Spring Cleaning....So to Speak

First sign of spring: heavy highlights!

Me: Color me, blonde, BEatch!

Stylist: It's Redken 8N and 7NA, also known as "sesame" and "mirage"...and don't call me BEatch.

When will I learn not to mess with people who can turn me into Carrot Top.

I'm in a frisky mood today. The sun is shining and the thermometer is nearing the 60-degree mark. Spring has sprung, my friends, and it's time to prepare ourselves for the warm weather, just as we would our homes and lawns. It's time to prune, trim, and plant. Or in our case, wax & tweeze, snip & paint, highlight & tan.


Next up, pruning the eyebrows (so as to look less like Bobby Knight). I used to get this taken care of at the salon very routinely, but two moves ago, my stylist didn't offer it, so I fell off the wagon. I will admit to breaking down on more than one occasion and having a quick "wax & go" done at a fly-by-night, Vietnamese, strip mall nail salon, but not without great anxiety. I know if I push my luck there too many times, I'm bound to one day walk out looking like a geisha.




Yes, I'm quite aware that I'm mixing cultures, but it's hard to shake this image from my head when the little ladies are just smiling and nodding without any true indication that they know what the hell I'm talking about.

I do, however, trust Thuy (pronounced Twee', which is what MT calls those big things in our yard that grow leaves in the spring) to deliver a mean French pedicure. I begin growing my toenails out after New Year's Eve in order to provide a nice starting point with which to sculpt (translation....by March, my toenails are absurdly long so Thuy can snip and file into the perfect length for the french pedi). And let me tell you, that is the way to get your money's worth (all $20 plus tip) - Frencho pedo. I'm able to touch up my tootsies from spring through the 4th of July. I really am a low-maintenance kinda girl. But sandal-ready is a must well before Memorial Day. Am I right, ladies?

So, we've covered "pruning" and "trimming," * now on to planting....

The highlights are here, but you know what looks great with highlights? A tan. Next up on my to-do list - find a dermatologist. Need to make sure all the new moles and freckles that have congregated on my body over the dark days of winter aren't malignant, so I can promptly buy my Fake & Bake package and soak in the Vitamin D. Nothing says "sun-kissed" better than raccoon eyes created by tanning bed goggles.




Spring is also the season to spruce up your color palette, i.e. clothes and make-up. I'll be stashing away my favorite boots (noooooo!) and pulling out pink and green from the depths of my closet. I might even stop at the Walgreen's on the way to the gym today and purchase a new lipstick. "Living the dream," that's me.

So, to recap:

Bodies need a spring cleaning, just like yards.
We can pay people to do both (Thanks, Thuy and BEa- Pretty Stylist).
Skin cancer is bad, but so is a pasty lady in a bathing suit.
Mocha fat is prettier than vanilla fat.
It's my dad's birthday!
Julie, the Wife will certainly share a bushwhacking story on my comments.

HAPPY SPRING, EVERYONE!





* HAPPY BIRTHDAY, "SOME OLD GUY!!" DON'T BOTHER READING BELOW THE LINE! IT'S FOR YOUR OWN GOOD! LOVE YOU!!!!__________________________________________________
I am completely aware that certain members of the panel (followers) are just waiting to comment with "what about trimming the bushes?!?" First of all, let me just say that my father reads my blog, and today is his birthday. Since his present amounts to the 2010 snapfish calendar I forgot to pack at Christmas (and is now three months late), I thought I would also be respectful and prevent a premature heart attack. Also...since I am not scheduled for a spring break trip, it's completely too early to be worried about the hedges.

And the Oscar goes to........

