I've Been Called Worse!

I can now officially be called the crazy dog lady. I have a new one, a three-legged Australian Shepherd named Pancho who is the reason I cry when I see those Pedigree commercials about rescue dogs.

But Pancho isn’t a rescue dog. Not really.

About this time last year, my son began begging for an Australian Shepherd puppy. He even had him picked out. He found a puppy online, called the breeder, and found out that Pancho the puppy was, indeed, available. All that he needed for the puppy to be his were a major credit card and mom’s consent.

We already had three dachshunds and a crazy-ass Bengal cat. And in the past, he’d begged for a Chinese Water Dragon and quickly returned it. I told him no.

A couple of weeks later, I was awakened by an Australian Shepherd puppy licking my face. My ex had purchased little Pancho and brought him to my kid.

Here’s a tip for all the divorced people of the world. Hell, it’s a tip for all the people of the world: don’t buy a dog for another person’s house. If you buy a dog, it’s yours.

My kid left for school that morning, and little Pancho looked up at me as if to say, “Looks like it’s just the two of us. What’s the plan?”

I drove the puppy to the condo complex my ex was developing and put him in the clubhouse. Then I sent my ex a text that read, “Your dog is in your clubhouse.”

His reply: “That’s our son’s birthday present.”

My response: “His birthday is not for four months. Try again.”

Pancho lived with my ex for a day or so, spending his days in a crate in the garage. I drove my son over to the house in the afternoons to walk Pancho. Then the dog was sent to obedience school for two weeks. But the thing about obedience school is that it only works if the owner participates. Pancho’s owner did not.

My ex found Pancho another home about two hours away from us. My kid was sad, but he knew the people, so he understood that it was a clear case of making the best of a bad situation.

But then the situation worsened. A couple of months later, my kid got a text from the man saying that Pancho had broken his leg and that he might have to be put to sleep. He read the text aloud to me as I was cooking dinner.

I laughed out loud. I thought it was a joke. But then I looked up at my kid. He was crying.

I called the man. He had put Pancho the puppy into the back of his pickup truck for a trip to the vet. Pancho jumped out of the truck and broke his leg so badly it couldn't be fixed.

“But he’s not a horse,” I said to the man.

“That’s what the vet said. He doesn’t know if it can be fixed, but he went crazy when I suggested putting the dog down.”

That was last summer. Pancho healed quickly, and he got around on three legs very, very well. In fact, he’s quite a handful on just those three legs. I know, because my son and I took him to the beach with us in January. I carried that heavy dog up and down the stairs for two days before I realized he’s quite capable of managing stairs on his three legs.

Two weeks ago, I got a text. “We don’t want Pancho any more. He keeps eating our other dog's $70 radio collars. Do you want him?”

Yes. I did. For starters, I couldn’t bear to see my kid hurt again. And I knew that the three-legged Pancho might not fare so well in the rescue dog system. But maybe the bigger reason is that he’s another someone that my ex pursued and then decided he didn’t want. Like me, he got terribly hurt in the process. Pancho, as it turns out, is a kindred soul.

Call me crazy.

Fame is Gonna Cost You

Have you heard about Donna Simpson? She’s the woman who’s trying to become the fattest woman in the world.

Right now, she’s in the 600-pound range, up from the 532 pounds she weighed three years ago when she gave birth to her daughter.

Her Baby Daddy, who she says is “a belly man,” is a scrawny little thing who weighs a mere 150 pounds.

I need to picture slaughtered hogs just to stop thinking about how in the hell he actually managed to get her pregnant. It’s like a male Chihuahua with an obese English Mastiff.

Obviously, where there’s a will, there’s a way. Prolly a step stool had to be used, at least for the Chihuahua.

To accomplish her goal of becoming one-ton Tessie, Ms. Simpson eats 12,000 calories a day. She loves sushi, she says, and eats 70 pieces at a sitting. So much food is expensive, of course, but she has men who love to buy her dinner. People actually pay $11 to download a video of her eating. Or you can join her fan club for $15 a month.

