poop-a-plenty

I took Bernice for a run today, and naturally she took a big dump. Being a good citizen, I promptly picked it up in my doggie baggie, and trotted off to the next trash can. I couldn't help but make a mental note of how heavy the bag was. Good grief. It had to weigh close to a pound. Now I know this fact seems inconsequential, but see, I happen to feed the dog as well. I know that this bovine eats one small bowl of food a day. How was all this poop being generated.? So it came as a surprise when I saw Bernice doing her business for the second time today, this afternoon. And shoot, if it wasn't a humongous amount again. Unless this dog is putting back the grass or shrubs when I'm not looking, I don't know where are the waste is coming from. She is thin, though. That's the answer to all of our weight loss quandaries. Poop more.

A request of my Michigan family (the ones who stick fingers in their ears and sing "la la" while the AZ family discusses politics )

Dear Undecided/Independent/Apathetic Voter,

You know who you are. I'm begging you to please take this Friday night and figure out who will best lead this country out of the Darfur it is becoming. I'm not telling you to vote for Obama, even if McCan't has done nothing but grandstand and showboat these last couple of days. Forget the fact that Obama is looking ever-so-presidential and dignified. Form your own opinion based on what the candidates say this evening. Just feel something about this election. Each American has their own power and voice to use on November 4th. VOTE. Don't sit home and mow the lawn/paint your nails/yell at your kid. Do the needful.

Thank you,

Your annoying sister/sister-in-law/aunt
Toni

CALLING ALL ANGELS.....

I ask that everyone please say a prayer, or a Buddha wish, or send a good thought our way this week. Scot has an interview for a position next week and we really need this job. OR, in another couple of months we will be one of those American families facing foreclosure on our house. And this blog will get even more sarcastic and nasty. It's for the good of all of us. Please, please, please. Thank you.

Love is Deaf, Dumb, and Blind

My husband is still around. I'm starting to think maybe he's losing his senses. And mind. While I haven't let my body go too much over the years, the housework and everything else seems to be suffering. And he still comes home. Oh rather I should say, he still stays home with me (rather hard to leave all day when you're looking for a job). Here all all the disgusting pig dog habits I have become guilty of doing over the years.

1. The laundry looks like the dogs folded it. The only redeeming quality is that it smells good. When it sits in buckets unattended for 3 days, those wrinkles get set in, alright. We all look like we're wearing stuff Goodwill dropped off at the curb for us.

2. I stink like a sumo wrestler. On my good days. Why is it that man can ride his bike for 2 hours and come home smelling fresh? I got the Philadelphia Hoagie Stink gene.

3. I'm using a dermatological cleanser that contains sulfur. When you're looking for nookie at night, I'm like kissing a fried-egg sandwich.

4. I return any item I've used from the garage onto the garage floor when I'm through with it. I know my man will clean it up. Horribly lazy, bad habit.

5. My freezer-keeping skills make fetching an item out of the fridge an exercise in frustration. You can refer to old blog photos for proof of this one.

6. I don't hold back with the stinkies. No point in making yourself sick, right? And if I'm provoked, I will rawhide your pillow.

7. I had the nerve to admit I get confused about what states border us. It was my "Is chicken of the sea chicken, or tuna?" moment. My excuse was that Arizona is a big state and I don't leave it often.

8. I've started burping in sentences. Without apology.


Forgive me my indiscretions. I am not worthy.

Who is really in charge?

How did I let this happened? I've become on of those women who put their dog in their purse and buy jackets and costumes for their furry friend. Just Sunday, I walked around BevMo with the dog under my arm. Oh God, help me. I'm becoming Paris Hilton. In the olden days, I used to call these sub-par dogs "microwavables" and wonder what good they brought to the World. As Patrick gets more and more comfortable here, I'm starting to revisit those notions. This is what I found last night. This in a house where animals are not permitted on furniture. This house ain't big enough for another princess.

This is the scarecrow that's on the label of Dundee Beer's Oktoberfest Brew. It's a lip-smacking hearty harvest of all the regular hops and stuff, plus some seasonal flavors thrown in as well. I'm considering saving the cardboard six-pack holder it's so darn cute. We got it at BevMo for $5.99. I say, If you can't live like it's Autumn, drink like it is.

Chick bashing

I know that I like some wussy music. For years I've been told this from all men. Christopher Cross was the first cassette I bought, and my musical taste later morphed into Adam Ant and Corey Hart. Nowadays I favor some "heavier" musicians such as U2 or Lenny Kravitz, but I still have a weakness for the pretty boys. For instance, Chris Martin of Coldplay. I know he's a bit of a freak with his colored arm bands, and his music is filled with predictable choruses and crescendos. But I love a sensitive crooner. Another recent addition to my puss repertoire is Keane. I don't care if I could take them all in a bar fight; their swirling vocals and piano medleys drive me wild.

Earlier today, Scot put on the radio. The first song to come on was Duran Duran's New Moon On Monday. There I was, nestling the chicken in the pot, singing along with Simon and the boys. My kids looked at me as though I had slaughtered the chicken, but I think it was my singing that caused the wincing. For years, Duran Duran mesmerized me with their jelled hair and puffy shirts. The order in how I wanted to marry the band member was "John, Simon, Nick, Roger, Andy." The very next song to come on was "Free Fallin." But it wasn't by Tom Petty. It was Tom Petty on Estrogen. After a few lines I pinned down the singer. John Mayer.

I listened and the more I heard, the more I thought Tom Petty should bash John Mayer's lights out. What an embarrassing rendition. It was fluffy and light, almost as if the guy's hair was doing the singing. Mayer has many of the sound qualities of Jack Johnson, minus the drop dead sexiness factor. Mayer is cute, but he lacks that certain je ne sais quoi even girlie boy musicians like Boy George have. He's.... limp. His first hit "No Such Thing" was catchy and listenable, but in the last couple of years everything he does seems to sound the same. And have you seen the chicks this guy gets? Mayer must serenade naked with diamonds. He's worked through Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jessica Simpson and a short time ago, Jennifer Aniston. Recently Mayer couldn't help but spill to the media that he was responsible for ending the relationship with Aniston. Poor Jennifer. Here's a girl who has had lots of heartache, but always takes the high road on her break-ups. In the end, it was the Aniston kiss-and-tell that made me hit my wall with Mayer. It's alright that he wasn't my favorite chick music before. He was still tolerable. But if you can't be man enough to keep your mouth shut about your private affairs, I don't want to listen anymore. Girlie music or not.