Get Goose

Before we adopted our dog, Ruga, I didn’t really know a lot about Bloodhounds. I grew up with dogs, but had never had a Bloodhound before. My husband had one in a former life and said they were great family dogs. I was a little concerned about Ruga getting along with our other dog, Wilbur (AKA Spoiled Bastard), but crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

We found out about Ruga through the Southeast Bloodhound Rescue. They told us she was in Roane County, GA in a shelter. She was emaciated and worn down…had obviously been living on the streets for a while. She was due to be euthanized the next day, so my husband literally ran for the border to get her.

Ruga is one big (and I mean big…130 pounds big…we fattened her up like the rest of the family) ball of love. She doesn’t have a care in the world, that dog. She is laid back and carefree. Her face is a wrinkled up mound of skin and her eyelashes are to die for (Spade calls them her mascara).

She steals your heart in an instant…and can clear a coffee table off in an instant too. Bloodhounds are large dogs with even larger tails. One swoop of the tail and that’s all she wrote.

When Ruga sniffs food on the table, her nose is literally sniffing the food. Never leave food unattended. A few weeks after we got her, she was in our neighbor’s yard helping herself to items on the BBQ grill. Lovely. The dog was living on the streets for God’s sake, give her a break. If you were eating pebbles all day and suddenly spied a chicken leg, you’d scarf it down too.

Ruga’s ears deserve a post all their own. They are long and silky for about five minutes after a bath. Then they’re in the food bowl, or in the mud, or dragging on the floor. They pick up dirt better than a Swiffer.

And, finally, there is the drool. This is something someone should have warned me about (especially considering my OCD condition). Bloodhounds are apparently notorious for their drool. Ruga can have drool hanging from her lips to the floor, thicker than a rope. You can imagine what happens when she shakes her head inside the house. Slob-o-rama. The slobber lands everywhere. And if you’re not there to wipe it up immediately, it just dries up for later discovery. I could spend half my Saturday on a slobber exploratory mission. You know you have turned a corner in life when your weekends become one big treasure hunt for slobber and slung baby food particles.

All this to say, I would not trade Ruga for anything in the world. She is amazing. She’s one of the best cuddlers I know (she’s the size of a human, so I guess she would be). She does this thing we call the Ruga Dance that cannot be described in words. She lets Wilbur rule the roost, but knows she is the true princess. Bottom line, Ruga rocks. Go Ruga, Go Ruga.

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My cousin sent this to me. It brought me back to my Jersey roots. Enjoy.

The Italian Tomato Garden

An old Italian lived alone in New Jersey. He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard.

His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:

Dear Vincent,

I am feeling pretty sad, because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over.

I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days.

Love, Papa

A few days later he received a letter from his son.

Dear Pop,

Don’t dig up that garden. That’s where the bodies are buried.

Love, Vinnie

At 4 a.m. the next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left.

That same day the old man received another letter from his son.

Dear Pop,

Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That’s the best I could do under the circumstances.

Love you, Vinnie

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The humidity in Knoxville is indescribable. Today, as I was pushing my child in the jog stroller up a steep hill, I was reminded of one of my favorite Spade-isms:

It’s hotter than a goat’s ass in a pepper patch.

Memorial Day is a day to honor those who have died in uniform—a day to say “thank you” for their sacrifice.

More than 3,400 Americans have died in Iraq since the war began four years ago. That’s two per day, a rate that has increased with the “surge” of 30,000 U.S. troops into Baghdad earlier this year. —TIME

Let’s silence our cell phones for a moment, turn off the TVs, and give our computer screens a rest. We need to consider how much we take for granted every day and take this moment to remember how fortunate we are.

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A friend of mine writes a column in the Goldsboro News-Argus. It comes out every Sunday…the perfect ending to one week, and an even better beginning to the next. She sent me the May 25th column and I’ve decided to share it with you here. Hilarious!