It's that time of year again, people. The night when Hollywood pulls out the pomp and pretense, pats themselves on the back and says, "You like me...you really like me." So here I am, wine on the bedside table, laptop in lap, ready for them to entertain me. Big Daddy wants no part of this. If you want to get Big Daddy riled up, ask him what he thinks of Robert Downey, Jr. Or Tim Robbins. Or Bette Midler. Or pretty much, anyone within a 100-mile radius of L.A. But prepare yourself. There will be expletives. I, on the other hand, am able to separate celebrities annoying off-screen antics from their craft. Take Alec Baldwin, for example. I'd probably feel like pulling a Three Stooges double-eye poke on him if I ran into him at Starbuck's, but his comedic timing is priceless. He makes me LOL and LMAO. The kids are on their way to bed - they stop in to say goodnight. Robin Williams is on the tele....

ZuZu: Who's that?
Big Daddy: He's an idiot.
Me: Daddy! He is not an idiot. That's Mork, kids. He's a friendly alien that wears rainbow suspenders.
Look of confusion on kids faces as they glance at Big Daddy for verification.
Big Daddy: That's true. And I shouldn't have called him an idiot.
Me: Now, go to bed.
ZuZu: Tell us if Sandra Bullock wins.
Me: Will do....but don't count on it. Before Blind Side there was Miss Congeniality 2 and The Lake House.
Another shot of confusion. They decide to give up and go to bed.

So, allow me to back it up. The night started with a great song and dance number with Neil Patrick Harris, who I adore, but was simply there to introduce the host duo, Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin. There's five minutes the producers will wish they had at the end of the show. Okay? Moving right along.....

Martin & Baldwin could be a modern day Abbott & Costello. Or maybe, Laurel & Hardy. Smothers' brothers? The chemistry is there, and when prodded with the cattle iron, Alec accepts the role of straight man with "grace." I enjoyed these two throughout the night. Kudos, on this one, producers.

Worth noting - the John Hughes tribute. Cheesy, and slow, yes. But I could have watched clip after clip of the many movies that personified adolescence in the '80s. Hughes' movies were instant classics, which is pretty much the way we viewed our own lives. We saw ourselves as the fearless Ferris, the overlooked Sam, and certainly we all had a Ducky in our lives. Quick question though - when did Molly Ringwald become a drag queen?!?

Also, A+ for the "Best Original Score" dance sequence. I fancy myself as a (former) dancer, and was more than impressed with the choreography, and the League of Extraordinary Dancers. As my niece would say, AH-Mazing!

There was also the "'ode to horror" montage, segued by Twilight series star Kri-... Kri-... um... - 'sten arm twitch um - Kristen - St -... um -... scratch head - Stew -... painful, confused glance Stewart. What is the matter with that girl? She came out looking like a million bucks, and I thought she was going to show me a little something for once, and the next thing you know, she's coughing a non-existent phlegm pocket over her shoulder and reaching across her head, possibly trying to adjust a hat that she's not wearing?!? Seriously, Kristen, are you getting enough oxygen to the brain? Maybe you could use some carbs. Or if it's protein you're looking for, why don't you take a bite out of that hunky Taylor Lautner on your right (who is now legal, by the way, ladies. our inappropriate, secret thoughts are now slightly less repulsive).

Since we're on that wavelength, let's take note of more strange and misguided happenings. Did you see the highly unscripted happenings during "Best Documentary short?" An African-American man runs down from the back of the auditorium and starts an emotional speech and gets bumrushed by a red-headed Jew from Jersey. Damn, Yetta - let a brother have his day! And then there was Ben Stiller, once again, willing to humiliate himself for a little cheap humor. Taking one for the team. Dressed as one of those blue guys from Avatar, he poked a little fun at James Cameron and freaked me out with some freak-ass contacts. Why must Stiller always report to the award shows in costume?

Okay, on to more important things. Let's discuss some of the winners.

Once again, a woman wins an award for making herself as homely as possible. Mo'Nique's name was called for "Best Supporting Actress" for her role in Precious, and Mama enjoyed her walk up to that stage, sauntering in her sapphire gown. She kinda called out the academy, thanking them for deciding to choose the work over the politics. The bite in her acceptance speech had me wondering if she was thankful or pissed. No question, she was passionate. Go'Mo!

