On bosoms, Chihuahuas, and free car washes

I was digging through my pocketbook for my “One FREE car wash!” card when I heard the kissing.

“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!”

It came from the woman ahead of me in line. I could only see her back, but she was tanned, curvy and blonde, wearing a white babydoll t-shirt and short-shorts. I immediately forgot the free car wash and considered instead 1) the freedom of sportswear a really good figure can give you, and 2) whether or not this gal was wearing any underwear.

Just then the blonde threw a Chihuahua onto her shoulder. For a quick moment I thought she was going to burp it, but she only kissed its neck several times.

Mwah! My baby!” she crooned as her dog quivered and trembled. “Don’t be nervous! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! It’s just an old car wash!”

The line moved forward, prompting me to start digging around for my card again. All kissing and lack of underwear aside, who wants to pay for a car wash when they have a perfectly good free pass in their pocketbook… somewhere?

Just then the blonde whipped around, stunning me with one absolutely perfect bosom, barely contained within an ultra-low scoop neck.

“Do you own dogs?” she asked.

I hoped I’d averted my eyes quickly enough. “Yes!”

“Aren’t they great?”

“Oh, yes!” I nodded emphatically. “They’re great!”

She grinned and turned to face the cashier. “Pump No. 3!”

The cashier’s eyes widened until they looked like the cup lids by the soda machine. A man in a suit who was looking over the road map display also seemed transfixed. Both watched as the blonde struggled to open her handbag while holding her dog.

“Darn!” she said. She put down her handbag, pulled open the neck of her t-shirt, and tucked in the trembling pooch. The Chihuahua gave a contented sigh, echoed faintly by the cashier and Mr. Suit.

“He was cold!” laughed the blonde, handing her money to the cashier.

“Aw-w-w,” the cashier said hopefully.

“He gets cold so easily!” the blonde told Mr. Suit.

“Poor little pup,” sympathized Mr. Suit. “A Chihuahua?”

She laughed. “Yes! He’s a Chihuahua! Aren’t you, baby! Mwah!

The cashier gave her a receipt, no doubt cursing his inability to make canine small talk. The blonde turned to Mr. Suit.

“Wanna pet him?”

The cashier and I froze. Mr. Suit’s mouth fell open, but he recovered quickly. Or at least, his hand did. It popped up, hovered briefly over the dog’s head, then moved in.

“Nice doggy,” he cooed, finally connecting with a pat on the pup’s head. “Nice, nice— doggy!” The Chihuahua made a little rattle, like the noise you hear if you hold the toaster lever down too long.

“Oh!” laughed the blonde. “He’s so protective! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! Aren’t you, baby?”

She waved good-bye and sailed out of the lobby, the dog still tucked into her bosom, a hairy figurehead secured to the prow of a well-built schooner.

Mr. Suit wandered dazedly out the other side of the lobby. The cashier jumped when I pushed my credit card into his open hand. He completed the transaction and chuckled as he asked me for my signature, and I chuckled as I signed it.

In fact, I kept on chuckling until I sat down to wait for my car and realized my free car wash card was still in my pocketbook. Somewhere.

Cats don’t need no stinkin’ garlic butter

Did I forget anything?

We don’t say “diet” around here, no, no, no.

The very word diet comes from an Old French word meaning “put the cookie down,” and therefore denotes deprivation and great sadness, not to mention multiple handfuls of Nestlé Toll House Morsels tossed back when nobody’s looking.

Nope. In our house we use the phrase, “eat clean,” which means, we eat better than you.

It means that after intense dietary research, after the expensive purchase of lots of “whole” and “unprocessed” and “organic” foods, and after the violent and heartless removal of my stash of Nestlé Toll House Morsels from deep within the freezer, I may now make fun of my neighbor’s block of Velveeta when she isn’t in hearing range.

Because I’m eating clean, I’ve also gotten religion. Where I once mistakenly attended the Our Lady of Low Fat, I have now seen the light and worship at the Holy Mysteries of the Low Carb, where we tsk tsk about those poor souls still attending the Gathering of Calorie Counters. They’re all going to swimsuit hell. They just don’t know it yet.

Didn’t need religion yesterday, though. Any desire to eat instantly evaporated when I moved my kitchen trash container to sweep and found… this… creature:

Picture of the kiwa Hirsuta, which is very kiwa, and very hirsuta, if I may say so'
Allow me to introduce the Kiwa Hirsuta, which after intense scientific study has been found to be not only very kiwa, but also extremely hirsuta.

Okay, so that’s the wrong creature. My creature was a land lizard of some sort, minus various body parts, whereas this is a sea crustacean of some sort, presumably found intact. But I’m certain the scientists who discovered this character also lost their appetites when they realized what garlic butter would do to all that blonde hair.

