String Theory

So…remember the other day when I discussed the dog’s gross new habit??

How I long for those halcyon days of summer when drinking out of the toilet was the nastiest thing he did.

‘Cause you know what?  The toilet water was child’s play and he’s moved on to a more disgusting habit.  A horrible.  Indescribable.  Habit.

(Dad, look away and read NO FURTHER!)

What’s this new habit I speak of?

The new habit is…eating tampons.  Used ones.  Gaaack!!  GAAAACKKKKKK!!!!

Why the gagging?  A) TOTALLY gross, right?!?  and B) Please see pic below for what they look like when they come out the other end.  GAAAAACCCCCKKKKKKK!!!

Hubby originally thought the dog ate a ROPE.  I originally thought he ate a warren of baby bunnies.  But when I couldn’t spot any bones or discernible body parts (I just saw what looked like a lot of…wool??  Could he have eaten a SHEEP without us knowing it?!?) – I started to worry that he may have pooped out his own intestines.

Until I saw the tell-tale string.

And speaking of string…that’s what we have to worry about MOST when a dog consumes tampons.  At least that’s what our vet said after the $75 visit to her the other day.  You see, the string can SAW through stuff.  (Good to know if MacGyver & I ever get stuck in prison and I only have a bobby pin, a gum wrapper and…a tampon!)

Actually, while the string is the BIGGEST concern, the other concern is how big the tampons can swell.  This in turn can block various important OPENINGS inside the body (uh – yeah – that’s kinda the point, isn’t it??)

DAD! I thought I told you to stop reading a while ago!!!  Stop reading NOW!!

In addition to the outlay of cash, this whole fiasco necessitated an embarrassing conversation with the VET about things like “flow” and tampon “size” and the ding-bat dog had no idea we were there for anything other than to say hi to the nice lady in the smelly office.  Are 500 mls of injected fluid, stomach palpations and rectal exams all part of a cheery “hi-ho” in your world??  Nope.  Mine either.  But then again, I don’t eat tampons.

Which leads me to a proclamation of my own, recently discovered, string theory:  String.  Don’t eat it.  Or anything it’s attached to.   ‘Nuf said.

A Tale of Two Toilet Seats

Oh look-y!  The pee theme is back!

Second verse, same as the first.  A little bit louder.  And a little bit worse…

You ever sit on a toilet seat that – unbeknownst to you – has been totally pee’d on by your son??

Second.  Most.  Horrible.  Feeling.  EVER!

The FIRST most horrible feeling ever??  Sitting on a toilet seat that’s been pee’d on by a…STRANGER!!!

Gaack!   gaaaaAAAACCCKK!!

And the THIRD most horrible feeling??  Sitting on a toilet after the dog has had an excessively…er…juicy drink out of it.

Now, you have to understand that my dog has a ‘stache ten times the size of the Lorax’s.  The MOST stuff collects IN it, and drips FROM it, at any point in time.  When he drinks out of the toilet, it’s literally like a filthy wet mop has been WIPED all over the seat.

And as I’m sitting on the toilet seat…the excrutiatingly wet toilet seat…I  wonder which is worse.  Sitting on a toilet seat covered in pee (a stranger’s or otherwise).  Or…sitting on a toilet seat covered in everything ELSE that belongs in the toilet (E.coli, fecal matter, need I go on?) PLUS dog slobber.  Which would you choose in this tale of two toilet seats??  (Hint: They both feel oddly similar, yet one has more of a head game going on than the other.)

Then I wonder what to DO?!?  Besides throwing up in my mouth and swallowing it, which I’ve already done.  ‘Cause REALLY?  Where was I gonna PUT the throw up??  I mentioned I’m already SITTING ON THE TOILET, RIGHT?!?!

Should I air dry??  Or furiously scrub a layer off my hide, then go to the doctor for hepatitis shots?!?

It makes no never mind because so far I think the New Stay at Home Mom summer is going well, don’t you??  It’s been a bit hot though.  And the dog has picked up this new habit of drinking “fresh” cold water out of the toilet.

