Clothes Hound

A line was crossed today. I had a reason, but... no excuse. Thinking about it, now, tonight, when the world has stopped its spin, the shame is almost more than I can beer bear.

I used to mock people that did this, looked down on the sissies with nothing better to do. Did they realize how ridiculous they looked? Snicker. Again, snicker.

And now I've sunk to their level.

Yes, I bought clothing for a dog. Jake the alleged Scotty had become overly shaggy, so he had to be shaved. They left his head and tail fluffy so the poor guy ended up looking like a furry black Q-tip.What's worse than shaving a dog? Dressing him in 'bling' clothes after he's hairless and void of pride. Somehow I thought a black muscle-shirt with a rhinestone skull & crossbones on it would help his image...sigh. I just wanted to keep him warm, not get him hot under the collar.

Jake is the only dog I've ever met who will, when giggled at, attack. We take great pains not to laugh at Jake, ever, because he gets quite embarrassed and upset, which in itself is funny, which makes our giggling worse, to the point that he wants to rip our ankles off. Or make us walk the plank. Sorry, Jake, but you ARE funny. Arrrgh!

Clothes Call

Today I came out of the closet with my cordless drill. I had no choice. One of the shelves had collapsed and had to be fixed. Seems it couldn't hold its own against my bountiful wardrobe. This wasn't the first shelf to collapse, but it's the first I've told anyone about. I've quietly become a veritable pro handygal with a studfinder, titanium drill bit, and some rebar.

A few years ago I ran out of room in my closet, but I solved it by getting rid of my husband. That gave me a bit more space, especially once I was able to dump the body. Relax, I'm joking. I don't litter, I recycle, and I must say, the daisies have never bloomed better.

I happen to like clothes. And they like me. It's not my fault that everything I try on looks fabulous. It's a curse I've learned to live with.

Admitting there's a problem is supposed to help you solve it. I signed up for a clothes-aholics anonymous meeting, but I couldn't go- I didn't have a thing to wear. Thanks a whole bunch, stupid self-help class.

This particular shelf was for my pajamas. My mother, bless her heart, still buys me pajamas. TMI? Then stop reading. Couldn't stop, could you? Now you know how I am with clothes. So you see this is my mom's fault of course. Do I need saucy yellow pajamas with monkeys and palm trees on them? Or a bright red bunny suit? Of course I do. Because I never know when my mother might fly in and want to see how my pajama collection is doing. So I keep them and keep them...and stack them...on a shelf....that fell. If I get rid of these pajamas, she will buy more of them for me. Trust me on this, she will.

The rest of the closet is overstuffed because I've been shopping my tail off to self-medicate my mental maternal angst. So that, too, is my mother's fault.

(This is the part in the story where all the guys roll their eyes and mutter something about women having too many clothes.)

I'll tell you what, pal, I know I have a lot of clothes, but I've recently come up with a terrific solution. Jewelry doesn't take up as much space and you can spend way more on it. Keep up the eyerolling and I'll make sure your ladyfriend picks up this new habit AND your credit card. But first I've got to figure out what type of rebar to use in my jewelry box.

If I Could Turn Back Time

If I could find a way. Daylight Saving comes early this year. I guess Father Time saw his shadow or something. Actually, the Bush Administration saw its shadow, but that's another story. If you could get your hour back, what would you do?

Why must the hour lost be in the middle of the night? Why can't it be, for instance, at work? A little 'thank-you' to the worker bees. Keep the 'fall back' hour at night, everyone needs their beauty sleep, of course. But boost morale a little and 'spring' the clocks ahead at work, perhaps during a particularly boring meeting. It would mean so much more than the Annual Employee Appreciation Potluck.

My kids can't wait to mess with the clocks. It's like time travel. Next they're gonna want to adjust the temperature in the backyard, or make it snow.

With all this hub-bub over moving Daylight Saving around, it's starting to be a pain in the coccyx. It needs a public relations makeover. I recommend a sponsor with a catchy phrase:

• Viagra - "Spring ahead for MORE than an hour!"
• the tv show "24" - "Bleep, bloop, bleep, bloop...bloooop, bloooop!"
• A0L Online- "Extra hour FREE added to our 'Get 2,038,000,000 hours Free per Month.'"