Give it up for a female finally winning "Best Director." Kathryn Bigelow was obviously, humbly stunned. Of course, she dedicated the award to the men and women of the military who are abroad protecting us. I had hoped to rent 'The Hurt Locker' prior to the awards due to all the Oscar buzz, but my go-to rental spot, the $1 RedBox was always "sold-out." I'll be damned if I'm gonna drive all over town looking for a Blockbuster that hasn't "went out," OR pay $4.99 on Comcast's 'On Demand.' I'll tell ya what I demand....A BREAK! A break from the ridiculous amounts that company charges for cable services. Back to the Oscars....of course, we know 'Hurt Locker' went on to win "Best Pic," so kudos again to the academy for picking substance over politics. It is my fairly uninformed understanding that the film does it's best to show a story without having a left or right slant. Perhaps Hollywood should take note. And Washington.

The last "winner" I want to mention is Sandra Bullock for "Best Lead Actress." For those of you who haven't seen 'The Blind Side' AND seen interviews with the woman that Bullock portrayed, it may be a hard sell. But I gotta tell ya, it's the one movie on this list I DID see, and she nailed it (Oh - I did see Meryl Streep as Julia Childs and I thought she completely channeled her, too, but she wasn't as endearing as Sandra in her movie). I'm not saying none of those other ladies deserved it I'm saying, SO DID SANDRA. Especially, considering the crap the movie took for showing "yet another white family coming to the rescue of a black kid." Really? I'm sorry, how can anyone take issue with the storyline - it was a TRUE STORY. Like it or not, it happened - pretty much the way the film portrayed (except for the lack of natural football talent Michael Oher obviously posessed from the beginning). Kudos again to the academy for looking at the performance and not underlying themes that aren't there.


Lastly, let's take a quick look at best and worst dressed, shall we? Join me as we take a stroll "gowntown....."

How about the placement of those cabbage roses on Cameron Diaz's gown? EEEHH. Wrong answer, CD.

Poor Tina Fey, I love you so. I love you for being a strong, female comedian that isn't Janeane Garofalo. But the lopsided black gown made it appear that your girls were resting on the 50-yard line. Cue Ludacris and the chipmunks, "How low can you go?!?" Are you still nursing that toddler or do you not understand the concept of push-up bra? You'll see what I'm talking about when you check it out on DVR. You'll be writing lines much better than these.

Now Sigourney Weaver pulled off the one shoulder look. Pretty sharp in her red, asymetrical gown with a crisp black belt. I'm thinking it was actually from her martial arts collection (she could so kick those aliens' ass again).

Speaking of aliens, was there one trying to escape from JLo's dress? What the - ?!?

Many will disagree with me, but I thought SJP looked like a Greek Goddess. Stunning! Of course she had the honor of awarding "best costume design." Her SITC days taught her well. She will always be a "Most Daring, Best Dressed and Tressed." Brava!

I think all of the "Best Actress" nominees did a fine job accepting free, designer gowns for the evening's event. A special nod for newbies Anna Kendrick and Carey Mulligan. I'm awarding your efforts with a "thumbs-up with the okay" - the universal sign of appreciation (that's high rewards where I come from). But, back to the presenters - the ones who were making grand entrances from the wings.....

Queen Latifah looked fiiiine. So classy, poised and polished - but in a real, not staged way (plus-sized means there's more to love). Demi Moore rocked her classic Hollywood look. Nicely played, Cougar-tamer. And here's a better shout-out for the female funny girls - Elizabeth Banks was a vision in a purplish-grey number.

All in all, the night seemed to go off fine with little surprises. Avatar won for what it was "Art Direction" and "Cinematography." Single performances won out versus overall content of said film ('ski children cheering in the background for the mom in 'Blind Side' - the only movie they saw in the theatre this year other than 'Up.') Intense 'Hurt Locker' took "Director" and "Film." 'Precious' for "Adapted Screenplay" (I'll be boxing out at the RedBox to rent that this weekend). The only big loser of the night seemed to be 'Up in the Air.' Hmm. Sorry, George.