But…other than THAT…so far, so good.  Yep.  So far.  So good.


When my son was little, the biggest number he could come up with was 60-80-20.  Yes.  Said just like that.  All-in-a-row.  Sixtyeightytwenty.

Now it’s become something of a family joke.  When we want to convey something BIG, we say it was sixtyeightytwenty.

And you know what?  I just had New Experience Number Sixtyeightytwenty of my Stay at Home Momness.  (Now that you’re in on the joke too, do you see how it works?  I’m implying that there have been a LOT of new experiences since I’ve become a New Stay at Home Mom.  This sixtyeightytwenty thing is fun, isn’t it?  Welcome to the family!!)

My daughter’s softball team won their division championship Sunday afternoon.  And during the impromptu pizza party afterwards, they cooked up a scheme for an impromptu sleepover.  At my house.  For the whole team.  On a Sunday night.

Working Mom Me would have said, “No way!  End of discussion.  I have to work tomorrow.”

New Stay at Home Mom (Frickin’ Moron) Me said, “Well…I suppose.  As long as you go to bed at a reasonable hour.”

Well…here we are on Monday.  Exhausted.  Since no one (NO ONE) went to bed before 2:30 a.m.  I hate all twelve girls on the softball team (well, except for the two or three who have REASONABLE mothers who don’t let them do sleepovers on a Sunday night) and I…HATE SLEEPOVERS!

Surprise, surprise.

Makes me want to get a job just so I never, EVER, offer up my house again on a Sunday night for the softball championship team sleepover.

Gaaah!  Gaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!  What a frickin’ moron.

Anyway…let’s just call New Experience Number Sixtyeightytwenty a “mis-step” and move on, shall we?  And then let’s all go take a nap.  Somehow I thought this New Stay at Home Mom gig would come with more naps.

Barkeep!  A nap for me – and one for all my friends!  Make that sixtyeightytwenty naps, please!!!

To pee or not to pee, THAT is the question!

I know, I know.  The last few posts have been so sad-sack, woe-is-me that even I can’t take it any more!  So let’s move on to something a little more…er…uplifting, shall we?  Let’s talk about Stress Urinary Incontinence.  Or for those without a medical degree: Bladder Leakage.

I received a flyer in the mail yesterday stating that 1 in 3 women suffer from bladder leakage.  Now – don’t act surprised or anything – but I’m the 1 (in 3).  I’ve blogged about it here, and here, and here (Tony Horton’s PEE-o-metrics ringing a bell??), so this can’t possibly be news to you.

MEEEE and my BLAAAAAAAADER, strollin’ down the avenue!  Me and my BLAAAAADER, not a soul to tell our troubles too.

But now?  Now I’m in luck and the flyer states that University of Colorado Hospital is offering a FREE women’s educational seminar on this very topic at their Lone Tree Health Center in July.  (How did they even know to send this flyer to me?!?  Do they have a camera trained on me or something?!?) 

The first step in getting help is admitting you have a problem.  Oops!  Nope.  Wait.  I was thinking of something else just then.  Actually, according to the flyer, the first step is…learning more.  Oh.  Yeah.  That makes more sense.

Anyone wanna join me?!  Knock it off – I’m sick of your piss-poor excuses.  Come one!  It’ll PEEEE fUUUUUUuuuuuuunn!  I can bring my partner (who would never, EVER come) or…guests.  So who’s in?!?  I know you’re out there.  (There might even be a camera trained on YOU!  In fact I can see you RIGHT now looking around.  Yes, YOU!  Hi.  Right here – hi.)

This is no time to mind your PEE’s and Qs and tiptoe around the topic.  This is time for some candid discussion.

Won’t you join me??  Pretty PEEEEEse?!

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle – ask not for whom the bell tinkles, it tinkles for YOU!

Also?  Refreshments will be served.

Peaberry coffee, water and MORE water.

Bwaa haaa HAAAAAA!  [psss]  I make myself laugh.