I'd like to be able to donate the hour I lose to a good cause, such as the George W. Bush Library. After all, he's a slow reader.

Getting Stoned

There is a dangerous new fashion trend out there, more embarassing than leg warmers, and possibly more painful than carpal tunnel. It's the increased sitings of large, unwieldy rocks worn as jewelry.

The pebbly growth crawling across Beyonce's gorgeous dress on Oscar night is one of many examples of stone-cold style. "Alien" meets Balenciaga. I kept expecting maggots to hatch out of those eggs.

That same night Meryl Streep was wearing a necklace the size of a hubcap. She may have been beaming back a simulcast to her home planet, but at least it took attention away from her hairstyle, or lack thereof. I've seen nicer coifs in Fontana on conjugal visit day. She should have done us all a favor and picked up a $3 do-rag at the 7-11.

And since you asked, I can't tell you how many times I've donned my Dior ballgown, Harry Winston diamonds, and forgotten to wash my hair. Cameron Diaz, if anyone should know about hair gel, it's you. And no, Origami is not the name of a new dress designer.

Anyway, back to the rocks. Fashionista that I am, I had to try out the 'ball and chain' style and wear some serious weights around my neck. Wow, what a workout. It was empowering in the same way that pain proves character.

My fashion statement? I am such a slave to style that I will wear enormous gawkish blobs about my neck and pretend to enjoy it. I'm so outlandish and unbalanced, I might even consider someday voting Republican. Nah.

new improved improv

For your reading pleasure, I can now post live from my wondrous new first-ever laptop. Isn't it neato? It's the cat's pajamas, featuring the latest from that rich guy in the Pacific Nerdwest. My last computer was an ancient boat anchor once used by Moses to record the 11 commandments. Yes, there were originally 11, but that durned pc somehow deleted the one about not wearing your religion on your bumper.

A brief description of my new toy-

• it is white
• it is shiny
• it is from a company whose name rhymes with "pony"

I picked it out all by myself at House of Nerds, resisting the best efforts of its Geek Staff to add chunks of expensive gunk such as spellcheck and a calculator. The only thing I added was "Turd Polisher for Dummies," an auto-humor program that converts lame jokes into hilarious metaphors and analogies.

Since I'm now operating on major candlepower, you can expect some seriously funny stuff from me. After all, I am finally officially out of excuses. No more 'dog ate my homework' or 'I need to put all the paperclips away properly' or 'gee, that window needs cleaning'....there IS a rather dirty window over here, though.

I'll be right back.

Bears and Colts and "D'oh!s" and "Don'ts!"

Will Lovie's Lambs Beat Indy?
Guess what? I don't care who wins. Really. I'm just a spectator at a spectacular spectacle - a Super Bowl party. Food as far as the eye can see. Large, loud guys with numbers on their backs - why am I reminded of a stockyard? Why can I not see the television set?

Just let me see the commercials. Who shines, who whines. There are a few other viewers who feel this way, and we band together like nervous gazelles around a pond. When a commercial comes on, my herd skitters from the buffet to the screen, being careful not to be trampled by the wild beasts hulking the other way. Thirsty, they're stampeding toward the watering hole, stabbing at the buffet we've just left. Fortunately, they're carnivores, so they ignore the vegetable plate at which we've been grazing.

When the game returns, we retreat to the shadowy corners of the room, where the wild things aren't, to resume discussions of whether the Geico Gecko is really the spurned love child of the Budweiser lizard.

If six months ago you told me that I would be sitting in a friend's home watching a game televised from Miami between teams from Chicago and Indianapolis, I wouldn't have believed you. To be honest, I don't know you that well anyway, so I probably wouldn't believe anything you said.

Who cares about the game - this is more a social event, tradition, raison-de-eat, etc. than it is a about le football. Don't fret and spill your beer, though - that's as far as I'm going to analyze this partay extraordinaire - the wildebeest are stampeding toward the bathroom, so I gotta run.