I Found the Perfect Man!

I get tickled every time I hear the George Strait song “She Let Herself Go.”  In case you’re not familiar with the song, it goes something like this:

When he said he didn’t love her no more, she let herself go.

Let herself go on a singles cruise,

To Vegas once, then to Honolulu,

Let herself go to New York City

A week at the spa, came back knocked-out pretty

When he said he didn’t love her no more, she let herself go.

Last week, my friends, I let myself go.  I went to Italy, where I ate plates full of pasta and drank red wine every single day.  I enjoyed a sunset gondola ride in Venice.  I brought home an Italian man named Umberto (pictured above).  Okay, he’s a vase from the Murano glass factory in Venice, but as men go, he’s perfect; I’ll always know where he is, and he won’t try to tell me what to do.

I visited a winery in Tuscany and shipped home a case of both red and white.  They arrived today.

I saw Michelangelo’s David (another perfect man -- strong, silent, with abs of marble) and the Sistine Chapel.  I stood in the ruins of the Roman Coliseum. 

I ate pizza at Pizzeria da Michele, the one Elizabeth Gilbert raved about in Eat, Pray, Love.  And yes, it is quite possibly the best pizza on the planet. 

In short, I had the time of my life.  And for the next week or so, whether you like it or not, you’re going to read about my trip. 

And for the record, I’ve done everything else in the song except the Honolulu thing.  That one, I did three times. 

A Boy and His (Three-Legged) Dog

Pancho the overgrown puppy is having the time of his life at my house.  He jumps into the pool approximately every fifteen minutes, which means he stays wet all day long.  So he got a haircut yesterday (a shave, really, since he can't stand on three legs long enough to brush his hair out), and he wears that neckerchief with a jaunty swagger.  I admire him, my damaged dog, for the simple reason that he doesn't mope around focusing on what he's missing.  He's over it.  I find myself wanting to be like Pancho.

The dachshunds have grudgingly accepted him.  They wouldn’t look me in the eye for the first two days he was here, but a large plate of cheese and pastrami scrambled eggs fixed that situation.

Bella the crazy, tainted pussy probably will be pissed forever.  She jumped onto the kitchen counter and punched a hole in the package of beautiful pasta I brought home from Italy just to let me know how much she hates me.

Following is my kid’s version of Pancho’s story:

“What happened?” Mom asks.

“Pancho just lost his leg,” I choke.

“You’re joking,” she says with a chuckle while she fills my bowl with more soup.

I hold up the sweaty phone to show her the text. I feel sad and angry at the same time. Not angry at his new owners, but angry at myself. The best dog in the world just lost his leg because of a careless mistake to put him in the bed of a truck.  What were they thinking? More importantly, what was I thinking letting them have my dog, my best friend?

She slides the bowl away as if she can read my mind. There is nothing I can do. It was my decision to let him stay in the mountains with them.  Images run through my mind of a sad dog that drags through life because he is missing a leg.

A few days pass, and he returns to his house in the mountains. We decide to go visit him and see how he is recovering. I walk around the corner of the house expecting to see him lying in pain.

But boy, was I wrong.

He dashes around the corner and jumps straight onto my chest. He kisses me like he thought he would never see me again. I stand up and look straight at him. He looks at me and settles down. He’s a few feet away, but I know what he’s thinking.  Any sudden movements, and I was sure to be attacked with more licks to the face. I slowly raise my hand and creep over to him.  He knows what’s going on.  I start sprinting the other way in hope for a game of good old-fashioned chase.  But I look over my shoulder and see him sitting there with his head tilted. I sit down on the grass and he trots over to me. He rests his head on my knee as if to say, “Can’t you see I’m missing a leg?”

I pat his head while tears stream down my face.  He immediately answers with a lick to tell me it’s not my fault.  So as we sit on the field watching the kids play, I know who my best friend is.

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.