The only thing that might keep her from reaching such a weighty goal she says, is “running” around after her daughter.

Or dying.

Why, I keep wondering, would a woman want that title? I realize that people will do crazy things to be noticed, but I can think of some attainable titles for the average woman that wouldn’t jeopardize her health, land her in jail, or involve giving birth.

How about Woman with the Most Screws Loose? The diaper astronaut would be the likely frontrunner if she hadn’t been disqualified by a felony, although Jon Gosselin’s girlfriends, any of them, probably have a good shot at this title.

Woman whose picture is posted most often on PeopleofWalmart.com. This is not to be confused with the Fashion Police section of Us Magazine. Those are celebrities dressed like People of Walmart. There would be some serious competition for this title, but it’s definitely winnable.

Woman Who Dresses Completely in Duct Tape. This one would be helpful for anyone interested in attracting a Tin Man.

World Noodling Chamption. Noodling is the sport of fishing with the bare hands. It involves muddy, snake-infested water and cramming a fist down a fish’s throat. Not exactly my cup of chai, but it beats eating 70 pieces of sushi or dating Jon Gosselin.

Thank God, I can’t muster enough desire for fame (or infamy) to do something crazy. And I think most women feel the same way. In fact, when it comes right down to it, I believe most women have a pretty clear distinction between what they require and desire. Happiness, it turns out, boils down to a pretty simple list.

It reminds me of a woman I heard about several years ago.

Picture a chain-smoking 80-year-old with skin like a piece of shoe leather and bleach-blonde hair. She’s driving around in a big white Cadillac and chain smoking with the windows rolled up. That’s our girl. Her theory of life went something like this:

“No woman can live on less than $100 a day. Every day, she needs a pack of cigarettes, a tank of gas, a bottle of wine, and a present for herself.”

Okay, and maybe in some cases, a step stool.

Not Even in the Running

I pass a tiny church on the way to my friend’s house. Being a preacher’s kid, I probably notice churches more easily than most, but the sign in front of this really little church just screamed at me.

It read: “Woman of the Year. Luncheon Wednesday afternoon.”

It got me thinking about what a gal would have to do to be named Woman of the Year. I mean, I won Mother of the Year once, but Woman of the Year? That’s a whole ‘nother Hillary!

But you’re probably distracted by my Mother of the Year win and are wondering what I did to win that prestigious prize.

Actually, the MOTY committee cited what I didn’t do as the reason I won.

I didn’t do their homework for them. And I didn’t clean their rooms for them.

I didn't stand over them with hand sanitizer and a bottle of Fiji water at the playground. Come to think of it, I was usually too busy cleaning house, cooking dinner, and doing laundry for us to do much hanging out at the playground.

When I discovered empty beer bottles stashed under my daughter’s bed, I didn’t tell her it was okay because everyone drinks when they’re teenagers.

When a daughter told me she hated me and wanted to go live with her father, I didn’t argue. She went, and three weeks later, she came back, ready to live in my home with my rules. A year later, the same thing happened with her sister.

When I found an emergency escape ladder hidden in my daughter’s room, I didn’t push her out the window.

Some might think that the mother of teenagers this unruly should never have even been nominated for “Mother of the Year.” But I’d like to point out that this isn’t the “Offspring of the Year” Award. My kids aren’t the ones being evaluated. “Mother of the Year” is about what a mom does – or in my case, doesn’t – do right.

The most important thing I didn’t do, however, the thing that most impressed the judges, is that I ultimately did not confuse my value as a person with my children’s behavior. Yes, I was tempted to blame myself when they misbehaved and was inclined to get mired down in the “mom guilt” so prevalent in our society. But I pulled myself out of that quagmire of parental regret, and that’s part of what makes me a great mom.

Here are my two secrets to being a great mom: First, love your kids, but don’t make your job as their mother your identity. Second, don’t sweat the small stuff, and don’t overlook the big stuff. Junk food and tap water are small stuff; sneaking out and underage drinking aren’t. In other words, picture a huge scale, one side being caring deeply and the other side not giving a shit. Try to find the balance. Even if you’re never nominated for “Mother of the Year,” you’ll know you’ve done a great job when your kid hands you a pink slip. You’ve done a good job when your child is self-sufficient and ready to take on the world. In the end, being a good mother is all about what you don’t do.