Then you know what they’ll probably do after the refreshments?!  They’ll make us do jumPEEEng jacks.  On a trampoline.  And tell us we need an operation.  tee-tee heeee [psssss]

Whatever you do, don’t SNEEZE!!! [pssss…PSSS]


Oh for PEEEEte’s sake!  This is no laughing matter.  It’s a serious PEE-R-O-B-L-E-M a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k, l, m, n, o,….,q, r, s, t, u, v, w, x, y, z.

Where’s the ‘p’???   It’s running down my leg.  [pssssssssss]

What’s acceptable?

My daughter has told me that whenever she hears the word ‘acceptable’ she thinks of broccoli and cauliflower.

I know, right?  Totally wacky and I’m not even sure how those wires coulda gotten crossed.  I can understand how, when she hears the name Keith, she thinks of Heath Bars.  But the acceptable/cauliflower combo??  Not so much.

You know what I think of when I see the woman on the bike wearing a full-on sunhat UNDER her bike helmet and a surgical mask covering everything on her face but her eyes?  I think she’s got bubonic plague.

This woman rides through our neighborhood every morning in her get-up.  At some point I would think she would A) either get over her bubonic plague or B) finally succumb to it, in which case bike riding is no longer an option.

Granted, there could be a very reasonable explanation for the surgical mask (pollen time, pollen time, poll-poll-pollen time.  Pollen tiiiiIIIIMME! – sung to the tune of summertime, summertime, sum, sum, summertime.  SummertiiiiIIIIME!)

But where’s the fun in having a reasonable explanation?  It’s more fun to develop an off-the-wall theory and treat it as fact.  So either this woman is afraid of GETTING bubonic plague on her morning bike ride…or she already HAS bubonic plague.

Which is actually NOT as off-the-wall as you might think because bubonic plague is alive-and-well here in Colorado.  The prairie dogs carry it.  And there are a LOT of prairie dogs.  In fact, my neighbor spotted one running through our back yard recently.  A “scout” of some sort for the prairie dog colony that lives down the street?  Who knows.  But the neighbor reported whacking it a few times on the noggin’.  Is this the prairie dog equivalent of breaking someone’s knee caps as a way to send a message to the mob boss??  Yo!  You’s – this is OUR territory, capiche?!  The prairie dogs have not been spotted in the ‘hood since the “whacking” incident.  But that’s assuming the scout made it back to base with the “message.”  For all I know he could now be lying comatose in our yard and at some point our dog will find the plague-y thing, playfully toss it into the air, jauntily catch it in his mouth, then proceed to drag it up and down the front stairs thereby spreading death and destruction to all household members.  If – going forward – you begin to see us riding our bikes with masks on…Beware!  BEWARE!!!

But I digress.  Where I was REALLY going with all of this is how this reminds me of the way people treat me (not all people, but a surprising number of them) when they find out I don’t have a job.  They treat me like I have the plague.

I can practically HEAR them whispering behind their hands to each other, “But what’s WRONG with her?  Why can’t she get a job??”  As if I have a hunchback that I disguise very well under my interview blazer (“She gave me water!”  What??  Too esoteric of a literary reference for you people without Degrees in French??  I was quoting Victor Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame after Esmerelda gave him some water.  Hunchback.  Get it now?!?  And you wonder why I can’t get a job!)

And if it’s not some physical deformity, could it be some inherent character flaw that prevents me from being employable??  (whisper, whisper, whisper)

All this whispering is making me think there IS something wrong.  Maybe I should just start wearing a surgical mask to interviews as a very visible sign of whatever ails me?  Beware!  BEWARE!!!

Well – there actually ISN’T anything wrong with me, all joking aside.  I am eminently employable.  It’s just really hard to find a job doing what I was doing.  There are a total of 5 companies in the world where that job exists.  And none of those companies are located HERE, where I live.  And until I can repurpose my skills, there’s a slight (ongoing) hitch in my job giddyup!

But really, don’t worry about me (she says as she holds her finger up to her mouth trying to keep the emotion in check and give herself a moment to regain her composure).  Nope!  Don’t worry about me!  And don’t worry about me wearing masks to interviews.  While it certainly would make me MEMORABLE to prospective employers, I understand it wouldn’t be……acceptable.


