April Showers Bring BOSSY

Bossy was in town for her (No)Book Tour to promote the book she didn't write. And thanks be to Bossy for driving cross country to bring people together! Several bloggers, of the mommy variety and otherwise, gathered at a little restaurant in Encino to get to know each other outside of our respective blogs. Due to babysitting snafus and a softball practice we did not attend, I arrived about an hour late with Girl-Child in tow, and happy to see many familiar faces from Bossy's Excellent Road Trip two years ago.

(And here would be the picture to, you know, represent (**pounds fist to chest and gives peace sign to the sky**), if someone had bothered to pull her camera out of her bag even just once during the evening, but she didn't because she figured Bossy would take plenty and then someone could just link to Bossy because her pictures are better anyway)

Once we all had our fill of appetizers, Bossy had us go around the table and tell a little something about what makes us, us. Or perhaps tell something surprising about ourselves that we wouldn't know about the other just from reading blogs. PRESSURE!

Aunt Snow from Doves Today took the lead and holymotherofgod she was a hard act to follow. I mean, it's not like I'd ever up and joined the circus -and no I'm not kidding THAT is what we had to follow and WHO LET HER GO FIRST? That's no opening act! That's the main attraction! And since I was so busy being engrossed in her anecdote, and that of Smacksy who was next, I didn't have anything prepared to say about myself. Now, of course, with several days to think about it, I've come up with ...well I still haven't. I tripped over my words and wondered if I got even half of a story out. I started off talking about how I grew up in a small town suburb of Los Angeles and then somehow ended up telling about how I met my husband and then I felt like I'd been talking for too long and then just kind of brought the whole thing to a screeching halt. Then the next guest started speaking and I'm sitting there going, wtf, Tootsie? Did you say ANYTHING? Certainly not anything surprising about myself or anything anyone who reads my blog wouldn't already know. I think it's safe to say that I can scratch "writing my memoirs" off my list of things to accomplish before I bite the dust.

Gonna Need a Price Check on that, Herb

When I am shopping, I have this amazingly annoying ability to grab the one item that does not contain a price tag. I can pick up two of one item, compare, decide which one I want and put the one WITH THE PRICE back on the shelf. Depending on where I shop, this can be a problem. Some retailers know their merchandise and it's absolutely not an inconvenience to the people standing in line behind me because the clerk does not miss a beat in ringing me up. Then there are those other stores where the cashier expects the customer to know exactly how much each item in their shopping cart costs.

For instance today. I had a handful of stuffs and the ten items or less aisle was clear. The scanning of said items was moving along quite nicely, albeit slowly, until the plastic container used to transport liquids made it into the cashiers hot little hands. That's when everything came to a screeching halt. "There's no price", she says - out loud. But the look on her face indicated that this was a problem with which I was to deal.

I know it's hard to determine from this blog but I'm normally an easy going kinda gal. But this was the ten items or less lane and I had ten minutes to finish up this bullpucky and pick up my kid from school. -And I was already mad about the fact that it was raining on my car the one I just got washed yesterday and that the hem of my pants and up to my ankles were soaked I do not like to be wet. Put Tootsie in wet clothes and you get one cranky Tootsie- So I says to the lady, okay well it's like a dollar-sixty-seven or something. Because believe it or not I did not memorize the exact price of everything I decided to buy, shocker, I know right?

Perhaps I should have stated the price with some authority...It's A DOLLAR SIXTY SEVEN! and left out the "like" and the "or something" because then she was all, we're going to have to check. Really? REALLY? It's not like I was trying to make off with a Blu Ray player for a buck sixty seven! It was a little plastic container, not quite Rubbermaid but graduated from Ziplock. For this she was going to hold up the express lane as long as I was willing to play along. And who was this "we" to which she refers? I don't work there. Does she think I'm going to run to the back of the store for a buck sixty seven? ohmygod-no.

You know what? She didn't want me to either. She was willing to lose that sale than have to find out the price...or BELIEVE THE WORDS THAT WERE COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH. I know this because the rest of my items weren't allowed to be rung up until I blinked in this stare off. She stood there. Staring at me. Holding the item up for my review. Daring me.

