The Furminator

So, I love all kinds of grooming tools.  Tweezers, eyelash curlers, whitening strips, brushes, hair dryers--you get the gist.

This is what my new favorite grooming tool did to my 110 lb German Shepherd--otherwise known as the best dog in the world...

Can you believe it?  

We are thinking of making a pillow out of this.

Or at least a really small smelly mattress for our cat.

*****UPDATE******

I totally don't use this myself.  It is strictly for dogs and cats.

*****ANOTHER UPDATE***********

My cat won't let me use it on him.

********LAST UPDATE**********

I totally won't use this on myself, cuz my hair is falling out all on it's own. 

Predator vs Prey

I hate Tweety Bird.  

Words cannot describe how much I hate him.  Or is it a her?  Either way.  I can't stand that eunuch.  When I was a little girl, I learned how to speak English watching Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner shows.  I remember how distressed I would be for poor Sylvester, and for that matter--THE COYOTE!  The poor things!  They never, ever got their guy.  Sylvester tried and tried to get Tweety, but somehow, that stupid bird always found a way to get away from him.  That damn old granny used to unwittingly save him from danger over and over again.  I would hear "I tawt I taw a puddy tat!  I did! I did tee a puddy tat!" and it would make my skin crawl.  For that matter, to this day, the injustice that Wile.E. Coyote experienced still upsets me.  I mean, how much money did that poor creature spend on useless  ACME products?  Was he up watching late-night infomercials?  Did he get them in four easy payments?  I suppose it was just my heightened sense of justice that caused me (still does) such grief while watching these shows.  To me, it was like watching a train wreck every Saturday.  I would alternately weep with delight and pleasure.  Hoping that, just once, the Coyote and Sylvester would eat, digest and defecate out their prey.

Does anyone else remember Sesame Street (another show that helped me with the English language) when everyone accused Big Bird of making up Snuffalufagus?  Every time poor Big Bird would be hanging out with "Snuffy", he would tell him to stay put so he could go and introduce him to Oscar, the Count and all the other S.S. gang and when he would return with them, that f*ing Snuffy would be gone. Oscar would be all I'M GOING BACK TO MY TRASHCAN BEYOTCH and the Count would be all TWELVE, TWELVE LIES THAT BIG BIRD HAS TOLD!  If I was Big Bird (being huge and with giant poultry death claws), I would have kicked Snuffy's ass and hung him out to dry.  That hairy elephant- thing pissed me off.  Clearly, I still harbor ill feelings for him.  My guess, however, is that Sesame Street wised up and that I was not alone.  Now ALL of them hang out with Snuffy.  I wonder, did anyone ever apologize to Big Bird for not believing him?  I can't decide whether Big Bird is a big pussy for letting Snuffy get away with this or if he is just a bigger person--um pituitary gland-challenged super yellow not found on any barn animal poultry creature--than the rest of us for forgiving all of them.

Shit.  I should have payed more attention in church this weekend.  

That, and I need a life.

Ventriloquist Priest

Am I the only Catholic that hates to go to church?  I swear, I think of the best excuses for missing Mass every. single. Sunday.  If I could just put these powers to good use, I might actually make something of myself.

While my husband was at a funeral this weekend in Houston, I decided it was time to take the kids to Mass.  They go once a week, since they go to Catholic school and they HAVE to.  (This is one of the excuses that I use on a frequent basis.)  The church went through a multi million dollar renovation that was completed last May.  I have not yet seen it.  I know, I am going to hell.  My friend, Sheila always makes a "digging" motion when I start talking trash about people--indicating that I am well on my way.  

Curiosity got the best of me and I told the kids that we were going to Mass.  I swear they looked at me like I had just offered to share my crack pipe with them (I didn't--I keep that ALL to myself, thankyouverymuch).  After their initial bewilderment, they got really excited and off we went!  

The church is magnificent.  The money was well spent.  Very impressive.

The service?  Not so much.  For a long time, I kept wondering where the priest and the altar servers had gone to.  I sat 6 rows from the front of the altar and I could hear them talk, but they were not up there.  I was all AM I HALLUCINATING?  DOES THAT GIANT WHITE MARBLE JESUS HAVE SPEAKERS INSTALLED?  HAVE THEY CHANGED THE MASS THAT MUCH SINCE I HAVE BEEN ABSENT? DID I MISS SOME PAPAL BULL THAT MASS IS NOW SAID FROM SOME SORT OF PRESS BOX?  Seriously.  They were not there.  The altar?  Bare.  I missed out on a great deal of the mass worrying about the Priest's location. 