Big Daddy?!? Is that you chuckling back there?!?

Writer's Block? So soon?

So, it's Friday.

Didn't I just start a blog two weeks ago and set a goal to post Monday, Wednesday, and Friday? I didn't profess it on the site, because I wouldn't want anyone to be able to call me on it. But I know I promised myself thrice a week posts. And I believe I mentioned it to a few others (in order to hold myself accountable).

Didn't I proclaim that not only did I feel the urge or the desire to write, but that I felt compelled to write? Yes, yes I did. I did basically say that. I think I got that point across in the 'Butt Look Big?" entry.

Today, not so much. Today was a busy day. Today I had conversations with people face to face, versus in cyberspace. Today was, literarily speaking, an uninspired day. It was a good day, but not a good blogging day.

And yet, here it is. A blog, basically about nothing. My Seinfeld blogalogue. Squeaking in, under the wire. I'm making good on my promise. This is Friday's blog. Do with it what you will.

Monday is just around the corner. We'll call it, "Redemption Monday." Because setting the bar higher seems like a great idea for the busy, uninspired beginner blogger.

Have a good weekend.

Why can't ZuZu want a Zhu-Zhu?

We have a problem. ZuZu wants a gerbil. After everything we've been through with Rox recently, I can't believe she's even considering bringing another member of the animal kingdom into our abode. For a couple of years, she wanted a turtle. I don't know where that infatuation came from. Maybe the comcast commercial. I admit, even I was a bit enamored with Bill Slowsky. But that's because he was a talking turtle with a dry sense of humor. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were kinda cool, too. But again, not real. Real turtles don't talk, and they don't wear primary-colored masks. How much fun and joy could a non-talking, non-ninja pet turtle really bring a pre-teen girl? Luckily, we were able to stave off that ridiculous request.

But now, she's serious. She ain't playin', people. She's keeping up with chores. She's babysitting in the neighborhood and saving her own money. She's researching online. AAAND....she has persuaded Big Daddy that it is time for her to have her own little pet.

So why am I not on board with the gerbil request? Cold hard fact. A gerbil is a member of the rodent family. I don't do rodents. I can handle bugs and spiders the size of a softball. But I do not do rodents. They are rabies-infested, buck-tooth, squeaky, squirmy disease puffs. And they're tails are nasty. It may sound like I'm describing a mouse, not a cute little gerbil.

I give you, Exhibit A:



Now what the hell difference is it whether you call that little rodent a mouse or a gerbil? It's not cute.


Let me guess, you were expecting something more like this?



Oh sure, at first glance he looks adorble. But stare into those beady little eyes and imagine those whiskers twitching with a purpose. Can you REALLY trust his intentions?

Remember how I said their tails were nasty? Common reason people are turned off by gerbils as pets is their long, scary tails. So, the breeders have remedied this by creating a variety of "fat-tailed gerbils."


Four words: HELL TO THE NO!!


Alright, two can play at this game. I did a little research myself. I went straight to the source for slackers (wikipedia) and found out some interesting facts I'd like to share. Did you know that not unlike our friends across the pond, gerbils are known for having poor teeth. It seems misalignment of the incisors due to injury or malnutrition is somewhat common, and can cause the fangs to grow extra-large. If this is a problem for your gerbil, you're expected to have them regularly clipped by a vet for as long as you both shall live. Shagedelic, baby.

Guess what else. It seems another common problem for our creepy creature is neglect. So not only are they creepy, they're needy. Not really looking for a high-maintenance rodent right now. Got my own issues. What happens to a neglected gerbil? They lose their appetite, which in turn causes serious health concerns including dehydration, starvation, stomach ulcers, eating of bedding material, and cannibalism. That's right. A neglected gerbil will gnaw my daughter to death until there is nothing left of her. And I will know it is my fault for allowing a rodent in our house.

