Teenagers: Not as Dumb as You Think They Are

One of the benefits of being married to a "car guy" is that our cars last us forever.  Thanks to Jeff, I drove a 1990 Nissan Stanza until it had 300,000 miles on it and the insurance company told us they'd no longer cover it after a very minor fender-bender.  Awesome car, by the way.

My current ride is a 2000 Toyota convertible which Jeff refers to as my "car for life" (he's not joking).  Jeff keeps it in pristine condition.  It looks & drives like it just came off the showroom floor and the mileages is still relatively low, so it'll be my ride for many years to come. It's in such good shape that the Toyota dealer tries to buy it from us every time we take it in for service.  And while I love my car, sometimes I have visions of something a little...newer.  Sadly, we replace cars on a need-basis only in our family, and my "need" is way off over the horizon.

I had a glimmer of hope when my 15-year-old stepson, Aaron, approached me about the possibility of "inheriting" my car when he turns 16.  Visions of hard-top convertibles danced in my head!  All we had to do was convince Jeff that it was a good idea.

I approached Jeff with the topic, and Jeff replied that we should offer Aaron our spare car (a 1997 Nissan Pathfinder with 250,000 miles on it that we refer to as "Boomer's Car" because it's the only car our Great Dane fits in).  I countered that Aaron needed something more reliable and we'd never be able to get Boomer to the vet without the Pathfinder.  It was a convincing argument, but Jeff said that he thought Aaron would prefer the SUV (which I knew wasn't true) so we should give him a choice.

Woo Frigging Hoo, people!  I was about to hand off my 12-year-old ride for a better, faster, stronger "car for life"!  I started browsing websites for my new (used) car.

The next time Jeff visited Aaron in North Carolina, he made the offer that Aaron could choose from our cars.

Aaron's response?  "Thanks, Dad!  I'll take your Maxima."

DAMMIT.  Car for life, indeed.

Mane Manners

I don't normally do this, but I'm about to get a little political.  Don't get me wrong:  I vote (early & often!) and I have a pretty strong opinion about all things politic, I just don't usually get into it here.

That being said...here we go.  WTF is up with Callista Gingrich's hair?

I'm a proud Southern Girl.  Granted, I'm the kind of Southern Girl that thinks that the problem with Atlanta is that it's surrounded by Georgia, but I did spend 4 years in Auburn, Alabama in college (in the 80's, no less) which gives me a bit of Strand Street Cred. Coiffure Currency, if you will.

Those of you who haven't had much interaction with gently-bred Southern Gals probably don't know this, but there are Tendril Tenets that we learn from a very young age.

The basis of these Ringlet Rules is the law of 2 of 3 (i.e. your hair can feature 2 of the 3 following characteristics, but no more):

• Helmet Head
• Color Not Occurring in Nature
• "The Swoop" (not to be confused with "The Pouf" sported by our sisters up North)

Enter our girl Callista:

photo credit: www.ibtimes.com

I've got to be honest people:  I see a 3 of 3 violation here.  And not in a good way.  Dare I say a Hat Trick? (more like Impervious Platinum Helmet).  We have helmet.  We have unnatural color .  And we have swoopage.

I don't get the "how". And I don't get the "why".  I kind of don't even get the "what".  And in a time when so many people turn to political spouses to soften a candidate's image...I just don't get her at all.  When people are lining up to ask you how you get your hair to "do that", it might be time to reconsider your look.  There are rules for a reason, sister.  It's for all of us!

Bring it , 2012!

This year started out so well.  It really did!  But it didn’t take long for things to take a sharp left turn and spiral quickly toward the gutter. As usual.

I rang in 2012 as the Designated Driver on the way home from watching my beloved Auburn Tigers kick some butt in the Chick-Fil-A Bowl on New Year’s Eve.  That’s right: other people actually entrusted me with the responsibility of getting everyone home safely.  And by "other people", I mean my brother. Who, by the way, was so completely shitfaced that he accused a woman wearing blue flashing novelty glasses of trying to pull him over for "walking under the influence" and then handed his phone to a homeless person and asked him to take a picture of us posing with a stadium trash can.   Haven’t seen the picture yet, but I’ll be sure to share it once I do.  I’m sure it’s quite tasteful.

So how did I go from responsible driver on Jan 1 to recipient of a tetanus shot, two bouts of different antibiotics for unrelated injuries, five stitches, and being the idiot whose friends have to steal her car keys from her purse and then force her into their car Patty Hearst-style to prevent her from driving drunk by Jan 30?  It defies explanation, although the Margarita Machine that Jeff gave me for Christmas is a contributing factor.