Forget it, I don't want it. I tell her. I think I saw a slow small smile creep across her face. And I swear to GAWD I heard someone in line behind me heave a sigh of relief. And to that dude, you're welcome because I totally could have been that customer.

I've Got a Fat Secret

In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving I shed a few pounds to get some room to play around with. You know, play, fun games like eating several helpings of juicy turkey and sucking the gravy from your mashed potato volcano, and extra marshmallows on your yams, and a generous serving of cranberry sauce in the shape of the can from which it came...and pumpkin pie for dessert- then again before you go to bed - then for breakfast. What? It so does go with coffee.

Before you know it it's March and you're still on the field, in the zone, and the coach hasn't benched you in months. When you look in the mirror you exclaim "Holy Muffin Top, Batman!" and you can't exactly use "the holidays" as an excuse anymore. You pull yourself aside and have a meeting about overindulgence and how it's time to knock it off and design a plan to get it together WOMAN! You're not twenty anymore, Ms. Farklepants! You can't just skip a couple of dinners and lose five pounds and be fabulous in those pants. Not. At. All.

I'm a late afternoon snacker. I adore the salty snacks during those pre-dinner hours. And this just will not do. So I decided to start documenting everything I eat and to help keep track I joined Fat Secret. I enter all the foods I've eaten for the day; breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks and wine, gin, vodka, rum other. When you have to enter your intake it really makes you think twice about what you put in your mouth. Stop it. Stop it right now. Yes, you too.

I've been trying to keep my daily calorie total between 1200 and 1400, and I've been doing a pretty good job of sticking to that number except for the recent trip to Las Vegas this past weekend to celebrate my sister's twenty-first birthday which I'm not going to elaborate on but suffice it to say that the night included me doing this:



And that's all I'm going to say about that because: self explanatory. Needless to say, about 3000 calories were consumed in one evening and when I got on the scale Monday morning, after two weeks of due diligence I lost a whopping....ONE POUND. Clearly, what happens in Vegas...stays on your ass.

It's Spring and a Break is Needed

I come off looking like a disorganized dolt in this little tale so I'm going to start by saying this: My elementary school children and my junior high schooler do not have the same spring break (should that be capitalized? Google is torn). Boy-Child#2 and Girl-Child have two weeks off and Boy-Child#1 has one week, which is the second week of Boy-Child#2 and Girl-Child's break. So they eventually merge. And even though it makes it so that I can't plan anything that isn't local until they're all out at the same time, it's not a horrible arrangement.

This year the elementary school break starts the last week of March; the week that ties into April. And for whatever reason, even though it's written on the calendar clear as day, I had it in my head that this was the last week of March. All this past week, whenever there was whining over getting out of bed in the morning, or grumbling about homework, and OHMYFREAKENLORD the science fair project that needed completing...I would appease the chi-drens with "this is your last week and then it's SPRING BREAK!!!" YAYWOOTWOOTREJOICING! I sent them off to school this morning with a this is your last day yayyy!!

I set off to the grocery store to gather the necessary items one would stock their shelves with when having the kids at home all day. And it was here that I ran into two of my girlfriends. One was there shopping for a camping trip.

"For spring break?" I ask.

"No, just the weekend." she says.

It took me like three days to load my basket onto the conveyor belt and I was all, I bought a ton of stuff. And they note how it's mostly kiddie snacks and I'm like, yeah...getting ready for spring break and the kids being home this week.

What. Are. You. Talking. About?

Today is the last day and then it's spring break <---this was said with a lot less confidence and enthusiasm than when the conversation started. Because our kids go to the same school.

Ummm...yeah...that's next week.

After the three of us and the cashier collected ourselves from fits of laughter I was finally able to say: Man. Are my kids gonna be bummed.

And they were. Not to mention both of them told me I was wrong the second I picked them up from school.

The end.

This Will Hurt Me More than it Hurts You...Or Will it?

Today was one of those days when I felt like a big, steaming pile of poo. You know those moments, as a parent, when you have to do something because it's the right thing...nay...the responsible parent thing? But it kills you to do it?