You think I'm being irrational, don't you? How about this little fun fact on the fur ball. Between 20 and 50-percent of all pet gerbils have epilepsy. Won't that be fun watching Mr. Whiskers have seizures when handled too much or stressed about his new aspen shavings? I'll give ya aspen shavings you little -

I'll spare you the info on tail-sloughing and Tyzzer's disease and skip straight to the tumors. That's right, apparently tumors, both benign and malignant, are also fairly common amongst pet gerbils. But not to worry, your friendly, neighborhood veterinarian will be able to operate on the lump. Remember the last time my pet went under the knife? See previous post, 'How My Male Dog Acquired a Va-Jay-Jay.' Don't say I didn't warn you, fuzzball!


All of this ranting and raving over a little rodent may seem a bit dramatic to you, but I truly can't stand this genera. They give me the heebie-jeebies. I can't pinpoint an exact incident in which I decided that they were sent from the devil, but I do have an interesting story to share:

Years ago, the kids and I went to visit my parents for the weekend. I stayed up a little later than everyone else, decompressing in front of the television. When I was finally ready to call it a night, I shut off the kitchen lights and headed through the dimly lit living room on my way to the stairs. Huh? Double-take. What's that black blob on the wall? My eyes adjusted and I made out what looked like - A DISEASE-INFESTED RODENT?!? Adrenaline formed a mushroom cloud which took the express elevator up my esophogus and bursted through my lips with a whispered, "EEEEEEP." I bolted, taking the 100 year old stairs two at a time. I burst through the door of my parents' room.....


"Mom! MOOOOM!" I whispered loudly in a panic.

"What? What's wrong," as she tried to get her wits.

"There's a mouse crawling up your wall in the living room!"

"A mouse? On the wall?" Up to this point, I hadn't contemplated the probability of this.

"Yes, it's a black rodent holding onto the woven wallpaper." Yeah, that makes sense. I think.

"Oh. No, no...it's probably a bat."


WhaAAAT?!?




"A BAT?!?" Holy $h*!, Batman!

"Yeah, it's fine, honey. They come down through the chimney sometimes."

It's FINE?!? It's fine because it's not a mouse, it's a FLYING MOUSE?!? No, it's not FINE!

This is the part of the story where my 5-foot, 95-pound mother gets out of bed, finds a tupperware container in the kitchen, captures Bruce Wayne while he was sleeping, and I suppose disposed of him outside? I wouldn't know what exactly happened to him. I was under the canopied, twin-sized bed I had slept in since 4th grade.

It's all fun and games until somebody gets a long-toothed, epileptic, cancerous flying rodent stuck in her hair. What's a mom to do? Be the evil-one and put my foot down, forbidding the "innocent" puffball to be a part of our family. Or fold, let the aspen chips fall where they may, and practice my motherly, "I told you so" speech? Yeah, probably the second one.

Truth is, I'm afraid if I deny her this request (as I first denied her the turtle), she will move on to the next obsession. And what if it's this?




Freakin' gerbil.

Goodnight, Vancouver!

What happened?!? I was justing watching my childhood crush, Wayne Gretzsky light the Olympic torch, went to the fridge for a Molson beer and came back to the closing ceremonies. Wow! That was a fast two and a half weeks. And here I am, with half a Molson, wondering how I could have missed so much of the action.

I'll spare you the details of homework wars and basketball tourneys, cheerleading practices and Zumba classes. The truth is, the winter games come at a very busy time of year - WINTER. But since snow and cold weather are pretty much a prerequisite for the events, I guess we'll have to deal.

Despite the busyness and the prime-time into late-night coverage, my family and I were able to enjoy a few highlights together. We watched the amazing first match-up between the US and Canadian hockey teams. The kiddos were forced to go to bed before the final outcome, but were quick to inquire the next morning. They relished in the American glory over pop-tarts and Fruity Pebbles (don't judge me). We also caught the b-roll of the American bobsledder who almost lost his eyesight to a rare disease, but underwent an experimental surgery and was cured - cut to the 4-man bobsled competition as he and his teammates beat out the Germans for the gold by nearly half a second (which is apparently light-years in the world of bobsledding).