Apparently, during the multi million dollar renovation, they added a little alcove, stage left, where the Priest hangs out and says the mass.  It took me 35 minutes to figure this out.  I looked over to the right of the altar and there they were!  Everyone else seemed okay with this.  Totally unsurprised.  Maybe when they unveiled the church, they told everyone the reason for this.  I guess I should have gone sooner.  

Although I love the idea of the Catholic Mass, there are some things that churches have changed that I just can't stand.  For one thing, why must I hold hands with strangers while saying the Lord's Prayer?  When did this become standard issue?  Oooooooh!  I HATE holding hands with strangers!  It gives me the willies. Where have those hands been? Eeeeeeew. I don't like introducing myself to my neighbors either.  It feels so forced.  They also had us "bless" some people in the front and put our hands out all Das Feurer and Heil Hitler-ish and I refused to do it.

In rebellion to all of this, I gave my kids a peace "nuggie" instead of a hug and a kiss.  It felt more appropriate since I missed the whole message of the Mass (which was probably something to do with loving your children or going to church every Sunday) while looking for invisible Priests.

Peace Out.

When all else fails...

This is what good Mothers do when they know their limitations.

Note the skirt hem.  

Now note the staples.

I = Genius.

Proof of Residence

Today I became an official resident of Colorado.  I know you're all "but I thought she had already been living there for two years" (I am slow), but the truth is that I have been clutching on to my Texas Drivers License for over 10 years now.  I love myself in that picture.  I am so young and so blonde and my lipstick! is sooooo red.  I took that picture while I was just barely pregnant with Victoria and it holds special memories for me.  

I don't even look like that anymore.  I wonder how that happened.  Sometimes, people at the airport will give me the fish-eye and keep looking from the picture on my license to me and back again.  I want to tell them that I understand that the picture bears only a resemblance to me, but I have been through so much since then.  I have had a second child, gone through numerous surgeries with John.   I have lost my beloved Grandmother and a wonderful dog.  I have moved from the awesome state of Texas to North Carolina, where I fell in love with one of my favorite families in the whole world.  I have had my heart ripped in two, seeing my children cry inconsolably when we moved to Colorado and were no longer living next door to the best neighbors a person could ever ask for.  I made it through living in a temporary apartment with two kids, two dogs, a snake, two cats and two unbelievable blizzards that stranded us there.  I have been forced to make new friends, and thank God I have managed to do that.  

So, now my hair is longer, I cover the gray and the color is truer than before.  My lipstick is more subtle and there are a few more wrinkles around my eyes--and I like it.

I want to tell the people who look at that picture that, despite the change in appearance, I am good. Better than good.  We are healthy.  We are happy.  I am in love with my husband and my children.  And, despite the fact that I miss Dallas and all my family and friends there, I love it here, too.

Welcome to Colorado, Lisa.

Walking the Plank

My poor baby went to school today looking like she was ready for the executioner.  Send her good vibes today so that she makes it through the week with no calling and having a good time.

Dr. Amanda

Some of you may already know, but for those of you who don't, Victoria is having some anxiety issues at school and calls me every day after math (9:30 am) crying incomprehensibly.  Telling me to pick her up from school (at least that is what I think she says--hard to understand with all the crybabble--is that even a word?).

On Friday, otherwise referred to as The Day Mom Lost Her Shit, she called me as I was sitting in the hair colorist chair with foil on my hair (looking like a lovely antenna gone haywire).  I saw it was the school on the caller i.d. screen but I stupidly answered it anyway.  After all, what if it was John this time?  Same crying.  Same "stomachache". Same "come and get me".  I informed her that a) she was NOT sick; b) I was not leaving the hair color place with my hair in foil, not to mention that I would ruin my hair; and c) that she had better think twice, because if I went to pick her up she would face certain grounding.

She chose to go home.

I lost my shit when I picked her up (see above reference to shit). (I waited until we got in the car to do it.)

Of course, she was not sick.  Of course, I should have not picked her up.  The only reason why I did was because she was so mortified at having to go back to her classroom that she preferred to make me mad, rather than make the "walk of shame" back to class and have to cop the truth.  That she was fine.