By the way, “kiwa hirsuta” means hairy garlic butter, in case you were wondering.

Nope, the lizard creature I found had crawled under my kitchen trash to hide from one of the cats, but sadly gave up and croaked after he realized the Lizard Swat Team also got eaten and at that moment was being regurgitated all over our living room couch.

Yes, “eating clean” in this house is much easier than you’d think it might be.

Little Lego Jesus says, “Back off, dog!”

When Squirt was three, he ate all the homemade sugar-and-egg-white ornaments on the Christmas tree—or rather, all the ornaments he could reach. The ornaments were older than he was and kind of dusty, but he didn’t care.

Not to be outdone, our standard poodle, Casey Dog, ate all the plastic red apple ornaments he could reach—only he threw them up on the carpet later. I’d say Squirt won that little bout of ornament eating.

Turns out Casey Dog had a thing for little red plastic apples, because the moment he had an opportunity he ate all the little red plastic apples he could reach on my brother-in-law’s Christmas tree. Thank goodness my brother-in-law had wood flooring.

Then there was the year Casey Dog took the baby Jesus out of the manger in our nativity set and ate him, too. He could’ve eaten a camel, or a sheep, or even one of the Wise Men, but no, he had to eat the Main Event.

Picture of the Lego Jesus
Little Lego Jesus, asleep on the hay. Sort of. He’s standing up because he’s got to stay alert and fight off household pets.

I told him, “You may be going to hell because you ate the baby Jesus.” But he didn’t care, just sat there and licked his chops, like he was remembering how extremely tasty Jesus was and how easy He went down.

Now we use a little Lego man for our Jesus in the nativity set. Sure, we laugh about it, mainly because you know, these things happen sometimes.

Besides, Squirt finally came to understand the inherent wrongness in eating old sugar-and-egg-white ornaments, and we’re clean out of little red plastic apples that might tempt our Casey Dog.

Then Squirt said something today that brought my Christmas complacency to a crash:

Squirt: What are we going to do when we finish wrapping our presents?

Bonnie: Put them under the tree, of course.

Squirt: Mom.

Bonnie: Squirt.

Squirt: Mojo, Mom.

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Sparrow met his Waterloo in “Domino Day” prep

The Dutch are possibly the most tolerant people in the world when it comes to drugs, prostitution, same-sex marriage and euthanasia. But mess with their dominoes, baby, and you are history.

A sparrow knocked over 23,000 dominoes in the Netherlands, nearly ruining a world record attempt before the bird was shot to death yesterday, the state news agency reported.

The unfortunate bird flew through an open window at an exposition center in the northern city of Leeuwarden where employees of television company Endemol NV have worked for weeks setting up more than 4 million dominoes in an attempt to break the official Guinness World Record for falling dominoes Friday night.

Only a system of 750 gaps in the chain prevented the bird from knocking most or all of the dominoes over ahead of schedule, “Domino Day” organizers were quoted as saying by the NOS news agency.

The bird was shot by an exterminator with an air rifle after it was cornered.

Hapless sparrow unspared after domino debacle,” San Diego Union Tribune, Nov. 15, 2005.

International condemnation fell swiftly on the domino stackers.

Germany: “Death by Domino… It is best not to get between the organizers of “Domino Day 2005″ and their precious tiles. The price? Death, as one sparrow found out.”

Associated Press: “The bird was shot by an exterminator with an air rifle while cowering in a corner.”


United Kingdom: “Sparrow executed for disturbing dominoes

None were as harsh as the Dutch themselves. No less than 7 organizations have protested the shooting because the sparrow is on the endangered species list. The man who shot the sparrow even received a death threat.

“Is it really necessary to kill a bird that knocked over a few dominoes for a game?” asked a member of one of the Dutch animal protection agencies. “I think they were awfully fast to pull out a rifle. If a person started knocking over a few dominoes they wouldn’t shoot him would they?”

They might have. Apparently everybody involved in Domino Day 2005 was on edge after a local radio station disc jockey offered 3,000 Euros to anyone who could knock down the dominoes before their scheduled toppling on Sunday. Extra security had been hired to protect the dominoes against any radio station fans.

Meanwhile, newspaper headline writers had a good time with this one:

Los Angeles Daily News:Bird knocks over dominoes, meets tragic end for gaffe

Detroit Free Press:Bye, bye, birdie

Scotland’s Daily Record:THE DOMINO EFF-PECKED

I think my favorite commentary came from the international football (soccer) site, Goal.com:

A poor sparrow was shot to death in Leeuwarden, Netherlands, while cowering in a corner, after it flew through an open window and knocked over 23,000 dominoes that were going to be part of a world-record attempt of over 4.3 million dominoes. So what did they do to the Dutch soccer team after they got waxed at home by Italy on Saturday?