We enjoyed some amazing snowboard competitions (although we missed Carrot Top) and skating superstars (missed Johnny Weir our favorite queer). We saw highlights of American favorites Lindsey Vonn, Bode Miller and Apolo Ohno. And we witnessed the off-the-hook, oh-no-he-di'int game-tying goal by Zach Parise which sent the men's hockey finals into overtime. Unfortunately, it was not meant to be, but it was a showdown for the record books. A highlight from 2010, for sure, eh?

I would be remiss if I did not mention the sadness which happened over the course of the games. Certainly, the death of a Georgian luger prior to opening ceremonies sent a shockwave through Vancouver and the rest of the world. My heart goes out to his family and the tiny country he was there to represent. And I can't stop thinking about the courage of Canadian skater Joannie Rochette who's mother suffered a fatal heart attack while at the games. Four days later, Rochette laced up her skates, performed, and took her place on the podium to accept the bronze medal, no doubt dedicating it to her biggest fan - mom.

Of course, I shall also take this opportunity to comment on a couple of controversial happenings across the border. How about that Scotty Lago, huh? If you got it, flaunt it! Incase you were watching the Disney version of the Olympics and have no idea what I am talking about, google "Lago in racy photos with bronze medal." You'll find it. We'll wait. Aaaand...there you go. And are we really going to shame the Canadian women's hockey team for celebrating on the ice post-medal ceremony with champagne, beers and cigars? Is it really that big of a deal, or is this an image thing? Because I gotta say, I doubt many people are surprised that female hockey players drink brewskys and toke the occassional cigar. Johnny? That would be surprising. Hockey chicks? Not surprising.

If you want to talk controversy, let's discuss the legitimacy of curling as an Olympic sport. I know, I'm just an ignorant American who doesn't understand the European history of curling. That may be true. But in my humble (ignorant) opinion, if curling is worthy of the games, shuffleboard, darts and marbles cannot be far behind. It's pretty much the same game. Get your piece in the middle of the pie. BULLSEYE! Kudos to Team Norway as their pants took the gold on the Project Runway podium.

In closing, let me say this: the heart of an athlete is an incredible thing. Whether it's Rochette's motivation to get on that ice, or Lago's decision to insinuate lewd acts with his bronze medal, we, as the insatiable audience watch in awe. It is the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat at it's finest. We swell up with patriotism as Americans take the podium and our anthem is played; we savor our humanity as we root for the underdogs from foreign lands we'll never visit. The Winter Games 2010 are over, but will live on in our hearts. And as training begins for Sochi, 2014, let us all bow our heads and pray for God's blessings on the Jamaican bobsledding team, that they may qualify for 2014, and that Cool Runnings 2 become a reality.

Amen.

Snow Day.....again

5:30am
*Ring*Ring* I knew exactly who was on the other end of that phone call and what she was about to tell me. Cue the automated phone messaging system....

"Good morning, this is Sister J (principal). Due to current weather conditions, school will be canceled yada yada yada....."

I knew it. Just like I knew it yesterday morning when the phone rang at 5:30am. Only that call started with, "Due to the impending weather conditions....." Conditions I might add, that never materialized until around 11:45 that night. Now I ask you, if we are going to put so much faith in our meteorologists with their radars and dopplers and all that other high-falutin' equipment, then how about giving us a call the night before impending weather? Say, around 7:30ish? In between dinner and primetime television viewing? It just seems to make more sense than waking me up at 5:30am to tell me I don't have to wake up. Thanks for nothing.

I hear your arguments. Finding out the night before an official snow day does trigger the Chillax Button. It often means a free pass at bedtime for the kiddos as anticipation builds for the neighborhood sled-off at Huckleberry Hill. Well, let's see. We could just not tell the children about the call. Send them to bed at the normal time, pour your glass of wine and sit in front of facebook until midnight, per us(ual). Please, don't try to deny it. I see you in my little "chat" window. You can't hide from me. (Actually, you can....click on options....)

