You know how dogs possess preternatural powers of sensitivity in all the old animal stories?? Like whenever Timmy’s sick, Lassie mopes? for days, fretting about him while laying plastered? by his bedside, until at long last his fever breaks and she’s instantly joyful again?? Well I’m hear to tell you, when it comes to Ridgebacks, it’s all a crock of crap.?

Unless, of course, Ridgebacks typically express their sensitivity by eating your favorite pair of shoes.? Because that’s what happened here.? There I was,? practically dying from some preschooler-induced illness consisting of the production of copious amounts of snot and feeling hotter than Brad Pitt in a loincloth? , and what does Skye do?? Why,? in her extreme empathy for her? nearly dead master, she mangles my fabulous kitten-heeled, goldish-bronze, go-out-and-party sandals beyond any hopes of recovery.

Or maybe I just jinxed myself by talking about how she’s the good one in the house.? I can hear Fergie snickering all the way from Colorado, while Grandmama Shani is giving her the paws up from the Bridge.

So tell me–how does she manage to look so innocent:

while performing deeds of such? vile depravity:

All I can say is, she’d better not think she’s crawling into my bed tonight with the reek of her? hideous dead shoe breath.? Sole killer.

So I know I’m supposed to tell the story of my husband nearly castrating his finger after smashing our glass coffee table while watching the kiddage, but I have like zero time.? After staying up until 4:00 am–4:00 AM–on Saturday night for my 20 year high school reunion, I am pretty much a zombie right now.? I figure at my age, I can expect to be fully recovered sometime late next week.? Which would be fine and dandy, except I have three articles due this week.

Since I have no time to write on subjects that don’t involve dating in random cities strewn throughout the United States, I’ll instead post some photos of Skye I found on my computer while searching for some specific baby photos of Finley, which of course I was an utter failure at locating.? ? Not to worry–no doubt I’ll? stumble across the baby pics? when searching for? photos of Fergie eating our vacuum cleaner? at a later date–that’s pretty much how stuff works around here.

At any rate, back on topic.? It’s official–there’s some major Fergie hound missing going on around here. I actually find myself following Skye around, hoping she’ll do a no-no, and my son has taken to asking, “When’s Fergie coming home?” on a regular basis.? Meaning about once every ten minutes.? Even hubby admits that he misses our naughty liver girl.

And since I couldn’t ever get Skye to perform any misdeeds in front of me (she’s more of a closet bad girl, that one), I had to instead settle for looking at these photos I found.? Still no misbehavior, but they are kind of cute.

So without further ado, here’s Skye performing her patented spin moves:

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Today started out much the same as any other day? except that my husband stayed home from work. Why?Because the two of us have? turned procrastination into an art form.

In a roundabout way, my husand? took a day off work due to our failure to? file? our ’07 taxes.? You may remember that we, or more correctly, I, birthed our? second child? at home.? Supportive as my husband was, I don’t recall him straining his nether regions for hours attempting to push our 9+ lb daughter’s head into the world.? Private parts aside, when you deliver your child at home, you must apply for a birth certificate through the? Office of Vital Statistics, presumably to make sure you and your child are actually legal residents of the state of California.?

Personally, I fail to see how this all works.? Us homebirthers have to cough up three proofs of address,? three notarized affadavits as proof of preganancy and residence, and a bunch of other completely nonsensical papers.? When I had my son at the hospital?? I’m pretty sure I just filled out? this two-minute? form and paid my hospital bills and they were all like, “Okay, here you go–your son’s all legal and stuff.”? ? Obviously, I need to send the midwives of our state some industrial strength backscratchers and? then? thrust? them forth into the governement offices, to perform a few backdoor deals of their own.

The? government? generously grants you a year to apply for the birth certificate before you have to appear in court and explain to the judge why you are so lazy and imcompetent that even with a twelve month allowance, you failed to drag your sorry ass? and that of your infant to the designated government? office.?

So yes, we pushed it a little close for comfort.? In fact, had we been participating in a drinking game in which every time our government worker tsked or commented on how LONG we waited to get our daughter’s birth certificate, pink elephants would have started appearing.? But really–we did have over a month to spare.? I guess the converse of that is we waited eleven months to get the certificate.? And truth be told, we weren’t really motivated by concern for our daughter’s legal status, but rather, by greed.? Not only is that second baby a big tax write-off, but we want us some of good old Georgie’s economic stimulus money as well.? I figure it will buy my Orange County commuting husband about one day’s worth of gas.