Like a dutiful citizen, I trotted off yesterday to my early morning meeting for EUC (no, not hocking a loogie, just applying for Emergency Unemployment Compensation).

Only to be greeted by the unhappiest woman in the world sitting at the desk checking everyone in.  (Do you have all 5 things you were told to bring?!  Yes ma’am.  You know this will take an hour-and-a-half, right?!  Yes ma’am.  Then go si-down ’til they call you!  Yes ma’am.  Also?  What part of dutiful citizen did you not get??  I’ve done what I’m supposed to do.  I’m in it to win it so HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT!  FIRE AWAY!!!!  Annnnnd – she shoots, she SCORES with the “80’s Song for Every Moment in Life.”  This time it’s Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” recorded in 1980.  Boo-ya!)

I agonized over what to wear to the “appointment” and settled on a skirt with a fun pattern and a ruffled top worn underneath a blazer.  I was trying to strike a balance between professional, yet poor.  On the one hand, I wanted them to know that I’ve been trying to get a job (look at me!  who wouldn’t want to hire this whole package?!  it’s just that there aren’t any jobs…not that I don’t look…or look the part) but on the other hand, I wanted them to know I needed the money (the skirt’s from Costco, the blazer’s from Wal-Mart and the shirt is from last year when I had money).

Turns out not everyone took as much time as I did in picking out their outfit.  One one chick DID match her neon pink tank top to her neon pink flip-flops, but other than that, the attire ranged from sneakers and jeans or capris (and not the nice kind, the hiking kind with lots of pockets)…to khakis & polo shirts (guys have it so easy!).

So, with the mis-step on the outfit front, and cheery Miss Sunshine at the front desk, I felt oddly anxious as I sat down to wait.

Why was I nervous?  What did I think would happen?  Would a cop show up & wrassle me to the ground and cause me to inadvertently flash my underwear to everyone as my poor-yet-professional skirt flipped up around my ears?!?

If he was gonna show up and wrassle anyone to the ground, I’m hoping it would be the chick who sat across the way from me and who was CLEARLY going to the beach after our EUC report-for-duty appointment wrapped up.  Seriously.  She had a bikini on underneath her coverup.  I could see the top tied at her neck.  And she was carrying a HUGE Starbucks cup and the biggest Coach purse I’ve ever seen.  Does Coach make…BEACH BAGS?!?  Come on!   She wasn’t even TRYING to look poor.  Two things here:  Copper, if you’re gonna wrassle anyone, totally wrassle her, please.  And there’s no EATING OR DRINKING IN HERE!  DON’T YOU SEE THE SIGNS POSTED ON EVERY AVAILABLE SURFACE?!??  This. Means. You, CoachPurseBeachBabe!

But on the bright side, I was happy to see that there were no crappy magazines or (bad) free coffee of any kind being offered in the waiting room.  Why?  Because I would have been PISSED if they had wasted good taxpayer money on that.  Spending it on me is fine.  On stupid crap that no one needs is not fine.  But it’s only when our “instructor” showed up that I find out what they spent the taxpayer money on (minus 18% budget cuts, of course).  It’s on the nifty shirt he’s wearing, embroidered with the “We wanna put you back to work!” logo.  This stuff is high-end.  None of that crap my multi-BILLION dollar company used to make me wear to trade shows (one blue and two yellow shirts because yellow is SOOOO flattering on everyone.  And all three shirts come in men’s sizes, so you gotta STUFF a yard of fabric into the legs of your khakis.  Belted khakis aren’t flattering to begin with and now the whole ensemble looks like you have a serious waist-and-hip disorder).

Despite the shirt, he seemed nice enough (even though he WAS single-handedly trying to bring white belts back from the fashion graveyard) as he led us into our meeting room (there WAS a cop there!  Saying things like, “All the way down to your right, please.”  No wrasslin’ of any kind went on – so I worried for nothing.)  But then whitebelt reveals his true self when he yelled at the man-who-thought-he-had-a-pen-so-declined-the-pen-offer-only-to-have-to-take-him-up-on-it-AFTER-whitebelt-put-the-pens-away.  Crap like that would make me wanna yell at pen-dude too, but not in front of fifteen other unemployed schmucks who are so nervous they have to keep slipping away to the bathroom.