IF, by chance, your children are old enough and wise enough to be watchin', waitin', and anticipatin' said 7:30pm call, here is how to proceed: warn them that their actions may have dire consequences. That if they stay up too late and the wicked weather never shows, they WILL have to get up and go to school no matter how tired they are. This is not the recommended course, but at least you can take comfort in knowing that if it does happen, you can send Mr./Miss Crabby Tired Pants off to school and they will no longer be your problem. Hey, you warned them.

One more suggestion, since you're still reading.....how about the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation grow a pair, snowplow before sun-up, and provide safe roads for my kids to travel to school and learn something today. Okay, maybe that's not entirely fair. It seems today's Nor'easter is hellbent on delivering more snow and horrendous winds (it looks like a frantically-shaken snowglobe out there). Forgive me. I guess I'm still a little bitter about yesterday's false alarm.

So, thanks to the meteorologists, Mother Nature and Sister J, I'm already on my second cup of coffee and it's only 7am. If I'm over-productive in a caffeine-induced way today (i.e. alphabetizing my pantry or downloading my 300+ digital photos to snapfish, complete with titled albums and captions for each photo), I hold them each equally responsible.

Time to Share the Story About How My Male Dog Acquired a Va-Jay-Jay

My dog has had a rough month. Short story long.....

I've briefly introduced you to the family pet - Rox. A 6-pound Poo-Chi. 50% Toy Poodle, 50% Chihuahua (which took me, like, 3 years to learn how to spell), 100% pain in my arse (," she said, lovingly.") I know, I know. All you "Pet Owners of the Year" are wondering how much trouble can a six-pound, non-shedding dog be? Well, he's no Marley, I'll give you that. But he has chewed his way through many shoes, toys, and loose rug strings. Those, however, are common dog issues that one would expect. What I wasn't ready for was his homosapien tendencies at manipulation. The dog is smarter than my 9-year old in this department. Rox has been known to bark at the door until we let him out, hide behind a bush pretending to urinate, and wait to come back in until we offer him a snack. In fact, he'll even run and bark at imaginary creatures, just to force our hand with the running-from-the-kitchen-spatula-a'wavin'-in-a-panic-that-he's-terrorizing-a-neighbor-"ROX, COME GET A SNAAAACK!!" He thinks he's so clever. Well, it was all fun and games, until one day....

Poor Roxy was sick. Just wasn't himself. Stopped eating and drinking. Strained terribly while trying to do his business. A neighbor saw him and said, "Oh boy, I hope nothing's blocking the way, there. That could cost ya." What the - ?? Blockage? What could he have possibly eaten that could be stuck in there? He's over the whole chewing things that aren't food. I called the vet and gave them the lowdown. They wanted to see him stat.

Initial examination revealed nothing. No blockage according to that handy-dandy thermometer the vet whipped out of nowhere. Thankfully, that six seconds was more uncomfortable for me than Rox. On to the x-ray machine. They swept up Rox and left me sitting there, wallowing in my mommy-guilt. I wasn't sure how, but I was quite certain his suffering was my fault. Ten minutes later, the vet comes back with the answer. "Right problem, wrong end," she said triumphantly. Then she held up an x-ray and pointed to a few circlish dots. "Kidney stones."

Seriously? My dog has kidney stones? Weeell, of course he does. I KNEW it was my fault! I shouldn't have tried to buy his love by allowing him his weight in snacks every day. I should have taken him on walks instead of letting him sleep all day in my big comfy bed because he matched the throw pillows. I should have purchased the Wii Fit for Small Dogs that he had on his Christmas wish list. Bad mommy!

And so, Operation Kidney Stone Removal was in full swing. I leave the dog, Doc performs surgery later that day, dog stays the night and probably comes home the next day.

LATER THAT SAME DAY
*Ring* Ring* Operation Kidney Stone Removal has hit a snafu.

"Wow, she was a mess in there," said the vet referring to my male dog. Happens all the time. Everyone expects the cute little poodlesque pooch to be a girl. Especially with a name like, Rox, which we often affectionately lengthen to Roxy.