So most likely our tardiness in procuring the most important document our daughter will ever possess alone grants us the imcompetent parents of the year award.? And then there’s the part where later that same day, my husband? shatters our coffee table and manages to bleed all over my son and the rest of our house, right before people are? scheduled? to take a class in? our home, except they’re really not because I got the date wrong.? But that’s going to have to be part two—all that bleeding and tsking and goverment office smell makes me sleepy.

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Dear Meaningful Beauty:

I? regret? having to inform you that your beauty products suck.? After slathering on copious amounts of your face creams and washes for a month, I look nothing more like Cindy Crawford than I did? before I started.? In fact, I’m? reasonably certain? had I? poured? said products? on my buttocks, I would be just as close to resembling an aging yet suspiciously youthful-looking ex-supermodel.

I do, however, look exactly like someone who has drowned? her delicate facial skin in products most likely made from fish? urine and? whatever other? crap that Frenchman? on your infomercial? threw in while partying it up on? a tropical island locale.? In retrospect, I? should? be grateful my? skin is merely flaking off rather than being eaten alive by some random strain of flounder-pee? loving? bacteria.

Also, whatever gave you the impression? that after paying $29.95 for a one month supply, I would then? gladly? fork over? the bend-me-over-the-beauty-counter price of $109.95 for the second month’s supply?? Was it when I shouted “No!” when your phone salesperson asked if I would like to sign up for another month?? Or perhaps? when I screamed, “I ONLY WANT ONE MONTH AT $29.95 AND THAT’S ALL–DON’T SIGN ME UP FOR ANY MORE!” after listening to the same salesgirl? blather on in an attempt to peddle? all sorts of other meaningless Meaningful Beauty paraphernalia.? ? By the way, I fail to see how a Meaningful Beauty bumper sticker is going to bring me that much closer to? cloning Cindy’s pouty lips.? And perhaps if your products made me look? even one iota more like Cindy Crawford than? my dog? I would happily cough up the extra COMPLETELY UNAUTHORIZED charges:

Hey Cindy?? Don’t you make enough money on? your husband’s overpriced and under-poured Sky Bar drinks?? Must you pimp? yourself like some Flavor Flav? wannabe ho? while batting your doe-like eyes and robbing Lancome and L’oreal of their hard-earned market shares?? Why don’t you just do us all a favor and start selling? your plastic surgeon’s business cards?? Because I’d sooner believe your youthful, amazingly unwrinkled skin comes from ingesting the pus? off a boil-infested toad than from the daily use of Meaningful Beauty’s skin-kill products.

And tell me, what’s with the name?? Did you steal it straight from Engrish?? I mean, who? the heck wants? “Meaningful” Beauty, anyway?? In the future, I will happily stick with my Shallow and Vacuous beauty products, thank you very much, since they seem to actually work and don’t cost the same amount as a small home in Oklahoma.

In case of any lingering confusion, no, I do not wish to purchase another month’s supply of Meaningful Beauty.? And Cindy Crawford owes me $109.95.? The deceitful wench.

Warmest regards,

Debra

I wasn’t going to say anything. I really wasn’t. But the more I think about it, the more I’m just so completely dumbfounded by the absolute retardedness of it all that I can’t possibly keep quiet.

So Friday afternoon I get an email from my husband at work. Here’s the email:

That alone is beyond my comprehension. How does a grown man reach the ripe age of 37 without knowing a failproof way to tell if his shirt is on correctly?  But it gets better. Because then he shows up at home at 6:45 p.m. on Friday night AND HIS SHIRT IS STILL ON INSIDE OUT!

Me: “Hello there, King of the Dorks. Just out of curiosity–did it ever occur to you at any point throughout the day to put on your shirt correctly? Just for kicks?”

Hubby, eying me quizzically over a mouthful of pasta: “Huh? Shirt? Why?”

One of our more scintillating dinner conversations. But back to the point–it’s not like my husband works at—at—at a place where inside-out shirt wearers work, whatever planet that might be on. He works in a large, professional building, full of lots of professional-looking people. Minus one, of course.

And this isn’t the first time. I remember an occasion ten plus years ago, before we were married. My husband flies in for the weekend to visit. We’re hitting a “trendy” bar in Newport Beach, so en route from the airport we stop by the mall so he can pick up some appropriate clothing. Indeed we have to stop BECAUSE HE FORGET HIS LUGGAGE.? ? ? As in, all of it.? Who does that? The man literally shows up at the airport without a suitcase, without a duffel bag, without anything other than his wallet and the clothes on his back. Which were so not appopriate.

So he puts on his new clothes and then we’re in line at this bar in Newport? and my husband is smiling and chatting with the girls behind us. He then remarks to me, “Oh, the girls out here are so friendly!” Color me thrilled.