In my defense, the car keys situation was an isolated incident - I’m normally very cautious about getting behind the wheel.  I should have realized that it’s none too smart to spend a few hours in a bar immediately after attending the funeral for a high school friend, five days after the anniversary of my Mother’s death and six months after I lost my Dad.  Combine that with a group of high school friends sending drink after drink my way (vodka with a splash of cranberry, anyone?), and it’s the perfect recipe for bad decisions.  And I’ll never live down the fact that FRT was the responsible party in this situation (well, Mrs. FRT, actually).  When FRT tells you you’re too drunk...you’re way past the point of no return.   I should have known better.

The stitches, tetanus shot & antibiotics, however, are all on me (compliments of the aforementioned Margarita Machine).  I make no excuses.

At this rate, 2012 is going to be EPIC!

UPDATE (You're welcome):

Bitch Burglary

My God, people.  Just when I was finally starting to feel safe & secure in my little town of Buford, GA, the following article appeared in yesterday's local paper:

Holy Shit!  Someone stole a pink rubber bracelet from Spencer's at the mall!  Things will never be the same around here. It's hard-hitting journalistic masterpieces such as this that make me regret leaving the newspaper biz to get into real estate.  I've been following this compelling story very closely.  Here's the additional information I've been able to gather:

In an emergency press briefing, County Police officials released the following statement: “In our continuing investigations, we have uncovered evidence that this may not be an isolated incident.  We believe this heinous crime is part of an ongoing criminal enterprise and encourage retailers and citizens to safeguard all rubber jewelry featuring expletives until further notice.  Citizens are encouraged to remain calm and to consider public safety before reacting.  Spencer’s has informed us that although the ‘bitch’ bracelet remains missing, there are plenty of bracelets inscribed with the word ‘whore’ available as well as a limited supply of  ‘slut’ bracelets.  We have fast-tracked this investigation and will focus all available manpower to identifying a suspect.  Although we are leaving all investigative avenues open, we believe the thief is likely a female high school student, perhaps with Daddy issues, who may possibly be an actual bitch.  Obviously this type of suspect is very dangerous and should not be approached by individual citizens.  If you identify a suspect, please dial 911.”

I'll keep you posted as additional details become available.

Dog Days (and Nights)

Fair Warning:  This is yet another post about my dogs.  Read no further if you’re sick and/or tired of being regaled with tales (and tails) of life with Boomer & Marley.  You know who you are.

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Boomer (all 135 pounds of him) has taken to laying directly at my feet every night while I watch TV.  And by directly at my feet, I mean right where I put my feet on the floor when I'm sitting in my favorite chair, which leaves no room for my actual feet.  "Under foot" is an understatement.

Boomer doesn't really have a "spot" in our house.  He hangs out on the guest bed while we're at work and he usually just lays on the floor next to us when we're home.  I decided it was time to try to find him an area to call his own. Hopefully nowhere near my feet.  First step: Buy a Mack-Daddy dog bed that he won't be able to resist.  I found the perfect bed on the L.L. Bean website, and three days and $300 later it was delivered. 

Assembly was a bit of a bitch, as evidenced below.  And don't give me any shit about my giant glass of wine on the side table.  Iced White Zinfandel: signature drink of the white trash female.

Once I had the bed (badly) assembled, I put it in the corner and waited for the magic to happen.  Based on previous experience, I knew that Boomer needed to "discover" the new bed by himself, and then "claim" it as his own (he won't touch a new dog toy unless you put it down and leave the room - Great Danes are ridiculously passive).  I also knew that if I made a big deal about the bed, he'd assume it was mine and he'd never get within 10 feet of it.  So once the bed was in place I left the room to let nature take it's course.  I checked back every few minutes to see how he responded.

8:30 p.m.: Oh, shit.  Wrong dog.  "Marley!  Move!  MOVE!!  That's not your bed!"  I finally got her to move to her own bed in the opposite corner.

8:45 p.m.: Oh, for the love of God.  "Marley!  GET OUT!  That's not your bed."  She eventually moved to her own bed again.

9:00 p.m.:  "Marley.  Dammit!  NOT. YOUR. BED."  This time I relocated her to her own bed myself.

9:15 p.m. : "Hey, ASSHOLE!  Move."  I finally had to lock her in the guest room.  Obedience isn't really one of her strengths.

I was worried that all the commotion might have scared Boomer away from the overpriced bed forever, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him.

9:20 p.m.: He's giving it a try, but he looks decidedly nervous about it.

9:25 p.m.: Still not sure about it.  But after 5 solid minutes of me repeating "goodboygoodboygoodboygoodboy" I think he was afraid to move.

9:30p.m.: V-I-C-T-O-R-Y!

Sweet Jesus. The things we do for our dogs!