Sale!

The other day I got a text message on my cell phone. This is unusual because I don't text message - a cell phone call is more than enough of an intrusion. Why I'd want little letters chattering at me nonstop all day is beyond sanity.

The text message was from not even from a human-type person, but instead from one of my favorite places to overheat a credit card. "Your boots are 30% off!" the message purred, "And there's only one pair left!!!" A double-edged crisis indeed. On the one hand, this was a bit of an intrusion on my privacy. On the other hand, dang, it was a shoe sale, for Jimmy Choo's sake.

Several months ago I had tried on a pair of sharp-looking boots and a crafty salesperson had made note of it, hoping to eventually snare me via text messaging. It worked. I had to rescue my boots before someone else snapped them up. After all, the message said they were mine. If only I could remember what they looked like.

The shoe store was in the next town over. Who knows how many other boot-craving women had been contacted about this and were at this very moment en route to claim my boots. Mine. I had to find a way to beat them to it. Texting back seemed the fastest way. My crafty, super-techy idea impressed my own self - those silly girls who thought they could zip to the mall and win would soon know they were competing with a champion shopper, one who knew every sale, every coupon, and holstered a bottomless credit card. And so I replied, making personal history by sending my first ever text message.

"Yes," I tapped, "Size 8 1/2." send.

"What?" came the reply. I looked at my text message. I had sent, "yeeers 88122!$@" Damn those fat fingers.

"Boots," I begged. "Now, please. Sale?"

"May I help you?" the stupid little box blinked at me.

"The ones I wanted," I tapped nervously. "Boots...me want." Texting a la Tarzan.

"Shall I reserve something for you?" inquired Snarky box.

"Yes... me....boooootz...." Even for me this was getting embarrassing.

"Please visit our store for more information!" chirped the text brightly. Pretty safe response to my gurgling nonsense. I had always disliked the Politically Correct trend, but this new Shiny Nice Customer Non-service had PC beat by a useless mile.

Looking on the bright side, at least I had attempted to text and gotten a response. That was a step in right direction. But if I were to continue my steps, I needed those boots. So I drove to the mall and got them. Apparently they had just gotten a new shipment in since they now had at least eleven pairs in my size. No matter, a crisis in footwear had been avoided. Chicken soup for the sole, as it were.

Dang if I weren't stylin'! After all, if you're gonna flaunt your techy-text ways, you'd best be lookin' good.

A Not-so-fine State of Affairs

From the LA Times today -
Los Angeles television newscaster Mirthala Salinas was suspended without pay for two months — but not dismissed — Thursday from KVEA-TV Channel 52 for covering Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa while they were romantically involved, a relationship that journalism experts said damaged the station's credibility.
...Villaraigosa, 54, did not comment on the merit of Telemundo's decision, saying only that he wanted to concentrate on his job in its aftermath.

Let's see - She gets suspended without pay. He says he's sorry and continues on. The tv station says its credibility was damaged. The government - nope, it's good, thanks for asking. Thank God for low standards.

I could really care less about these people's private affairs, because well, it's private. It takes two to tango and apparently they knew that dance. Whoopee. Alert the media.

Why is this even news? Oooh, scandalous, murmur, murmur, leer & snicker. Does it affect their jobs? If so, wouldn't it impact both? Fire both or hire both.

Thank goodness she probably makes only 66% of what a man would make in that job, since she's out of a paycheck, she's not losing as much. Lucky her.

When double standards are gone and people are judged by their actions, not their sex, somebody wake me. Until then I'm sleeping it off.

And until then don't forget - if you're drunk and disorderly with a cop:
"Jews rule the world" is a no-no.
"What you lookin' at, Sugartits?" is just fine.

Squirrel Terrorism Update

We have two more victims in the War on Squirrel Terrorism - while defending our backyard from the furry scourge, our schnocker (schnauzer/cocker/scottie/etc) tore his ACL. I did not realize dogs actually possess ACL's, but apparently they do. I always thought it was a labor union, but ACL is actually short for anterior cruciate ligament, one of the thingys that compose a knee. (I know, I know - dogs have knees? Who knew?)

Other things I didn't realize about canine ACL injuries:

1. They are not covered by my HMO



2. They are not covered by your HMO



3. They are expensive



4. It is difficult to find the right size crutches for a schnocker
   

This led to the second victim - my checkbook, which, after enduring x-rays, surgery, and doggy prescriptions, is now in critical condition. I'm guessing the squirrels own stock in the veterinary industry. This is all part of their plan to rule the universe, and it seems to be working.

Today is day one of Jake's 12-week post-operative physical therapy program. My checkbook said 'no' to hiring a private trainer to oversee the recovery, so I'm suiting up. We start with 15 minutes of ice packs, then 15 minutes of Passive Range of Motion (PROM) exercises such as slow flexing. And that's just for the checking account. Ba-dum.