It’s after the yelling that I become pretty certain whitebelt is going to make us change into gray, baggy uniforms then lead us out to the hardpacked dirt exercise yard where we’ll have to do jump/pee-ing jacks and the like.  But instead he started this good cop (him – he’s our friend and wants us to get a job that we really, really love) bad cop (the Colorado Department of Labor) routine by telling us an intriguing story about the Bartender-looking-for-work and the BOSSboy.  What!  What??  What’s a BOSSboy…and is there a BOSSgirl?!?  If so, how do I get that job?

Turns out he’s talking about a BUSboy who the Colorado Department of Labor would decide is not qualified to say there aren’t any bartender jobs.  It’s only the MANAGER who can say there aren’t any jobs.  Oh.  Ok.  What is going on?  Did I accidentally stumble into bartending re-training class??

But it all comes right as they lead us out an hour later to the gallows/our individual interviews.  I’m lucky enough to have “Laura” who tells me that once she sends my stuff off to the Bad Cops I’ll most likely get “disqualified” from EUC.  She explains in her calm, I-just-wanna-help-you voice that the job log I had to bring (for the last 6 weeks, I did 7; displaying 5 job contacts-per-week, I did 6) doesn’t indicate that I’ve submitted my resume very often.  There have been a LOT of conversations about jobs, but not a lot of applying.  And furthermore?  I will most likely have to pay all of my regular unemployment compensation back.

WhhhhaaaaAAAAAAAT?!?  WTF??!?!!!?!

At which point I explained to her in my I-just-got-off-the-Tilt-a-Whirl-and-might-puke-all-over-you voice how I’m a “bit concerned” about this news.  There aren’t very many jobs in my area-of-expertise so I’ve been trying to branch out into other areas.  This necessarily entails fact-finding conversations with companies about what jobs they may or may not have that could use my skill-set in a unique/different way.  And when I find out they don’t HAVE jobs – or only have VOLUNTEER jobs available – I don’t give them my resume.  D’uh!  (No, I didn’t actually add the “d’uh” part out loud.  I’m not THAT stupid.)

Nope.  Nothin’ doin’.  She won’t change her stance.

So, gut shot, with my entrails leaking from between my fingers as I try valiantly to hold them in (the slippery sumbitches!), I left Laura’s office wishing there had been more wrasslin’.  I coulda handled the wrasslin’.

A poet and didn’t even know-it?

There’s this crazy (slash admirable) sub-set of neighbor ladies who go to a local park three mornings a week to work out.  AT 5:30 A.M.!   Did you catch that part about admirable (AND CRAZY)??

On the drive there (No.  Of course there’s no walking to the workout.  Driving only.  They’re not THAT crazy slash admirable ;-)), we see the work-release people out looking for jobs.

I mentioned it’s 5:30 in the morning, right?  And there’s pretty much NO jobs available at that time of day.  And there’s also most likely NONE to be found on that street because there’s only the jail there…and the work-out park.  And maybe an automotive place, but they probably have all the help they need.  Or maybe they take the first few work-releasers who come in; But I haven’t really seen anyone RUNNING down the street to get there first, so maybe not.

Which leads me to believe these people are actually mosey-ing to the bus stop to go downtown where the daily job prospects are a bit….er….richer??  All of their worldly possessions appear to be stuffed into a garbage bag.  So they could just be making a bid for freedom.  Who’s to say.

Now, I’ve joined the crazy-slash-admirables a time or two for the 5:30 a.m. workout…but I can’t go with them tomorrow because I have a meeting.  An in-person reemployment and work-search plan appointment at the local workforce center. (Phew!  That’s a mouthful!)

And I’m worried – really worried – that pretty soon I’ll be joining the garbage-bag-crew wandering to the bus stop in search of work.