Yes, that’s right, it is that time of year again — ballet recitals.
They are the culmination of all the steps our little ballerinas have
been working on in dance class the past year — and a chance for moms
and dads to take lots of pictures of their budding prima ballerinas.
But those who are on the outside — and those who have boys — don’t
really understand that this is not an everyday occurence.
It is stressful.
My friends know that I suffer a bit of anxiety about these dance
presentations — costumes, the makeup and the hair, it is more stress
than I would have getting ready for my own Paramount Theater debut.
This year, the dancers’ hair was supposed to be worn in a bun. Louise’s
hair is short — much too short, I thought, to get up in a bun. So, I
had to call in reinforcements.
My friend, Betsy, armed with bobby pins, a ponytail holder, clips and a
hairnet that would make any lunch lady proud, arrived to help me beat
the bun bump in the road.
And sure enough, with all those tricks, a little water and lots of gel,
we had a bun.
All you men out there take note. Beauty comes with lots of blood, sweat
and tears. You should appreciate it more.
Our dress rehearsal was a FULL dress rehearsal — outfit, makeup, and
hair — the whole shebang. Thank goodness for a trial run on the hairdo
— it wasn’t easy for Betsy to get Louise’s short pieces to
cooperate. After 30 minutes, 50 bobby pins, 20 clips and a ripped up
hair net, most of the hair was behaving. Thank goodness she did not
have to go through a metal detector, or we would have been in trouble.
After the trial run, however, we realized we were going to need a more
powerful gel to tame Louise’s bun on the big day.
So, off we went to rehearsal — very proud of our efforts. I waited in
the wings with the other dancers’ moms and wondered how pageant moms
make it. Can you imagine having to do this every week? I would have to
take out stock in hair gel, just to make the bun requirement. I might
even need my own suitcase, just for bun supplies, not to mention the
other needs like makeup and costume maintenance items like safety pins.
Louise would need an entourage. I couldn’t handle the pressure.
I am not even sure I spend this much time on my own hair and makeup all
year long.
After the rehearsal, as Louise got out of the car, Sir Lancelot, also
known as my son, David, stared at her in amazement.
At first I thought he was touched by her beauty and poise, not to
mention her fabulous bun.
Yep, you guessed it. That wasn’t it.
My gallant son took one look at his dolled up sister and doubled over
in laughter — uncontrollable laughter, rolling around on the ground
laughter.
Thomas was more subtle. He just looked at her like she had four heads.
Nothing like brothers to make you feel great about yourself. I wanted
to strangle both of them.
But I have a plan for Louise to get them back.
The day will come when the Kings of Cool will be getting ready for
their first dates or even prom. I am preparing her script now, both as
the cute younger sister who tells all of David’s embarrassing moments
to his date and later as the annoying, all-knowing big sister who
shares with Thomas her thoughts on his smooth moves with the ladies.
I will videotape it for later use myself.
So, after all that fuss, the big day arrives and my prima ballerina is
beautiful — coiffed and dressed and smiling. She probably spent more
time getting ready than she actually did on the stage, but when she
appeared in her pink velour costume with black polka dots, she must
have felt like a princess, especially when her curtain call flowers
were carried to her on the stage.
OK, so maybe seeing my daughter so happy was worth all those bobby pins.

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I am a TV vegetable right now. A potato. I am a couch potato. I have been sitting here for close to two hours. I skipped dinner for no apparent reason. I am glued to the tube.

As you know, I usually set aside an hour on Thursday night for CSI. Tonight, though, it’s a re-run, so I’m sitting in front of Deal or No Deal. I’ve been here before. It’s torture. My stomach is in knots and I am literally covering my eyes with my hands. I cannot take the suspense. The game is based on nothing but luck, and with so many people telling the contestant what to do, it’s maddening.

My husband and I are trying to play along, but we have different philosophies about this game. I am an “all or nothing” girl, and he is a total deal taker. He asks me if I would listen to him if I was the contestant, and I say, “Probably, becasue I would need someone to blame if I took the deal and then ended up with the million dollars in my case.”