Jake must do bicycling exercises, which is tough because, being a dog, he's never been on a bike. So I have to move his booboo leg around in a circle to emulate movement on a bicycle. (I can use the word 'emulate' since the vet charged me for it.) Jake and I are both less than thrilled with this physical therapy program. It's just a matter of time before one of my kids takes our picture and we're featured on "World's Funniest Dog Therapy Programs."

Squirrels, beware - you have only 12 weeks before we're back chasing you again. 12 weeks of twice daily therapy, twice daily icing, perhaps a week at a sports medicine rehab center, some retail therapy for my dwindling mental state, and a line of credit on the house to finance it all, then we're coming after you. So you'd better be ready. Because after 12 dang weeks of moving a dog's leg in circles, I'm going to be ready for you.

Squirrels Gone Wild

I had some beautiful flowers, gladiolas, in my backyard. They were nearly 5 feet high until today. Daddy squirrel was 'watching' the youngsters, letting them climb up my flowers, then ride them as they crashed to the ground. While his furry offspring were running amok in my yard, Daddy was busy stuffing his cheeks with sunflower seeds from my birdfeeder. Birdfeeder, not squirrel feeder. And furboy could chow down something fierce, like Uncle Louie at a seafood buffet. I think they had the same orthodontist, too.

A couple of the evil juniors were ripping blooms off the plants, stuffing them in their little cheeks and spitting them at each other. Then they played 'king of the garden light,' wrestling for the ownership rights to the tops of my landscape lighting.

Then the littlest one peeked in the doggy door and stuck his tongue out at my dogs, who bolted and tried to go thru the doggy door at once. Instead they smacked heads. Little cartoon birdies circled their heads as the saucy ball of fur pranced away.

How do I know it's a daddy squirrel? Mama squirrel just showed up and read him the riot act. I don't speak squirrel fluently, but I'm pretty sure I know what she said.

"I leave you alone with the kids for an hour and you let them tear the place apart? Look at this mess - you'd think a gopher family lived here. It's a pigsty! I am telling you, Ernie, I am NOT moving again! Just because you can't keep our children under control for a few minutes. Really, sometimes, you just drive me nuts!"

Songs of Suburbia - Ice Scream

We reside in a lovely little town just a stone's gentle toss from Big Town. We have lovely cookie cutter homes, birds singing in the trees, lovely landscaping - a veritable set from Desperate Housewives. Even the postal person isn't really postal.

So why is it that at the same time every day down these lovely streets rumbles a lurching, hulking, lumbering, grey mass of rusted metal? Playing a tune that sounds like, as my son calls it, the 'song of a deranged clown.' In Eee-minor.

A remarkably iconic symbol of suburban youth now resembles the creepy, convoluted villain from a Steven King novel. "The Ice Cream Man Cometh" should be a joyful moment, not a lurking Willy Loser-man.

When did the Good Humor man go so bad? Is it now cool to buy popsicles from someone who looks like they haven't been near soap since the Carter Administration? Not that the old-school guy was perfect. Today, a guy who wears shiny white shoes, hangs out with children and smiles excessively usually ends up on parole and living in a cheap hotel. But at least there was some semblance of clean.

Perhaps part of the allure is the semblance of risk, of daring to ingest something off the poster vehicle for Hepatitis A. Look, ma, no handsoap. All the old fashioned scary stuff- running with scissors, playing in traffic, etc. is passe. Time to up the ante on the antibiotics.

Yeesh.

Kids Today

As we were driving back from the store the other day the boys were arguing over a stuffed animal we had just bought. "Walter", from the eloquent book "Walter, the Farting Dog," was turning into an immediate favorite, possibly because when squeezed he'd emulate the sound of passing gas. The younger brother was putting Walter through his standard musical tooting routine.

"Look, Mom," he said as Walter obediently ripped another one, "Sound is the fourth dimension."

"It is not!" his older brother argued. "Everyone knows the fourth dimension is time. Duh!"

"It doesn't have to be!" my youngest countered. "Sound can be fourth. Time can be fifth."

"That's ridiculous - how can sound come before time?" Einstein was giving Walter indigestion, and I was having trouble merging onto the freeway while following the laws of physics as argued by an 8 and 10-year-old.

My youngest settled the argument by declaring that sound was the "fArth" dimension. Walter whistled his agreement, and the older brother thought that was amusing enough to end the dispute peacefully.

The next day they nearly came to blows. The younger one was reciting Pi, and the older one argued that he should 'round off' Pi when he was done.

"You're never done with Pi," said the younger brother. "It goes on forever."

"You stopped at 3.1415," argued the older one. "The next number is 9, so you should have said 3.1416."

"I didn't stop - you interrupted me."

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

...sigh.....