You see, this is the meeting wherein “they” (whoever “they” are) decide if I’m worthy of receiving Emergency Unemployment Compensation.  I’ve gone beyond my 26 weeks of regular unemployment compensation.  And now Congress will provide me with federal extended benefits, also called Emergency Unemployment Compensation or EUC.  (A catchy acronym, no?  Anyone else think it sounds like you’re hocking a loogie?)  But only if I meet the following requirements:

  • Review an online presentation of the menu of services offered by the workforce centers [DONE!  Took 10 minutes.  This might be easier than I thought.]
  • Attend an in-person reemployment and work search plan appointment at the local workforce center [Phew!  That’s a mouthful.  And I’m going to said appointment tomorrow.  Although “appointment” might be a misnomer here since it implies that I looked at my schedule and we worked out a time and place to meet based on my availability.  Instead, they told me when and where I was to “report.”  Appointment.  Report-for-duty.  Either way, I wouldn’t want to miss it!]
  • Complete an online skills assessment.  [DONE!  And I got a nifty Skills Profile as a result.  It gives me some ideas of jobs in unexplored employment areas that might be a good fit for my skillset.  Let’s see….we have:
    • Mathematical Technicians, Actuaries and Economists (uh – I’m pretty sure I answered “NO!!!” to the question asking if I like math, so I’m not sure how these job ideas made it to the top of the list)
    • Atmospheric Space Scientists and Astronomers (Astronomers?!  Aren’t those the people who can see the future?  And tell you what sign you’re born under and what your lucky numbers are?  In which case I don’t think that job is for me.  I don’t like people, even if you DO call them Geminis and Capricorns.)
    • Gaming Surveillance Officers (ooooh!  NOW we’re getting somewhere!)
    • Athletes and Sports Competitors (WTF?)
    • Clergy (WTFFFFFF?!??)
    • Public Address System and Other Announcers (if this is the tired chick at the airport making exhausted announcements over the P.A. to the dumb-dumbs who left their glasses at Gate 12 or who need to meet their party at Baggage Claim, then no thanks.)
    • Morticians, Undertakers, and Funeral Directors (I don’t like LIVE people.  I’m pretty sure dead ones would be even worse.)
    • Obstetrician/Gynecologist (Uh…could I just get a job that doesn’t require AN ENTIRE MEDICAL SCHOOL COMMITMENT?!?  Unless having a Master’s Degree in Business Administration somehow qualifies me to looks at hoo-haws all day, then no thanks.  Oh…and also?  NO THANKS BECAUSE THIS JOB WOULD REQUIRE ME TO LOOK AT HOO-HAWS ALL DAY!!!)
    • Poets, Lyricists and CREATIVE WRITERS (YES!  YES!!!!  Poet?  No.  Creative Writing?  Yes!  This is it – this is what I want to do!!!!  How did they know?!?  Are they Astronomers??!)
  • Continue to seek work and keep a record of the work-seeking and this record must be verifiable and on your person at all times for a minimum of TWO YEARS [Yeah.  Sure.  That seems reasonable.]

‘Cept I should be updating my work-seeking record and stapling it to my forehead RIGHT NOW in preparation for my meeting tomorrow – instead of blogging.  So Crazy-Slash-Admirables: when next you see me, you may be on your way to work-out.  And I?  I may be hoofin’ it to nowhere while carrying a sad Santa sack over my shoulder.  In which case, please be sure to honk and wave.


Happy Father’s Day!

Hey Dad!  I love you and just wanted to say….Happy Father’s Day to you! (cha cha cha) Happy Father’s Day TOOO you! (cha cha cha)  Happy FAAther’s Day, Dear DAAaaad! (cha cha cha) Happy Father’s Day to yooooooou! (cha cha cha hi-ya)

And now a brief word on Father’s Day cards….

Why are they ALL so sappy?  With terrible graphics??  And all in…BROWN???

How ’bout that card with the close-up of the lawnmower on the front?  Or the artistic shot through the rope mesh of a hammock??  A HAMMOCK?!?  Is this the sum total of what we think of our fathers??