"What do you mean, is everything okay with HIM?" Doc proceeded to tell me how there was a lot of damage in the urethra and they wanted to watch "her" a couple of days to make sure everything's okay. Again, I'm not often offended when people call Rox a "she," but this lady just operated on his penis. Poor Roxy. Could he be any more emasculated?

Yes. Yes, he could....

DAY TWO
*Ring*Ring* Just as Operation Desert Storm has become Operation New Dawn, Operation Kidney Stone Removal has become Operation New Pee-Pee Hole. That's right. That's what the vet told me (kinda). "I had to give him a new hole because there was too much damage in the urethra."

"I'm sorry, wha?!?"

"We're going to hold onto him (after hanging out down there another day, I guess she got used to calling my dog a "he") another day or two and make sure everything comes out okay." No pun intended, I'm sure.

My poor little doggy. The "day or two" ended up being four more days. It was truly touch and go there for awhile. He wouldn't eat or drink. I think the "new hole" was confusing him. So much change in one short week, and no counseling, hormone injections, or even so much as a 'Getting to Know the New You' pamphlet to read. He was taking it hard. When he did finally come home, we had to watch his every move. He had to wear the Elizabethean cone, which really pissed him off, but he was stitched up in two sensitive areas - make that three. One of the vet personnel tried to give Rox a quick "bangs cut" (he had missed his grooming appointment during the whole ordeal) and accidentally knicked him with the scissors. Pathetic, right? Keep reading.

When he finally did come home, he was a miserable mess. I resorted to letting him lick ice cubes out of my hand because he couldn't seem to get his cone-head into his water bowl. I also had to hand-feed him a few morsels of his new special diet food by hand, but with every bite, he hacked, gagged, and threw up a mucousy mess. And, of course, there was the ointment which needed to be applied to the wounds twice daily. We were both a little bitter about that one.

After a couple of days of barely eating, I phoned the vet with the latest. "The antibiotic is probably making him sick." So they prescribed an anti-nausea pill. Super. Now I have to hide pills in his food for him to eat, which he's going to throw up and I have to clean up. "Got any prescriptions for me back behind that little desk of yours, Lady? Just kidding! No I wasn't. Thank you so much. I'm sure this is going to work great." Because everything's been foolproof thus far. The pills did stay down. But don't alert the choir of angels just yet. Five minutes after taking said pills, my dog would bark and cry incessantly, follow me around so closely that he would bump into my calf every three seconds, and shake uncontrollably. It was like a "This is your dog on crack" commercial. The schizophrenia lasted about 20 minutes. He totally scared the children. I decided the pills would have to be administered 5 minutes prior to us leaving the house everyday. Sound cruel? It was for our sanity and his own safety. Oh, did I forget to mention that at this point, he's still throwing up his food?

By now, I'm picking out the casket. I'm writing the eulogy. I'm trying to decide the best way to console the kids. Perhaps an aqua frog for each of them. Lord knows, there will NOT be another dog. Hell froze over once. It's ain't happening again.

A week and a half later (nearly three weeks after the first surgery), Rox trotted down the stairs and headed straight to his special diet food bowl. He had his fill, lapped up a big drink, and turned to me with a smirky smile. Swear. My dog smiled at me. Such relief I felt! I hadn't killed my dog. I am a responsible dog owner! PETA isn't going to put a hit out on me!

A week later, I finally take Rox to his much overdue grooming appointment. I apologize for his shagginess, and hold him "crucified Jesus" style as I point out his delicate areas. "Oh, I see. He has a vagina," says the groomer.

"SSSSHHHHHH," I cover Rox's little ears. "We're calling it a new pee-pee hole." My poor dog. His penis has been rendered completely useless. He shoots blanks and pees from a fabricated va-jay-jay. How will I ever make it up to him?

"Give him a mohawk...and I'll take that spiked collar in the window," I tell the groomer.

Freakin' dog.