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It’s hunting season in the Wren Lodge

You might call Hubby an amateur hunter. He’s a good one, too — when he fixes his sights on a target, that target better just say its prayers.

Hubby: Say your prayers! (thwack!)

Hubby’s determination and persistence never let him down, either. He follows a trail with the patience of a man who knows what he wants and always gets his way.

Hubby: There you are… you little… (thwack!) HA!

Some hunters are satisfied with the ubiquitous deer head trophies mounted on their walls. Not Hubby.

Bonnie: Oh, yuck! Why is THIS on the wall?

Hubby: That was the biggest dang skeeter I’ve ever seen! Look at that sucker! It took a chunk out of me, too… but I got it! HA! (to the smashed mosquito wall-hanging) You thought you were great stuff, hunh? Now look at you! Laid low… by the KING!

What, you thought I was talking about big game, like moose or deer or even bear? Believe me: no venison hunter was ever as proud of his trophies as Hubby is of his.

Bonnie: Scrape it off!

Hubby: Not on your life. It’s a warning to those other skeeters out there. (to all the other skeeters) Hey! YOU! You want a piece of ME? YOU WANT… A PIECE… OF ME?

When real geeks attack

HUBBY: No way!

CO-WORKER: It’s true! Pit bulls can weigh up to 200 lbs!

HUBBY: I don’t believe it. Show me the specs!


(He turns to his Google Search box and starts typing)

P – I – T – B – U – L – L     S – P – E – C – S

HUBBY: Geek alert! GEEK ALERT!

By the way: can you find the real pit bull? Not many people can on the first try, which is why stuff like this is useless because it’s impossible to enforce correctly.

And here are some real pit bull specs.

My only comfort in a cold, cold world

My only comfortHubby’s on a business trip. The cat knocked over the kitchen trash and spread coffee grounds everywhere. I forgot an important appointment. The car broke down.

Frustrating, but nothing worth breaking my diet for—until the vet showed me an x-ray.

There it was: the biggest damn tumor in the entire world, chowing down on my dog’s spleen—possibly already at work on his liver and heart. We won’t know for sure until we do the ultrasound.

Thank you, God, for Ben & Jerry’s.

Casey Dog liked it even though I thought it was just okay. He’s not picky about ice cream, but normally I only go for Baskin & Robbins Mint Chocolate Chip. We usually don’t get any ice cream because it’s unhealthy for both of us, but to heck with that. From now on, he can have all the ice cream he wants.

He’s almost 13—way up there for a large Standard Poodle, but this is still a shock. I guess we’ll figure out what to do after tomorrow’s ultrasound, but I’ve already decided against chemo or radiation, because he is old and it’ll make him feel worse and it doesn’t guarantee much extra time.

You’ve got to do what’s right for your pets, not what’s right for you. Take care of them, love them up a lot, and alleviate their suffering as much as possible.

For the moment, Ben & Jerry’s will have to do.

What My Hubby Wants…

A long time ago Hubby wanted an English Bulldog, a desire I sincerely felt was about as kooky as wanting to spend a couple of nights dangling off Mt. Everest. I mean, sure, it’s something we CAN do, but why would we WANT to?

Not only are bulldogs funky-looking, but they are famous for being difficult to train and having serious health problems that cost their owners beaucoup bucks.

So Hubby and I compromised. I got to pick our first dog because our boys were still young and he felt I would know better what would work best with our family at that time.

And then later—in the far, far away future—he’d get to pick the next dog, when our boys were older and could help out and it really didn’t matter if I had to work a bit harder with our dog.

Casey DogSo in 1993 I picked a Standard Poodle. What wonderful dog he turned out to be! Clean, non-shedding, friendly and ultra-patient with kids. Training was a breeze—he was house-broken almost immediately and was the star pupil in all his obedience classes. He doesn’t yap, he loves to go camping, and everyone adores him.

But now Casey Dog is getting old. At age 12 he’s still pretty spry for a Standard, but he’s going deaf and he sleeps a lot. And now Hubby is reminding me of my promise.

And Hubby wants a bulldog.

He doesn’t care about the cost of a bulldog. He doesn’t care how we’ll spend a fortune on veterinary bills. He doesn’t care about how we’ll probably lose all of our furniture legs to little bulldog teething patterns.


My strongest and best argument was how a Bulldog puppy would be murder on our carpets, because bulldogs take forever to house-break. So Hubby agreed to replace our elderly carpet with a laminate floor. After we installed the floor last summer I was plum out of arguments.

So now we’re getting a bulldog.