Quick side note to bring you up to speed: Our neighbors down the street are moving, out of state, and are taking their ten year old son with them...the gall! And this boy and Boy-Child#2 are like *this*. They play outside together almost daily. And fight and piss each other off about once every other month. But they always eventually make up and are back to daily outside adventures. So these neighbors are moving. Tomorrow. Meaning, this was the boys' very last weekend to play together. And they'll probably never see each other again.

Well, except maybe on Facebook.

Okay, well, this past Friday afternoon, Boy-Child#2 found himself grounded. I'm not going to go into detail as to why, but believe me the punishment was dealt swiftly and justly. And that punishment includes but is not limited to: no video games, no computer, and no playing outside.

I am a stick to my guns kind of parent, people. I don't cave. I don't make deals. Otherwise kids will know that there are no real consequences to their behavior - and that their parents are pussies. Not this mama.

Boy-Child#2 spent the weekend working on his science fair project and enjoyed reading a book; not an altogether horrible experience. Until the boy down the street came to the door today to see if Boy-Child#2 could "play out" - that's what the kids call it these days. I hear them murmur to each other through the screen door and my son comes to me to ask if he can play. I tell him that he is grounded and the answer is no. And I say it loud enough so that Neighbor Boy can hear so that Boy-Child#2 won't have to explain it himself. He's got his street cred to protect.

There's more conversation between the screen in hushed voices and Boy-Child#2 pleads again...Mommy PLLLEEEAAAAAAAAAAAASSSEE it's his last day to plaaaayyyyy. And again I tell him no. And with that he closed the door.

And my heart broke for him. But I was sticking to my guns [Editor's Note: that sound you just heard was Tootsie, writing, using past tense]. I started an argument in my own head... this is their last day to play together how can you be sooo mean?! ... He should have thought about that before he got himself grounded ... he's eleven and hasn't mastered the art of abstract thought ... please, the kids a genius, he knows what's up .... even still... I can't back down ... he will blame you for this forever ... you're so dramatic ... and you're being harsh. The voices in my head told me to consult with Mr. Farklepants.

Dear Husband, what's a mom to do?

Mr. Farklepants: let him go out and explain that this is a special circumstance and he's still grounded. You're making too big a deal out of this.

Hmmph.

It was already 6pm. Boy-Child#2 was allowed to play outside one last time until dinner at 7pm.

Good thing we turned the clocks forward or it would have been too dark and too late.

I am curious though, what would you have done?

Fighting the Signs of Aging and Losing the Battle

The thing about me is this...I'm vain. I'm very concerned with how I look and the depth of that concern varies from situation to situation. If I have a new outfit, fresh haircut and color, or something as simple as a manicure or a brow wax; it makes it that much easier to get out of bed in the morning. I'm working on this illness. Sort of. Not really. Whatever. I've kind of always been this way. Like the time in my early twenties when I broke down and bought myself a new car -then promptly went to the mall and put myself in debt buying new clothes to go with it. I mean, wtf? Who does that?

Unless I'm going to work out, I rarely leave the house without putting myself together. The problem I'm finding lately is: my face. It is aging. And the progression seems to speed up with each passing month. I'm pretty sure my youthful appearance peaked in 2006. And I've been on a downward spiral ever since. It has got to the point, no matter how much of any age defying product I slather on my face, that this practice is becoming a costly exercise in fail. It does nothing except give me hope that eventually something might work. And I've come to the realization that I've reached a crossroads. Where crossroads equals I'm going to have to start paying dearly to get my face back. I've been thinking...drumroll....Botox. Now before you all lose your freaking minds at that last statement, let's weigh the pros and cons.

Pro: one of my close girlfriends recently invested in a Botox/Resylane combo. She looked amazing! It was like someone turned her clock back five years and unless she told you; you'd never know. So I high-fived her and then followed it up with a secret hand shake-fist-chest bump combo. Then she told me...

Con: It cost FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS and only lasts THREE TO FOUR MONTHS.

And that was the end for me. It's simply not in the budget for me to drop five hundred bones every three months into my face. I'd rather have new floors in the house. Or a new stove. Or a trip to France. Perhaps I'll try to work in a more affordable bi-weekly facial so that I can have flawless non-existent pores like a certain blogger who shall remain Bossy.

