Wednesday, June 17, 2009

I'd like to thank the academy.

Holy catfish you guys. Look what I got yesterday.

This is the first time my writing has been recognized since that time Highlights Magazine printed my stirring poem "A Dandelion" back when I really truly was a little girl with big glasses. But I was published, baby. And every kid who went to the dentist in April 1973 knew about it.

This award, however, comes from the very talented and entertaining Heather over at Heatherty Featherty. Heather has not only said very nice things about me, I am pretty sure she actually believes them. I know, right? Heather has two cute little boys but in a crazy twist of fate, makes totally adorable girl clothes. And, she has perfect grammar. But probably the most amazing thing about her is that she is THE ONLY COOL HEATHER I've ever met. So I think that possibly her name is a big mistake or somehow she was switched at the hospital with an evil baby who is now wreaking havoc everywhere being named something perfectly innocent like "Susie" or "Nancy" or, I don't know, "Penny."

Just like Miss America, this award does not come without responsibility. I have been charged with granting it to others who strive daily to change the world for the better, one little blog post at a time. Therefore, I don my tiara and hereby sprinkle pixie dust and virtual awards on the following blogs that amuse me:

Funny in the 'Hood - Geezopizza, I am pretty sure Tracey and I were either separated at birth or lived parallel lives in the 80s. She is high-larious and has some wacky neighbors that make you want to drive to Iowa just so's you can slap 'em. Her "Friday Flashback" is always awesome, and I'm thinking of stealing the concept, so when you see me do it, pretend like I made it up, k?

Yellow Trash Diaries - This woman certainly doesn't need me to help boost her ratings. She's a funny writer and last week had a contest with Libby for followers, and is now the hottest thing on the Internet. Well, the hottest adopted Korean blogger who lives in the South anyway, and I think that is saying A LOT. She's honest and funny and funny and honest. I'm not quite through reading every word she's ever typed, but almost. I think if she lived next door, we'd have a bunch of fun ridiculing others together.

So - you guys, pass it on if you can. Thanks for entertaining me when I should be writing genius copy and reconciling advertising invoices. And thanks, Heather, for deep down being a Susie. I'll try not to get a big head. I wouldn't want to outgrow the tiara.

Dogs don't even LIKE mimosas.

So, apparently having a twelve-year-old is so traumatizing you can't write a blog post for at least two weeks. Or, maybe it was seeing this that sent me screaming into a closet scared of the planet Earth and all humanoid creatures who inhabit it:I know what you're thinking. "A cute widdle pink bike trailer?" Let me clarify. This is not a trailer for putting your darling daughters with Shirley Temple curls in and pulling them down a flower-lined pathway whilst they eat ice cream cones and think happy thoughts. I saw this trailer, being pulled by this bike...The woman driving said bike was wearing, of course, pink biking shorts, pink biking jersey and a pink helmet. Still not enough to cause the trauma I experienced. Stupid? Yes. Matchy? You bet. Ridicilous get-up for a woman pushing 60? Oh yeah. But the kicker, the thing that made me question EVERYTHING in life was what was in the trailer. Her grandchildren? Groceries? Nope. This. This was in her peptopink trailer:


On a leopard print doggie bed. With that exact skirty fruity haircut. Lest you think the poor little creature was disabled in someway, which crossed my mind after I shook off the creeps from seeing Grandma bend over in those shorts, he wasn't. He had a PINK leash which she attached on his PINK bandana and sashayed him down the sidewalk that she parked her 15-foot long contraption in the middle of.

Did I mention we were at a dog park? No? That is because we were NOT at a dog park. We were at a GOLF COURSE. Granted, it wasn't exactly the country club, just a city course, but really? You not only own all this crap to take your dog FOR A BIKE RIDE, you then take him to SUNDAY BRUNCH AT THE GOLF COURSE?

While Rizzo was certainly the most flamboyant, I will add that her and little Fluffy were not the first dogs to attend Sunday Brunch at the Golf Course...we had already been joined by a 150-pound drooling mastiff and a sprite Springer Spaniel who was so Well Behaved that his owner didn't even bother to leash him. At the golf course. At brunch. Good boy!

What. The. Hell. It's gone too far, people. Is it just laid-back Colorado where were take our dogs everywhere? You cannot walk through a Home Depot without having your crotch sniffed. The dudes have come home with dog poop on their shoes from inside the Bass Pro Shop. I've seen giggly twenty-somethings shopping for GROCERIES with a labrador puppy in their cart. And now we take them to brunch. At a golf course. In a pink fricking trailer, because everyone knows, dogs hate to walk. I totally blame PetSmart for giving people the idea that dogs should go shopping. Or maybe Paris Hilton. Yeah, let's blame Paris Hilton, too.

I understand that you love your pets, people. Stay home with them, then. Take them to a park or a lake. Take them on a hike in the mountains! They're just to the west a few minutes. Sure, not as many people will see all your Interesting Canine Gear and Matching Outfits, but I promise you'll have a nice time, and you can put pictures on your Facebook page so everyone will still know that YOU and YOU ALONE are clever enough to own a dog and put a bandana on it.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Look what I made.

On June 3, 1997, I lay in a hospital bed slurping orange popsicles, talking to my buddy Scott and Big Dude, my husband of exactly ten months. I had been given several large doses of something or other that would insure that before the day ended, I would have a baby boy. He was induced because my sister had just given birth to a toddler a few months prior, and I had whined to my doctor to not let me gestate another minute lest the creature inside outgrow me.

He was born exactly on his due date. Little did I know, he would continue to be that predictable and reliable for the next twelve years.

As most mothers, I could write for hours about this child, and I have elsewhere. Today though, I will just say that for all the dumb mistakes I've made in life, and all the silly things I have done...you, Calvin, are the best thing I have ever created or influenced. I give Daddy most of the credit, but you deserve the highest praise for consistently being an outstanding individual. You are a poet, an artist, an athlete, a friend. You are kind, thoughtful, genuine, creative, honest and funny as hell. Your big round head contains only the purest of thought, your heart is that of a lion. Today, at twelve years old, you are one inch shorter than me, and two pounds lighter. Your huge shoes dwarf mine - which really bugs me, because I was hoping to buy you a bunch of really cool boots while we wore the same size and I didn't because we were only the same size for about fifteen minutes.

I love that you're still scared of the dark. I love that you have the vocabulary of a college English professor, but you can't spell "when." I love that the day before the first day of middle school you spent the day playing in a big box like my little boy. I love that you'll learn Rick Springfield songs on your guitar just for me. I love that you are shaped like my Daddy so I get to be reminded of him everyday. I love that you cream kids on the football field, and then reach over and pick them up and make sure they're okay. I love that you are loved by so many people and that your best friend is 67 years old. I love that you don't need braces.

You are the best person I've ever met, and I hope someday to be just like you.

Love, Mom.

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