As for Woman of the Year, I didn’t get invited to that luncheon.

Speech Therapy for Potty Mouths

I think it's hilarious when kids say things to embarrass their parents. It's even funnier when they unknowingly use bad words.

When I was a kid, my mom sent us down to her parents' cattle farm for a couple of weeks every summer. After the first week, my cousin and I inevitably grew bored with naming the new calves, sneaking down to my uncle's room to view the naughty picture hanging inside his closet, and digging through Nanny's chest freezer looking for food older than we were.

One summer, when I was probably eight or nine, we wandered into the barn and told my Uncle Wierdie that we were bored.

He promptly handed each of us a shovel and said, "I think you girls are old enough to be part of my ship shoveling crew."

I remember going home and telling my parents that I was a ship shoveler. It turned out to be a pretty accurate prophecy.

These days, my sister is raising some potty mouths. Her little boy, Joe, got in trouble not long ago for calling his teacher a bad name.

"He called me a twat," the woman whispered to my sister when she went to pick him up.

My sister had the perfect comeback. "What's a twat?" she innocently asked.

Embarrassed, the woman pointed to her private parts.

So my sister went home and asked Joe what he'd called his teacher that day. He shrugged and said, "I called her a twerp." Now, I know that's not a great thing for a little boy to call his teacher, but it's definitely not "twat."

The only problem is that he can't pronounce his r's very well. So "twerp" sounded like "twap", which the teacher understood as "twat." I swear, some teachers have really dirty minds.

Joe's little sister, Kate, has the same trouble with her r's. The other night, I was over at their house during dinner. My sister put a plate in front of a hungry little Kate, and she shouted, "Mom, I need a fork!"

It sounded really bad.

I looked at my sister and said, "So do I."

Can I Have an Epiphany with that Apple Fritter?

Sex addiction has been in the news so much lately that one can’t ignore it. As the long-time primary caregiver for three products of sexual activity, I’ve had a hard time understanding how anyone could be addicted to sex. Shopping for outrageously expensive shoes – that’s something I could get addicted to. Food addiction, especially to those lovely apple fritters at Starbuck’s, I understand. Alcohol addiction even makes sense to me when my teenager shows me the rash on her abdomen that is an allergic reaction to her fourth attempt at a navel piercing. And don’t get me wrong: I like sex, well, a lot.

But sex addiction?

The definition of sex addiction, according to the experts, is a preoccupation with sex that causes problems in a person’s life.

Take, for instance, the three men arrested this week in Gwinnett County, Georgia, for soliciting sex in a K-Mart bathroom.

The blue-light special they got wasn’t quite the one they’d been hoping for. I may not be an expert on sex addiction, but because the only thing that could lure me into a K-Mart bathroom would involve some serious intestinal parasites, I’m thinking that sex is definitely causing some problems for those old boys.

And then there’s the Forest Park, Georgia, teenager who spent a night in jail last week for sending a picture of his wanker to his girlfriend from his cell phone. Apparently, his was special, not at all like the millions of other ones out there, because she forwarded it to a few friends and teachers. That got the attention of the county solicitor, a woman who must not have a sense of humor, because even though he sent it as a "joke," he ended up in jail and on the evening news.

I don’t think this kid is a sex addict, though. It sounds to me like he may have learned his lesson after only one night in jail. Here’s what he said about his ordeal: “Once you hear that [jail] door close, and you’re laying on that bed thinking about it, you like, ‘Wow. I know I did something wrong, and then your conscience kick in, saying, ‘You know you did wrong.’”

He concluded by saying, “I think lots of people have epiphanies when they in jail.”

They also have STDs and a taste for teenage boys. If all he came out of jail with is an epiphany, he’s a lucky kid.

Personally, I’m going to stick with my fritter fetish and hope my conscience always kicks in and my epiphanies come before I hear a jail door close.

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.

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.