Tootsie's Academy Awards Pre-Cap. Reporting to You Live From the Red Carpet

Get your game face on, folks, cuz it's Oscar weekend and time to discuss the time honored tradition that will take place this Sunday. In order to do this, Vintage Thirty takes you live to the red carpet.



Why yes, the red carpet is covered in a thick sheet of plastic that sounds like bubble wrap when walked on, but red carpet nonetheless.

Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes:"Tootsie, who are you wearing?"
Tootsie: "I'm wearing my Hudson jeans and a black sweater that I got for 80% off from Kohl's, the boots are from someone whose name escapes me at the moment, but trust me, they were a steal"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "What a major coups! But forgetting the designer's name is a major red carpet faux pas"
Tootsie: "Faux pas? Isn't that one of the Jolie-Pitt kids' names?"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "No, that's Pax, Knox, and Maddox."
Tootsie: "So you understand my confusion"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "Certainly"
Tootsie: "They're probably saving 'Faux Pas' for the next child"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "Most likely"

The crew is working hard making all the necessary preparations for Hollywood's elite to stay warm and dry. Including Oscar himself.





In case anyone is confused why Hollywood Boulevard and the surrounding streets are shut down, there are plenty of clues to let you know why.




Vintage Thirty takes it to the street to get the people's opinion. Let's ask this gentleman hanging upside down from the streetlight; he looks like a local.

Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "What do you say Spiderman?"
Spiderman: "Am I allowed to climb the Oscar statue? And will you give me a tip if I do?"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "Shooo...you crazy. Back to you Tootsie."

Let's check in with one of our own correspondents from the Vintage Thirty team.

Tootsie: "What is your opinion of all these preparations, DorothyZ, and do you think George Clooney would be willing to leave his hot Italian girlfriend at home and bring me as his date instead?"
DorothyZ: "Dream on, sister. And I'm just here to take pictures, strike a pose Tootsie."



Tootsie: "Hey, you're aces, DorothyZ. Is there anything else you'd like to add?"
DorothyZ: "Yeah, what does a bitch have to do to get some lunch up in this joint?"
Tootsie: "Excellent question, DorothyZ. Let's scour the premises to find Salmon Farfalle."




Tootsie: "Well done. Good work, team. Any closing thoughts you'd like to share with our audience?"
DorothyZ: "Yeah, ladies is pimps too."

Word, DorothyZ. Word. See you at the Oscars.






*pictures by Dorothy Z. No actual pictures of Dorothy Z.

You Carly, iCarly, iWatch iCarly

When it comes to television, Girl-Child has always been a little bit ahead of her age range. For instance, she was enjoying Spongebob Squarepants and Fairly Odd Parents long before she discovered the crack magic of the Teletubbies and Blue's Clues. So it was no surprise when she got hooked on the shows Drake and Josh and Ned's Declassified, part of the Teen Nick lineup on Nickelodeon. She's been an avid iCarly watcher since it debuted in 2007. In case you're not familiar, iCarly is about two junior high school girls, Carly and Sam, and their friend Freddy who shoot a webcam show from Carly's apartment that she shares with her adult brother, Spencer. Cute show. Funny moments. All innocent enough.

This season, however, the kids seem to have been shot out of the puberty cannon and there seems to be a lot of like-liking going on. And kissing. And Girl-Child's favorite episodes are those with the kissing. My daughter may only be six years old but she's six going on twelve. Physically, she looks eight. And at the rate she's growing she'll hit puberty herself in about two and a half years. Mentally she just needs to knock it off. Her brain and its mature thoughts are going to be the end of me.

Let me throw a for instance into the middle of this post: Halloween. 2009. The Party City catalog arrives filled with page after colorful page of mostly slutty costumes. Many worn by holymotherofGAH! children. Girl-Child points to a tween ladybug getup and I'm all, ummm...no. I redirect her to the more age appropriate ladybug and add that she will also wear a long sleeved leotard and black tights to cover all the necessary areas. No six year old daughter of mine is going to walk around with a skirt up to there and all her business hanging out. Neither will my sixteen year old daughter if I have anything to say about it -which I might not but let me have my fantasy moment where I believe I actually have control. Ahem. Anyway, the ladybug. So I sit her down and have a little chat about children and maturity and what is acceptable and what isn't. That's when she points to the photo of the sexy policewoman and the sexy bunny and tells me that she wants to be that, you know, when she grows up. Naturally.

faints. dies.