About an hour later we’re walking around inside and my best friend suddenly points at hubby’s back and starts laughing and I notice his shirt is on INSIDE OUT with the price tags dangling halfway down his back. And it hits me. The “friendly” girls he’d been talking to in line had giggled and said, “Is that the new style?”

Of course hubby just laughs it off as always, citing his “boyish and amusing”?defense. But now I’m wondering if there’s some kind of latent pathology here. And Stacy and Clinton, where the hell are you when you’re needed?

And just when you thought nothing could? get more random that synchronized diving, we decided to celebrate the Olympics at our house by starting a brand new sport:? co-ed naked trampoline bouncing.? Although I’m thinking certain anatomical challenges might make this sport less than attractive for the adult male population? of? our species.? Plus? there’s the FCC to consider.? It would be a terrible shame if the Olympics could only air on HBO.

Actually, this sport was recently created by my son and his friends and dubbed “The Naked Show.”? Which sort of leads me to a question.? At what age is in inappropriate for children to play naked together?? And if you answered “four” its probably a good thing you don’t live close by, because my child loves to run around sans clothing.? Come to think of it, so does my hubby.?

This is honestly something I struggle with because on the one hand, you don’t want to make a huge deal of completely natural preschooler curiosities, potentially scarring your child for life.? On the other, you don’t want to operate totally outside of the social norms, potentially scarring your child for life.? So how do you find the balance gracefully?? ? Obviously, there are social boundaries? governing this sort of thing.? Hence the reason why people don’t take a stroll through the neighborhood or go out to dinner with their special bits dangling out in the open.? Which is probably for the greater good.? Think of the extra sanitation that would have to occur involving park benches and restaurant chairs if everyone ran around naked all the time, not to mention the potential leap in the rate of crabs.? Although I’m sure your friendly neighborhood frat house would remain the easiest place to become acquainted with those.? Don’t ask about the crab races that go on there.? Seriously–don’t ask.

All joking aside, I’m actually quite angry now.? I’m angry because I had the cutest photo to go with this post, of Connor and two of his friends, jumping au naturale on the trampoline.? But then doubts started plaguing me.? What if people think I’m a horrible mother for putting a picture of my nude 4-yr-old and his friends up on the web?? What if somebody comes to arrest me for perpetuating child pornography or some other such nonsense?? Or, what if some crazy sick twisted creep found my site and completely sullied the innocence of my son’s joy?? Surely we live in a world where we? shouldn’t have to worry about such things? and yet here I am, with no photo.?

And I wonder if this is an issue everywhere or just in our country, with our seemingly open-minded sexuality actually masking something more prudish and repressed.? ? Because I think its fairly obvious there’s? some kind of weird issue with nakedness here.? ? I mean,? ponder the absurdity of this for a moment–you can see boobage galore in virtually any PG-13 movie known to man and yet a mom goes to breastfeed in public and people? literally freak.? ? Like suddenly, the mere? glimpse of a? naked bosom? might make them faint from the impropriety of it all.

And just to be a little more inconsistent, until recently the same full frontal nudity in women that would earn a movie an R rating or maybe even a PG-13? would get you an NR-17 if not worse when the man showed his parts.? What kind of sense does that make and more importantly, what kind of message does it send?? And what do? breastfeeding and movies? have to do with co-ed naked trampoline bouncing photos?? ? At this point I really have no idea.? My mind just works that way sometimes.

So taking a calming breath and getting back to my original topic–if? anyone knows where to find the? completely well-adjusted middle ground? between raising a flasher versus rearing a repressed neurotic body freak, please clue me in.? Because right now, I think we’re leaning towards flasher.

Addendum—my husband is genius-like person.? He’s single handedly managed to make my photo postable while at the same time adding a little patriotic spirit:

? Although I’m pretty sure my Republican friend whose child is featuring Obama over his private parts will have a slightly less flattering name for him.

You never know when life is going to throw you a curve ball. Take Skye, for instance.

One day, she’s basking in the sun without a care in the world:

The next, disaster strikes in the form of an absent hot tub cover:

It’s like the epitomy of the Project Runway slogan, only in reverse: One day you’re out, and the next–you’re IN! And I guess Skye is a glass half full kind of girl, because this is the second time she’s made a splash and yet she’s already back in the saddle, sunbathing on the hot tub again.

Or maybe she thought we needed a little excitement around here, since Fergie and her crazy brother Leo are visiting “Nana” in Colorado. You see, my family is entirely insane and to ensure we demonstrate this adequately, every few months my dad takes various dogs on interstate road trips between California and Colorado. I wouldn’t be surprised if a clause of “Do you, Jerry, solemnly swear to rent a variety of minivans and drive the family hounds thousands of miles each year to different households, purchasing them burgers along the way and letting them sleep on the hotel beds with nary a complaint, so long as you both shall live?” was added in to my parents wedding vows. I guess that would involve some special telepathic gift on my mom’s part seeing as how we didn’t have Ridgebacks until after I graduated college. Which could explain why I was always getting busted in high school before I even got the opportunity to do anything wrong.

