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!

One Year Later...rehab edition

Remember last year when I posted this picture of the bar at my house and the feedback I received trended toward "Are you & Jeff saving your money or are you hoping to get a group discount at rehab?"

 Behold:  One. Year. Later.

After I removed the lamp to make more room we still had several bottles that didn't fit, so I shoved all my favorite vodkas in the spare freezer for safekeeping (chilled coconut vodka = heaven!).

I was also going to also post a picture of our wine rack and inside of our beer fridge, but I was afraid we'd have too many uninvited guests this weekend.  You know I don't like to share!

Cheers!

Princess Power (or lack thereof)

I spent yesterday watching a tragic afternoon of Auburn football at the home of my pal and fellow blogger FRT.

I'd like to say that I visit them to enjoy catching up with him and his lovely wife (both of whom I've known since high school and are two of my favorite people), but I think we all know that I head to his house because I adore his kids - Things 1-3.  It's nice to be around kids with whom I can enjoy intelligent, compelling conversation, such as the talk I had with my cohort in middle child-dom, kindergarten-aged Thing 2 after we heard another child claim to be a princess:

Thing 2: I don't like princesses.  Don't. Like. Them.
LAB: Me either!
T2:   Really?
LAB:  Yep - princess is a crummy job, if you ask me.
T2:   Why?
LAB:  Because everyone knows that in a constitutional monarchy, parliament has all the power.  To aspire to be anything less than Prime Minister is to choose to be a figurehead.  Plus, I'm pretty sure princesses have to wear pantyhose.
T2:   Ummm.. What?
LAB:  Princess bad.  Prime Mister good.
T2:   Right.  Want some Skittles?  I saved you some red ones.

God, I love that kid.

If you've ever wondered why I shouldn't have kids...there's the answer.

Cattle Battle

Jeff went to the junkyard yesterday because now that I've forbidden more cars at the house I'm pretty sure he's trying to sneak them in piece by piece and he sent me this awesome picture:

Obviously a picture such as this raises several questions, so we had the following exchange when I got home from work:

LAB:   Are all cattle girls?
Jeff:  Oh my God.  No.  Cows are female.  Male cattle are steer.
LAB:  Oh.
Jeff:  If they were all girls, how would you get more?
LAB:   I don' know.  Animal husbandry isn't my specialty.
Jeff: The fact that the words "animal husbandry" exist in your vocabulary terrifies me.
LAB:   I went to college in Alabama.
Jeff:  Clearly.
LAB:  But all bulls are male, right?
Jeff:  Yes.
LAB:  Then how do you get more bulls?
Jeff:  I'm really glad we had this talk.

Geriatric Stripper Shoes

Over the weekend, I received some feedback from my pal Hoss that posting any ridiculous bullshit on my blog was better than posting nothing at all.  And so, without further delay, I give you any ridiculous bullshit.

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Between our work and travel schedules, Jeff and I have seen very little of each other for the past 8 weeks.  Substantial stretches of time apart, by the way, is the secret to our successful marriage.  Last weekend we finally had a couple of days together, and I used all 48 hours of it to generally bug the shit out of him.  Because I can’t stop myself, no matter how hard I try. This morning he was practically giddy to see me almost ready to leave for work.  Until we had this exchange:

LAB:   Is this outfit too matchy?

Jeff:   What the hell does “too matchy” mean?

LAB:   Does it look like I’m trying too hard?

Jeff:   What the hell does “trying too hard” mean?

LAB:   You know.  Does it look like it’s overly coordinated?

Jeff:   Oh, Jesus.  It matches.  Does that answer your question?

LAB:   I know it matches.  Is it too matchy?

Jeff:   Blink. Blink.

LAB:   Well?

Jeff:   It matches.  If you were wearing Garanimals, you’d be hippo and hippo.

LAB:   Is that a swipe at my weight?

Jeff:   Oh, Jesus.

LAB:   You could have said giraffe and giraffe.  Or antelope and antelope.  But you said hippo.

Jeff:   Giraffes and antelopes don’t make noise and therefore can never be used in an analogy involving you.  Hippos, on the other hand...

LAB:   Fair enough.

Jeff:   While we’re talking about it, I think you should rethink those shoes.

LAB:   The shoes aren’t in play right now.

Jeff:   No, seriously.  Where does one buy shoes like that?  And why are they so shiny?  They look like geriatric stripper shoes.  Did you buy them at the geriatric stripper store?  I bet they love you there.  You should open a store that caters to geriatric strippers and drag queens.  You’d totally be in your element.

LAB:   I’m not worried about the shoes.

Jeff:   You shouldn't be worried about the matchiness of your outfit when you’re sporting Wonder Woman’s metallic slippers on your feet.  Trust me. Will you be taking the invisible airplane to work or should I just warm up your car?

LAB:   Never mind.

Jeff:   Exactly.