Just days before the costume incident, Mr. Farklepants and I were discussing successful parenting and we came to the conclusion that if we can get all three kids to graduate high school, keep them out of jail, hopefully encourage them to go to college, and keep Girl-Child from getting pregnant before finishing school, then we've done a decent enough job. I mean, right?

Back to the evening of the costume incident: Later that evening, after I was revived from fainting and dying, Girl-Child is talking about the future and telling us that when she's a grownup Mr. Farklepants and I will be Grandma and Grandpa. I look at Mr. Farklepants and say, "judging by her costume selection that day will probably come much sooner than we'd hoped".

The Office will Become Boy-Child#2's Bedroom...Again

Once upon a time, the room featured above belonged to an infant Boy-Child#2. Which would explain the yellow walls and the Winnie the Pooh light switch plate still in place. And I will tell you, he was never a fan of his own living space. He rarely slept there, especially once the night terrors set in around a few months after his first birthday. And any parent who has had to deal with night terrors feels my pain -a word of encouragement, however, after nine years those wretched nights are just a vague memory. We often resorted to bringing him to bed with us just so we COULD GET SOME SLEEP which started a vicious cycle. He pretty much never slept a full night in his own room after that. We tried letting him cry it out. While that worked for Boy-Child#1 when he was old enough to no longer require night time feedings, and took about three full nights for him to become an all night sleeper...Boy-Child#2 had stamina. He never gave in. And we had a toddler in our bed for quite some time. Even when he inherited the super cool race car toddler bed from Boy-Child#1, he couldn't be convinced that it was the best place for sleep. I think he slept in it ONCE. yay.

It was clear that the boy did not like to sleep in a room alone.

We finally came up with the brilliant idea to have the boys share a room. When we handed down the super cool race car bed to Boy-Child#2 we had already purchased bunk beds for Boy-Child#1. The thinking behind that was there would be a bed handy for any future sleepovers. So really no preparations were needed to make the sharing of the room happen. Except to convince the toddler that he would be sleeping there. It took a few nights - I think, the memory, it's fuzzy - but we had success.

Then I got pregnant with Girl-Child. We decided that since the boys were going to be sharing a room we would turn the loft into a bedroom because the living space was significantly larger. Then we would give Girl-Child the boys' old bedroom and turn Boy-Child#2's abandoned bedroom into the office.

Confused yet? Yes, there was a lot of scrambling around and some construction that remains incomplete to this day don't get me started but bingbamboom! The transformation was complete mostly.

Now the boys are 13 and 10 years old, respectively, and the office has become a giant storage slash catchall slash waste of space. And the boys want their own rooms. The time has come to get rid of some crap, make some space, transition all the stuff.

Stay tuned.

If I Don't Write it Down, it Ain't Happenin'

The older I get, the more forgetful I become. Especially once one has children and those children each have several schedules and agendas, and places they need to be, and things that need to be done, well, if I don't write it down on my trusty kitchen calendar; it most likely won't happen. Not everything, of course, because some things are an ongoing activity that happens at the same time every time. But those random projects or ventures can throw us for a loop. Because this mom forgets.

For instance, just last month, we completely and totally missed a GATE meeting for Boy-Child#2. A meeting where the students were going to present the movies of which they'd worked so hard to create. They were put into groups and among themselves they selected who would write the script, the art director, the director, and so forth. All of the information for the program was sent home at the beginning of the year and in that information was a list of meetings, details, and corresponding dates. I immediately wrote down all of which needed writing down on my calendar. A note from the principal was sent home just before winter break to remind us of this particular special meeting. Knowing that I had already written the date down and circled it on the calendar, I didn't bother double checking. And it didn't register as I read it that the note mentioned the date as THE DAY BEFORE the one I already had written down. In other words, they had changed the date. But they didn't say Hey, the date has been changed so please make a note to self. No. Nor did it register that the date had been changed to Wednesday instead of Thursday when I read the January school schedule of events. All I saw was "4th grade GATE 5:30pm" and was all confident that it was already noted on my calendar.