I think I might fill out the application to get on the show. It requires a video too. A VHS tape. You’re supposed to tell the producers what you would do with the million dollars. Well, for starters, I’d buy a VCR to play the damn VHS tape. Who the heck has a VCR these days? You would think they’d have some sort of video upload system. It’s 2008 people, let’s move it along into the digital age.

But seriously, a million dollars? A million dollars would rock my world. Wow. No more debt. No more car payment. No more mortgage. No more trying to figure out how to pay for my kid’s college tuition. And the best part, no more Boot Camp…going straight to the Bootie (and Boobie) Doctor with that cash. Just let me dream.

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He’s as useful as a one-armed trapeze artist with an itchy ass.

YouTube is an amazing phenomenon. Did you know that videos like “The Evolution of Dance” have been viewed over 85 million times? 85 million…just to watch some comedian dance on stage. OK, I have to give the guy props. The dancing is good. Clever idea. I was number 84,999, 999. He should fire the spotlight operator, though. Total screwball.

I recently began trying my hand at the ol’ YouTube thing. Had a kid. Got a Flip video camera. Practiced a bit with iMovie HD on the Mac. And voilá. Instant Scorsese. I’m working on a “year in the life” concept. The first year of my son’s life. Small moments captured on video, then edited into a short little memoir for him. Something that is sure to mortify him when he’s old enough to understand what his mother has done.

Check out the masterpiece. So far, we have 62 views. My husband and I have surely racked up about 50 of those between the two of us, with a few friends and relatives added to the mix. Only 84,999,938 to go.

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I think I might be a Diet Coke-aholic. My day just isn’t the same without a Diet Coke. I’m not sure what it is…the caffeine or just the mental build-up to actually drinking one…or maybe it’s the snappy silver can. It’s definitely a problem, though, and very few things can act as a substitute. Diet Pepsi is an absolute bust. If a restaurant only serves Pepsi products, I am basically screwed. I have to suffer through the meal with water, and then afterwards, I immediately head to a drive-through and order a large Diet Coke. Sometimes, I can fend off the craving with something from Starbucks, but this usually only works in the morning and right around 3pm. At Happy Hour, if I haven’t had my fix for the day, I will actually postpone getting a vodka cocktail in order to first slurp down a Diet Coke. The flavored ones are not for me…vanilla, cherry, lemon, and so on. I prefer the original…the one that supposedly rots the inside of your stomach. I may give Diet Coke Plus a try. Everyone could benefit from a little B12 and magnesium, right? A Diet Coke packed with vitamins is right up my alley. A little spice to go along with the sparkle. Diet Coke…just for the taste of it.

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Have you ever seen this show? It is sort of “Jeopardy!” meets “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” meets a NY cabbie. It’s a fantastic idea. Unassuming individuals get into a cab thinking they’re just asking for a ride somewhere, and suddenly they’re on a game show. They answer questions to earn cash. If they get three incorrect answers, they get booted out of the cab, whether or not they’re at their destination. They have two shout-outs during the game…one mobile and one on the street. So, if they get stumped they can shout-out and ask someone for help. I’m sort of addicted to the show, but I never really plan on watching it…I just get sucked in if it happens to be on when I turn on the tube. I used to live in NY, but the whole Cash Cab thing started after I moved to Knoxville. As you can imagine, there are not too many cabs in Knoxville. It’s not a cab sort of town. So, I’ve been trying to brainstorm my own small-town idea, like maybe Cash Cart, where your grocery cart lights up and the host jumps out from behind the bread aisle. Or, Cash Cleaner, where it’s “lights, camera, action” at the dry cleaner if you’re the lucky contestant. Or, maybe it’s simply Cash Clown, where on any given day you’re just strolling along and out from behind the bushes jumps Bozo, mic in hand and cameras rolling. I need to finesse these ideas a bit, but I think I’m onto something.

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