a new Tweet.

Some of the pre-programmed, generic messages an owner could receive via text are

*I bark because I miss you. There I said it. Now hurry home.
*It’s not the catching of the tail. It’s the chase.
*Can we get some sparkling water for the toilet bowl?

Kind of boring, right? Had Puppy Tweets previously existed, here are some of the messages I would have gotten from my dachshunds:

*I bit the UPS guy. Animal control has been called.
*When am I off quarantine for biting the tax assessor?
*Get us a new bed on your way home. We were bored today and ate it.
*You forgot to feed us so we ate all the pansies in the pots.
*It's 27 degrees outside and the stupid neighbor is on his porch.

My dachshunds already have their regular collars (necessary for displaying the rabies tags in case they bite) and their Invisible Fence boundary collars. If I add a bark collar and a Tweet collar, they’re going to look like the Burmese Pai Dong Long Neck People, the ones known for stretching their women’s necks with brass rings.

So the doggies and I have come up with a solution. We’ll forego the bark collars and wait for Puppy Tweets, provided they promise to only bark when it’s REALLY important for them to send me a message. Acceptable TWEETS are as follows:

*Luverne is trying to eat from the cat’s litter box again.
*UPS guy is here. You have a package! If you want, we’ll go ahead and open it for you.
*The cat told me she is going to kill you in your sleep tonight. Get rid of the cat.
*Your kids are throwing a party. They’re giving us beer to buy our silence. You’d better come quick.
*The dumbass across the street is putting his garbage in our yard again.

Come to think of it, those are pretty much the only things they bark about anyway. And let’s be fair -- their brains are the size of an Everlasting Gobstopper, and that’s what they’ve been programmed to do. They, at least, know that garbage trucks don’t go both ways down the same street.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Steamy Seductions

Okay, I give up. Winter’s won.

I’m not throwing in the towel because it’s the fourth time this winter that I’ve seen significant snow in Georgia. And for all you northerners, the Atlanta definition of “significant snow” is a simultaneous snowflake sighting and a mob at the Publix akin to Black Friday at WalMart.

Neither is my dachshund’s refusal to go outside the reason for my surrender to the season.

The way I know that winter has won? I actually consumed a hot beverage this morning. I risked scalding my tongue to get my insides warm.

It’s like this: I don’t drink coffee. I never developed a taste for it. And why would I sip hot tea when I can gulp Chick-Fil-A unsweetened iced tea? It’s kind of like the old adage that “wine is fine but liquor is quicker.” I drink tea to quench my thirst, and cold goes down faster than hot.

In fact, I’ve estimated that in my lifetime I have consumed enough unsweetened iced tea to float a mid-size cruise ship. My kids have already been instructed that upon my death I wish to be cremated and sprinkled in the drive-thru of Chick-Fil-A.

But here’s the irony: my house has a built-in Miele coffee system, an expensive machine that has a steam nozzle and other features appealing to coffee enthusiasts. I can program it to speak to me in German, Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, English, Italian, or French. It has a counter that will display the number of cups of coffee or espresso that have been dispensed since it was purchased. It even has a security system that I can set to keep people unfamiliar with the unit from using it.

Even crazier is the fact that I, the one who does not drink coffee, am the one who ordered the machine. And it’s been used exactly six times in seven years. I don’t know how to set the language or the security system, and I haven’t ever gotten the German warning that means it’s time to descale the unit after 100 coffees.

My thinking in purchasing the Miele coffee system was that it could be used to circumvent my then-husband’s serious Starbuck’s addiction. Why not put in our own mocha machine? I thought. That, combined with the fabulous office he had over the garage, the beautiful pool, the home theater, and the fully-equipped home gym, meant he never needed to leave the house.

My plan didn’t work so well. As it turns out, it didn’t matter what was in this home. He liked to get his mochas elsewhere.

A month or so ago, he began texting me in an effort to have me meet with him so that he could present some options for paying the money he owes me. To my mind, there’s only one acceptable option, and that is for him to pay me the money he owes me. But I guess he needed to try. The conversation went something like this:

HIM: Coffee tonight 630 pm

ME: Excuse me?

HIM: Coffee starbucks

ME: I don’t drink coffee.

HIM: I forgot . . . organic water with a twist of lime

(Okay, you did forget. It’s unsweetened tea. And there’s no such thing as organic water)

HIM again: I bring the lime btw

(At this point, I’m grossed out and stop answering his texts, which strangely continue throughout the course of the day)

HIM: ??Yes?

HIM: Ok I will see u then

HIM: Seriously just biz . . . .

HIM: Seriously if u can’t that’s fine just let me know


Needless to say, I didn’t show up at Starbucks that day. And while winter may have won today, it will be a Kalte Tag in der Holle before I ever succumb to his steamy seductions.

That’s German for “cold day in hell.”