Enter that Wednesday evening. 6:15pm. Boy-Child#2 looks right at me while I'm checking the chicken that has already been in the oven for half an hour and was twenty minutes away from being done.

"Aren't we going to my thing tonight?" he asks.
"What thing?" I say, somewhat distracted.
"To see my movie".
"That's tomorrow night" I say with confidence.
"Hmmm", and he screws up his face, "My teacher said it was tonight that's why we were getting everything ready today".
"Nooooo....it's tomorrow night, see?" and I point at the circle on the calendar. "The fifth graders are doing theirs tonight."

Yes, that's right. I'm arguing with him. Because, dammit! I wrote it down!

And round and round we went until I remembered the additional note sent home and the January school calendar...and I started to get nervous. Because I knew I hadn't double checked the dates. I fished them out of my pile of important school papers that I keep nearby and THERE IT IS! MOTHER EFFER!!! I start barking out orders to Boy-Child#2 to throw on some shoes and a jacket and dinner orders to Boy-Child#1 to turn the oven off when the timer rings and to keep an eye on his sister because GO GO GO IT'S GO TIME MOVE!!! In the car, driving like a mad woman thank god the school is close by.

We RUN to the multi-purpose room and? Empty. Lights are on but chairs are empty. And in walks one lone fourth grade teacher. I'm sure I was a sight. Usually I'm very put together when I'm going to be out there in public but I had left the house in a frenzy of panic and I hadn't planned on being anywhere but home cooking dinner. And there I am, breathless, confused, and waving my papers with conflicting dates in front of me....and mostly, feeling like a giant pile of shit because I'd let my son down. He was so excited to have me see his movie. He talked of nothing else the whole month of November when they worked on it. And we missed it.

And there I am trying to explain that really I'm not a bad mother here look...conflicting dates! And I'm sure not all of the information that was in my head was making its way clearly out of my mouth. You know how it is when YOU know something because it's right there in YOUR brain and you kind of just assume that the person you're talking to has all the same information you have so they're only getting bits and pieces of the whole story? No? Well, that's me.

So, yeah. We missed it. And that lone fourth grade teacher felt REALLY BAD. And judging by the sign in sheets still neatly placed on the table; I was the only parent not to notice the discrepancy. That's me, people. It's just how I do.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because a couple of weeks ago I posted about some baking that I did, and a lovely reader named Lisa came out of lurkdom to specifically request the recipe for the Cheese Crowns. And, you guys? I didn't write it down. So here you go, Lisa. This one's for you:

(click picture to enlarge)

**as a side note regarding the baking time, we found that the 15 minutes was long enough and didn't bother with the whole reducing the temperature to 375* and baking for another 5 to 7 minutes. The pastry was already golden brown as seen below. Enjoy!

Leave Tootsie Allooooonnee...

How unprofessional is it when a major corporation calls your house to solicit your business and refers to you by your first name only? Like we're old friends? Like we're FAMILIAR? What's worse is that AT&T this company has called my house at least six times in the last two weeks [an estimate, I wish I'd documented it] and half of those calls began with, "Hello, Tootsie?" [not really "Tootsie" but my real name, of course, but for blogging purposes we'll keep it anonymous] and the other half of those calls were, "Hello, Ms. Ranch?" which is not at all my last name anonymously or in real life. With the first phone call I didn't listen to enough of their spiel to learn what it is that they wanted me to "save money" on, but I do know enough about life to know that they're not saving my money they want MORE of my money by selling me services that I may or may not already aquire from another source. So that initial call ended with my "no thank you, not interested". Apparently this causes your name to be tossed back into the list of calls to be made in the near future. Kind of like lalalalala...we can't hear you...lalalala...The next few calls were met with a simple, "no thanks". The second to the last call was met with "Yes this is Tootsie but Ranch is not my last name and I've already told you guys the last few times you've called that I'm not interested", which prompted the stooge on the other end of the line to quip "you're not INTERESTED in SAVING MONEY?!?!" which prompted me to promplty hang up on them.