The worst part is that, with the gold cord-and-tassle detailing, plastic overlayer (are there going to be a lot of spills so we need a protectant of some sort??!), and three pages of text proclaiming your love FOR them and detailing WHY you love them (why you loved them as an innocent child/as a selfish teenager/as an adult grownup-to-grownup, they fix things around the house, taught you how to throw a baseball blah, blah, blah)…’re payin’ $5.99 for the privilege!  BARF!!  [the reason for the plastic overlayer now becomes clear]

I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure MY dad does NOT appreciate this drivel.  Heck – I don’t appreciate this drivel.

And the cards you can get for your HUSBAND for Father’s Day?  The ones in the section entitled “To the Man I Love on Father’s Day”??    These are quite possibly WORSE than the ones you can get for your father.  Same horrible colors and embellishments, but these have cartoon-y pictures of mice-in-love on the front.  Or sometimes even rabbits?  RABBITS?!??  Ugh.  AND barfity, barf, BARF!!  

Me?  I go for the “Special 99-Cents Section” cards that have varying-sized stars on the front in a few bright-yet-masculine colors, and just state outright – Happy Father’s Day!  You’re the best.  I add a little “I love you” and ‘nuf said.

Happy Father’s Day to all, and to all a good night!

P.S.  Hubby – even though you’re not my dad, I’m still wishing you a Happy Father’s Day because I MADE you a dad.  Now, I’ve made you do MANY things over the years….but I’ve always been proud that I made you a dad.  I love you!


I have voted Costco the store “most likely to have the most useless crap I don’t need, yet which I buy anyway.”

Who’s with me on this??

I mean, you go in for laundry detergent, paper towels, and maybe some bananas (but only if they’re mostly yellow – it’s too annoying to WAIT for completely green bananas to turn yellow and then, once they do, have to quickly gobble up 10 of them in two days).

And you come out one-hundred-fifty dollars poorer with high-end face lotion (that will finally, FINALLY make you look younger!), a dozen frozen steak-and-cheese burritos (which the kids LOVED during sample time, but which they will decide they don’t like AT ALL after you make the first one at home.  And then the burritos will sit in the freezer for two years until they’re all frost-bitten and expired, at which point you throw out 11 of them) and two boxes (8 in each box) of solar garden lights because they were $10 off!

But not this time Costco.  Oooohhh noooooo.  Not this time.

During yesterday’s trip – I came, I saw, and I conquered.  I ONLY bought what was on my list.   Along with an under-$10-lunch for the kiddos and me.

And there may have been ONE unexpected side purchase for $29.99, but in the long run it will save me money.  In fact, it will save me so much money I’m now calling it “my master plan” and I’ve been patting myself on the back ever since because the whole thing is brilliant!  BRILLIANT!  If I do say so myself.

What could it possibly be??

A Wahl Deluxe Complete Haircutting Kit.  And while “deluxe” and “complete” seem a little over the top slash redundant, I’m totally psyched I got it so inexpensively!

I’m gonna use it on Sonny, whose hair grows like a weed and is the bushiest thing you ever saw and which needs to be trimmed every 4 weeks otherwise it resembles really nasty dolly hair.

And?  AND??  (this is where the “master plan” comes in)  I’m gonna use it on the dog!  At 50 bucks a pop for grooming-which-ALSO-needs-to-be-done-every-4-weeks-just-like-Sonny’s-hair, I WAS gonna go broke.  But NOW?  Now, with a-one-time-only cash outlay of $29.99 plus tax I get the following benefits:

  • Self-sharpening, high-carbon steel blades (which stay sharp longer!)
  • Guide combs (help you get the exact length you want!)
  • Large deluxe storage case
  • And Premium Pro Style Shears (bonus!)
  • PLUS a special value free, downloadable home haircutting how-to guide

But wait!  There’s more!!  There’s an easy step-by-step full color instruction booklet which ACTUALLY SHOWS SOMEONE CUTTING REALLY BAD DOLLY HAIR!  (There aren’t any pictures of people cutting dog hair, but pay that no never mind.  I can wing it since this whole kit makes me practically a pro.  PLUS I know how my dog should look, so I have that going for me.)