So, she is grounded from television and from computers until she goes the whole week without calling.

Enter Dr. Amanda.

My friend, Mickie and her kids came over to hang out last night.  Amanda, age 9, is Victoria's very good friend.  They went to sleep away camp together for the first time this summer, they have frequent sleep-overs and are like two peas in a pod.

Apparently, as Mickie and I were enjoying our wine (too much, I might add), the girls were commiserating on Victoria's plight.  

About an two hours into the visit, they came in and Amanda had me sit on one side of her and Victoria on the other.  Here's how it went down:

Amanda:  Victoria and Ms Lisa, come and sit down and talk to Dr. Amanda.

Me: snicker

Victoria:  giggle

Dr. Amanda:  Tell me Victoria, were you really sick yesterday?

Victoria:  Yes.  Really sick.

Dr. Amanda:  Ms. Lisa, why don't you believe her?

Me:  Because, she has done this every day at the same time and seems to have no trouble eating.

Dr. Amanda:  Hmmmmm.  Victoria, do you feel that your Mom does not care about you or give you enough attention when you are sick?

**I stop this post to highlight the fact that this "counseling session" is skewed.**

Victoria:  Sometimes.

Dr. Amanda:  Ms. Lisa, how does this make you feel?

Me:  Like another glass of wine.  

I see a television show in Dr. Amanda's future.  

My daughter?  Two words:  Reality. Television.

Me?  Betty Ford Clinic.

P.S.  Dr. Amanda on the right in the picture above.

Brain Fart

I usually only carpool with my friend, Cathy, in the afternoons.  She is the amazing mother of 4 kids and every once in a while, she will ask me to take her two oldest boys to school if her husband, Joe can't do it.

Johnny, her youngest boy, was running a little late this morning.  I could see Cathy in her pink bathrobe, rushing to get him dressed and getting his backpack on while we waited in the driveway.  He was clearly upset when we got in the car, so I thought of a fun game to play.

What shape is your brain?

Will, Cathy's oldest is OBSESSED with football.  Specifically Notre Dame football.  So we all decided his brain was in the shape of a football with Notre Dame tattooed onto it.  Duh.

Johnny (aka Mister Upset) had a brain the shape of either a chocolate chip cookie or a brownie.

Victoria's brain is in the shape of a soccer ball.

John (my John)'s brain is in the shape of a Pokemon trading card.

When asked what shape my brain was in John said "a shoe!".  And then someone piped up from the back and said "a wine bottle!".  See a pattern here?

Is that bad, by the way?

Oh Snap

Mom, you know how you are all inappropriate all the time?

What on earth are you talking about, John? (Oh, shit.)

Well, you say inappropriate things all the time.

Like what? (Oh, shit.)

Like, you taught us to say "doodie bubble" and "dingleberry".  Daddy would have NEVER taught us that.  And what about when you gave Victoria a titty twister and Dad got really mad at you and said that you were out of range?

(Oh, shit.)  What does this all relate to, John?

Well, I have good news!  Father Andrew said that "hell" is not a bad word.

Birds, Bees and Bubbles

What is it about kids these days?  How, in the advanced-hell, did they end up knowing so much?  This thirst of knowledge that they have is something to behold.  

I remember being 9 1/2.  I was in 4th grade and all I was interested in was going to the roller skating rink, wearing my "Luv-It" jeans with the hot pink satin piping and the hot pink and green satin roller skates on the back pocket and making sure that my feathers were well hair sprayed so as not to be disturbed as I made my way around and around the rink, giggling at the boys.  My comb that stuck out of my pocket said "Dangerous Curves"--giving new meaning to antithesis.

My Mother used to leave me at Josey Skateland in Richardson, Texas, every Saturday afternoon for HOURS.  Alone.  Gawd.  I was truly the shit back then.  I always had enough money to get a giant dill pickle and a huge "suicide".  Remember those?  Pssst.  Pssst.  Pssst.  Pssst.  Coke.  Dr. Pepper. Sprite. Fanta.  OMG.  I loved that.  I was shallow (some things still remain from those heady days).  I had cool clothes and cool skates.  What else do you need in life?  But, I digress.

Victoria:  Mom, you have to tell me how babies get made.  Really.  You are sending me to sleep away camp for a whole week and John already knows.

Me:  God puts them there.

Victoria:  glares

Me:  Really, Victoria.  I thought we were just going to go to the liquor store together (don't judge).  I need to get some wine for the party.