Anyway, we said our good-byes on Saturday. Leo was in his crate less than a minute before wreaking havoc on his bedding:

And Connor says good-bye to Fergie:

It’s really nice to share the chaos for awhile but I have to admit—we miss our little Ferganator.

I don’t mind the fact that hubby routinely wakes me up at 5:30 a.m. by cracking his knuckles so loudly I bolt upright in bed, sure that a SWAT team assault is under way. (Okay, actually I do mind. Although perhaps halting the espionage reading right before bed wouldn’t hurt.)

It’s also beyond me how he can sit and watch television in Spanish. He doesn’t even UNDERSTAND Spanish – except maybe a few of the words that appear on a Taco Bell menu. But even those he can’t pronounce. I know, I know–that “quesadilla” is a tricky one.

And then there’s the music. You see, hubby doesn’t take the time to actually learn the lyrics to anything, but he routinely sings (loudly) the words he thinks they are singing. Words that typically have no bearing at all on what the songwriters actually put to paper. Any attempts at correcting him fall on completely (tone) deaf ears. That’s if he doesn’t get mad at me because, “it ruins the song” for him. Because apparently he’s never recovered from the heartbreak of learning that Sugar Ray was actually singing “Every Morning” and not “Captain Morgan”, his favorite rum.

Anyway, the last few nights have been espcially painful because he’s rediscovered some random 80′s song by Pizzacato Five. He just can’t get enough of the video, which features two dudes and some scrawny chick wearing racoon hats and executing the most random dance moves known to man. He literally plays it about fifty times in a row, over and over again, until I want to pick up a stapler and shove it right into the varmit-killing lead singer’s brain. And as an added bonus? MY HUSBAND SINGS ALONG!!!!!!!! Which is beyond the realm of all that is decent and good, considering the entire song is IN JAPANESE.

He also had to point out how some random French band, Nouvelle Vague, looks like they attempted to rip off the dancing from the Japanese video. So not only do I have to listen to him butcher the lyrics to yet another song, but as an added bonus my brain is now being tortured by two horrible dancing sequence rather than one.

And now I have the damn song stuck in my head only I don’t know Japanese either so “Twiggy yo shee hee yo hee haw” is about as good as it gets. Maybe I’ll just stab myself with the stapler instead.

This past Sunday,? ten moms plus one? taken woman? booked a? suite at the Marriott in downtown San Diego, used that as home base, then went out on the town for a night of drunken debauchery and badness.? Okay, so maybe there wasn’t much debauchery, but there was plenty of badness in the form of our alcohol-infused stumbling gyrations on the dance floor.? Although I suppose posing as a bachelorette party in hopes of no cover charges and the accompanying must-have plastic penis straw might count as semi-debauched.?

And if someone could please tell me when the current fashion turned to skin-tight dresses cut down to the navel and up to the bikini line, I’d be mighty obliged.? Nina and Michael definitely would not approve.

Or maybe I’m just getting old.? Unfortunately, not quite old enough to ditch the penis straw.

At any rate, here are a few random shots from the night:

“Well what d’ya know, there’s a penis in my purse!”

“Hey, get your own penis!”

The poor? girl seated behind us was obviously jilted at the altar.

Another bar, another bachelorette.

“Do I know you?”

“Don’t bother me–I’m boogeying.”

“Doin’ da butt!”

“No wonder my neck hurts!”

? “Sooners!”

Random cleavage shot.

“Hey look–no hands!”

“Hey look–no twins!”

“I use L’oreal–and I’m worth it.”

The aftermath

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I had my monthly Bunco game last night.? Although supposedly a dice game, what Bunco really represents is a thinly veiled excuse for a bunch of women to? escape from the old homestead and drink beer (and in last night’s case, margaritas and Mojitos).? Our group consists mostly of moms which basically means our games? rate higher? on the obnoxious and beer drinking scales by a factor of ten.?

So after unwinding and enjoying girl talk for a few hours, I stumble into my house at about? 11:15 p.m, ready to crash into my bed.? Only to discover this:

Hello there, big pile of trash on my floor.? Here’s? a closer view:

Either a cyclone hit my house while I was nonchalantly slinging dice at Bunco or my hubby and son? decided to play a few rounds of recycling man and failed to tidy up.

Talk about a buzz kill.

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