Honestly, I can’t wax poetic ENOUGH on this.  Here’s the list of the actual items included in the kit:

  • multi-cut clipper [which means this is mostly automated cutting.  Not that olde-tyme manual cutting which takes so much time and is so fraught with error]
  • clipper blade guard [so neither the cut-ee nor the cut-er will get hurt]
  • detail trimmer [we all know the devil is in the details!]
  • trimmer blade guard [so neither the cut-ee nor the cut-er will get hurt when the devil is in the details]
  • 1 AA Duracell battery [could I take this with me?  On the road??]
  • 11 inch soft storage case [why yes, yes I CAN take it with me on the road!]
  • cleaning brush [to clean up IN BETWEEN the boy and the dog.  Hey!  At least I’m not doing the DOG first]
  • blade oil
  • shears
  • styling comb
  • barber comb [what’s that?  How is that different from a regular comb??]
  • eight clipper guide combs – from a Number 1 (1/8 inch) all the way up to a Number 8 (1 inch)

And in addition to the eight guide combs, I also get a left ear taper and a right ear taper.  I think tapers mean candles.  But what candles have to do with left and right ears I’m not 100% sure.  Unless we’re now branching out into those ear candles?  Have you seen those??  They “eliminate” ear wax from your ears.  So that must be it.  I can cut hair AND clean ears while I’m at it.  I hadn’t thought of that originally, but that seems like an excellent addition to “my master plan.”  I mean, really, while you’re there, you might as well get it all done, right?

Gosh.  This is SUCH a great plan.  It’s all gonna go so, so well.  I can just tell.  [pat, pat, pat]

‘Fer the birds

High drama in the a.m. yesterday…

The kids discovered a bird sitting and shaking on our back patio.  He looked like a goldfinch, only a bit more brown.  So maybe a Colorado goldfinch?  (How do I know about ‘dem goldfinches?  I’m from New Jersey – where the Goldfinch is the state bird.  No, I am NOT bustin’ yer chops.  Me and my cousin Vinny know from state birds).

I suspected he ran into the sliding glass door, but from the look of the backwards foot & bright red eye on its right side, it had WAY more wrong than a run-in with the sliding glass door could account for.  And with the 90 degree heat beating down on him, he was fading fast.

To Sissy, the girl who wants to be a vet, this was the opportunity of a lifetime.  She sprang into action – poking holes in a shoebox, lining it with paper towels and adding a smidge of water in the lid of an old spaghetti jar for good measure.  The final step was hoisting the bird up-and-in but I insisted she put on some disposable craft gloves (beat THAT, Martha Stewart!!) to stand between her and a possible case of avian flu.

Mission accomplished and the hubby and kids flew out of the house (tee hee hee – pun intended.  Get it?  FLEW?!??  Beat THAT, Martha Stewart!!!)  on their way to the Bird Rescue.

Per the kids, the final report from Bird Rescue was:

  • The bird was a male, lesser goldfinch [interesting]
  • He had a head injury – most likely from running into in the patio door, thus the red eye and snaggle foot [bad]
  • There was a herd of MASSIVE squirrels (and a HUMONGO crow) on the Bird Rescue premises [Also bad.  Very bad.  I’m pretty sure I know where all of the birds “go” that don’t survive their head injuries.  And it’s NOT fed to the…uh…FISHES, New Jersey Style, if ya know what I mean wink, wink.]
  • I knew all of this already.  I didn’t need no stinkin’ Bird Rescue to tell ME what’s what!  [‘cept for that part about the squirrels.  And the crow.  That’s just weird.  But when you’re located in Colorado and lack for water – and “fishes” – you’s gotta get creative, if you’s know whadImean.]  That’s just a roundabout way of saying that I could TOTALLY get a job at Bird Rescue.  In fact, I’m going to put them down as one-of-my-5-requisite-job-resources which the Emergency Unemployment Office makes me note weekly.  [good!]