Victoria:  Mom.  You promised you would tell me about the baby stuff. Pleeeeaaassssssssssssse!

Me:  Here?  In the parking lot of Bubbles (name of said fab liquor store).

Victoria:  Here.

Me:  You sure?  It's kinda advanced, you know.

Victoria:  Mom, I am in 4th grade now. (duh)

Me:  Okay.  Well.........Mom and Dad get married..........love each other...........excited............gets hard.......eggs.........sperm...............Wham!  And that's how babies are made. (A little more detail WAS provided, but young people read this.)

Victoria:  silence

Me: sweating.

Victoria:  Well, I think we just had a special bonding moment there (patting me on the shoulder).  Right here in the parking lot of the liquor store.  Wait till I tell Dad where you told me.

Me:  So what?  I told John on I-25 when he was coming home from the doctor with the flu. 

Location, location, location.

Farticus

Dear John,

I find you to be devastatingly beautiful for a little boy.  Maybe you are not so little now.  You are 11.  I am sad that you are growing and that you are becoming less and less a little boy and more and more a young man.  

You still hold my hand and I can occasionally get you to sit on my lap (all 100lbs of you).  You tell me daily that you love me and you sleep with stuffed animals.

You still have sweet little blonde fuzz on your arms and legs and when I wake you up in the morning you still smell like warm milk mixed with cinnamon.  I love the scent of you.  Most of the time.

This afternoon, in the car, has caused my nasal passages irreparable harm.  How on earth can something so beautiful emit such noxious fumes?  The car still smells and it has been hours.

The EPA called.  They want their clean air back.

Bow Chicka Wow Wow

Some early evening cat porn for you.

Cue the cheesy music...

"Bow chicka wow wow, chicka wow wow".

Baby Flu

I don't know what it is about turning 40.  Are my shriveled eggs screaming at me?  Saying, "Use me now!!  I am melting!  Melting, I tell you!!"  (Flying monkeys, notwithstanding.)  I am dying for one more itty bitty, teeny weeny, wittle baby.  My friend, Kat, had a baby a couple of months ago, and she is so delicious.  I got to hold her this weekend, and instead of satisfying my desire, it just made me want another one.  Bad.  Damn it!

There is just one tiny hitch in my plan.  My husband.  He was "fixed" around 10 months after my daughter was born.  Factory closed.  Now only an amusement park.  Will absolutely NOT consider reversing anything (which is a good thing, considering his propensity for "complications" from all kinds of surgeries, medications, etc.).  Oh, well.  

Poor baby would not be able to keep up with my lushes in the making anyway...

WTF

Sarah Palin?

Huh?

Am confused.  Deeply confused.

Why?

*****Update******

I just saw the speech she gave at the RNC (on Perez Hilton's website no less) and am feeling better.  Maybe there is something to be said for a strong woman to stand behind the Prez.  I am still not 100% convinced, but I am working through this.  That being said, I will now bow out of any more political statements as this is supposed to be a TOTALLY SHALLOW blog (see above reference to Perez Hilton).

I am off to Vail for some fun and my big boy's last day as a 10 year old.  I will post while I am there!

Ciao!

Lordy, Lordy. Today I am 40!

Yipes!  I am 40 years old today.  I talked to Grant last night and told him that I could not believe that I am this age.  Middle Age.  I always thought that the old dude was Grant.  Not me.  I am supposed to stay 25 FOREVER while my husband is the one that keeps on aging (Dorian Gray, do you hear me?).  At least that is how I feel.  Until the damn mirror says otherwise.  (Caution to anyone close to my age:  DO NOT, under any circumstances, look on the magnifying side of a mirror.  7x magnification is not a good thing.  Just go with me on this one.)

I took a shower and checked my bod this morning, like I always do.  I did the usual "manual lifting" of the butt (are my hands getting smaller or is my butt getting bigger?), placing it where it used to be and where it should be.  I pulled my thighs in to make them look thinner.  Same with the triceps area--helloooooooo, batwings!  I checked for any odd hairs growing in odd places--none, so far (thank gawd).  I fluffed my hair after drying it with my new hairdryer and checked the scalp for new gray hair growth (sadly, yes).  I think it  may be time to sprint (with mandatory butt jiggling) past the mirror and get dressed in my closet.  After all, "da nile" is not just a river.

Ba donka donk.