The last call was today. This time the woman on the other end not only referred to me by my first name only, but wholly butchered its pronounciation. I immediately knew who AT&T it was. Now I was just mad because, wtf? Are they just going to keep calling until I say yes? Tootsie doesn't play that game. I finally had to be super rude which I don't like doing at all, and said "look, you AT&T people have called me at least six times in the last two weeks and I'm not interested! Would you please take me off of whatever list it is of whatever you're trying to sell?" And hung up. I'm sure they'll call back tomorrow asking for Tootsie Ranch. People are always trying to sell you shit.

It's bad enough that you're not safe in your own house, but out there in life beyond your four walls, you can barely make it from point A to point B without being asked to sign a petition, support a cause, make a monetary contribution to fight a disease, buy cookies....or worse...KIOSKS! Those mother effing kiosks in the mall with their salesmen and their fake French accents. Like that one dude working the hand/facial cream kiosk and he's all, "Excuse me Miss? Have you ever heard of the Dead Sea? oh-hoh-hoh, oui, crepe suzette!!" and I just want to slap his accent right out of his mouth! Of course I've heard of the Dead Sea, Asshole. Do you think I've been locked in a box my whole life and some fake Frenchie working the kiosk in the mall is going to ENLIGHTEN me? Puhleeaze. Get out of my way, chocolate souffle.

Ohmygod, and that woman working the herbal microwavable heating pads! I made the mistake once of stopping when she said, excuse me Miss? And that bitch slapped one of those heated herbal things on my shoulders without asking [like the good old days of department store perfume departments and their stealthy-ninja-like spray attacks]...and I swear to GOD I smelled like hot lilac for the rest of the day and I just wanted to peel off my skin.

And the hair extension kiosk. Have you seen my hair? Do I LOOK like I need MORE? I could sell them my hair to sell to other folks. Their tactic is to inquire, "Excuse me, Miss? Can I ask you a question?". I may be the biggest bitch to stroll through the mall but trust me when I say that there are only two ways to answer that and either are just as effective as the other. And they are:

1. No you can't. [then continue on your merry way]
2. You just did. [then continue on your merry way]

The end.

The Adventures of Phoebe Farklepants

When Mr. Farklepants surprised the family in April of 2009 with a black lab mix puppy, I expected for her to provide enough fodder to create volumes of blog posts. Well, she's sorta failed me in that regard. Where fail equals I can sum up in one post her shenanigans. I have documented a couple of events here and there but she hasn't done much else. For instance the picture below is of Phoebe resting after having her lady parts removed. And that spot on the couch? Became her permanent territory during her recuperation and continues to belong to her to this day. The pillow featured behind her in the picture?



That pillow became a casualty of puppydom. She killed it. She tore open its chest and ripped out its heart in the time it took me to unload and reload the clothes dryer. In fact, every single throw pillow in this house met the same fate. She is quick and precise. The same can be said for three books, all in the time it took for me to make the beds.

She is learning that not everything belongs to her and she's getting better about stealing and chewing items that are not hers. Oh, she still makes a habit of eating guitar picks for snacks, and if she gets a hold of a shoe or a toy you better hope you catch her the moment it happens. And it happens at least every other day. And you're probably saying to yourself, how can Tootsie say that Phoebe is getting better if it is happening that frequently? Well, I'll tell you why. This dog? Is smart. And fast. And she learned early on that humans cannot catch her. She also learned that if she ran around the dining room table there was no way that humans were fast enough to be on the same side of table at the same time with her. And if you were the only human at home and couldn't form a formidable block utilizing the other humans in the residence, she could have you chasing her around that table in an endless game of chase making a complete ass out of you. Have you ever chased a dog around a table and at about the fifth or sixth round you thought to yourself, what if someone were watching me right now; would they take bets on how many laps you would round before you realize I'M CHASING A FRICKEN DOG AROUND A TABLE?

So, yeah. Now she will more often than not drop said item if you simply bark, DROP IT! Unless she manages to get into the backyard with it then you can just forget about ever seeing it alive again because wide open spaces still belong to The Phoebe.