miso ear-y

Miso ear-y

me itchy long time!

Since last week, Cricket's ear has smelled like miso with a side of limburger cheese. The vet was surprised that I know what my dog's ear smells like. Good thing I didn't also mention that I spoon her and know that leftover salad leaves give her the toots.

invention that will make somebody rich

Grass flavored dog food (with bits of real stick!)

Old Navy makes you helpless

If this commercial is to be believed, Old Navy clothes render you incapable of performing simple everyday tasks such as: 1) making a phone call, 2) looking someone directly in the eye, 3) remembering not to leave your purse on the side of the road, 4) deciding for yourself whether to flirt with boys, and 5) opening a door. I'm even giving this girl a pass on the whole "deciding which shoes to wear" thing because this would be nearly impossible for me if I had as many shoes as she has, even if my Old Navy scarf wasn't sucking my brain cells dry.

This commercial irks me so much that I can't even enjoy it in that it's-pleasingly-annoying-like-an-Oasis-song sort of way. I just want to jump into my television and give that girl a big slap across the face. If he has to dial the phone for you and open the door, he won't respect you in the morning!

ready for summer?

Sunscreen? -- Check!

Bathing suit? -- Check!

The most delicious, refreshing, bubbly drink ever made? -- Check!

Protection against $4.00/gallon gas?

. . . Check!!!

hey, hey, hey, goodbye!

Smell of burning oil
Out of warranty, alas
Prius here I come!

Am I too ______ for this?

Until recently, the only serious question I would ask myself when deciding on a wardrobe purchase was, "Am I too fat for this?" Now, however, the foremost question on my mind is, "Am I too old for this?" This is very dangerous territory for a girl (lady?) who still makes 65% of her clothing purchases in the juniors' department at Target.

My first clue that it was maybe time to cross the aisle to the womens' section was that I completely stopped relating to the articles in my magazines. Lucky, seriously, who are we kidding? Does a 33-year-old really need to know how to match minidresses with motorcycle boots? I mean, even if I could, should I? Or how about Lucky's earnest desire to teach me how to wear three shades of the same color in one outift? I could maybe do this, if the color was black. Then it dawned on me, I started subscribing to this magazine five years ago. Oops.

Now that I know I've moved from one target demographic to another, I wonder about things like almost-black nail polish, the razored bob, ankle boots, and yes, skinny jeans. Also, I think some entire websites may need to be erased from my memory bank because the temptation is too great. Take Urban Outfitters, for example. Even though I love these sandals:

They also sell this shirt, which I almost bought online until I tried it on in the store and didn't look all cool and nonchalant like this young girl but rather like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie.

Delia's will definitely have to go, even though they sell this dress:

Because the vast majority of their stuff, while also tempting, looks more like this:

And I'm definitely too old for that nonsense, right?

I wore them

During a trip to NYC last year, I got carried away and bought a pair of skinny jeans. Even at the point of purchase, I knew that there was a greater than 50% chance that the skinny jeans would remain in my closet with the tags still attached until they were someday drafted -- unworn -- into the Salvation Army. Much to my surprise, a perfect opportunity to wear them arose last month when we went to the drake. Sure, we weren't the hippest people in the club (that honor would maybe go to the gals who were doing a totally non-ironic Paris Hilton-at-Hyde-as-described-by-Us Weekly impersonation -- dancing on banquettes, lots of hair flipping, etc.) but I did wear the jeans with heels and that has to count for something.

Question. . .

Who is the last person in the world you should bring to the farmers' market with you?

Answer. . .

God only knows why, but I thought it would be a great idea to take Cricket to the farmers' market with me after I picked her up from doggie daycare yesterday. (Yes, I do realize the ridiculousness of the foregoing sentence. If you realize it too, then you will probably like this site.) It's not that she's a dog -- there were plenty of other dogs at the FM -- it's that Cricket is the only dog who looks at the food stalls and thinks to herself, "They did this all for me? How lovely! Let's eat!"

You know how judgmental organic foodies can be about what you eat? Well, it turns out that they are every bit as judgmental about how you raise your dog. So when Cricket pulled on her leash like a mofo, made those spectacular gagging sounds (ACK! GAAACK! AAACCCCK!), sniffed the bread guy's ass, and put her feet up on the cheese table, I was the recipient of countless disapproving glances and several sad, slow, eye-rolling shakes of the head (one guy even leaned all the way out of his car window to do the sad, slow, eye-rolling head shake). She was so awesome that I asked the herb guy what went well with braised dog (nervous laughter). Next time I'm leaving her in the car with the windows rolled up.

Inspector McElroy

Blaine's 4th grade report card.

Even though the teacher did not do an A+ job of filling out this report card, I am assured by Blaine's parents that he scored very well in social behavior. I believe them, because this explains so much about Blaine. He loves it when people's behavior conforms to the accepted social mores, like scooting into the corner of the elevator when someone new boards. He hates it when people do weird things, like sit too close to you in an otherwise empty movie theater.

I think he should reproduce this part of his report card and issue citations to adult offenders. An F in "respects rights of others" and "is courteous" could be left on the windshield of a badly parked car. A C- for "refrains from unnecessary talk" could be given to your chatty neighbor or to the lady talking on the phone in line at Starbucks. The possibilities are endless. Even if the entire 4th grade class of Garland ISD did learn these things in 1982, some people could clearly use a refresher course.

sticks and stones

So, I caucussed last night. Since I'd never caucussed before, I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but for damn sure I didn't imagine anything to do with grown men and women taunting each other from opposite sides of a church parking lot. Yet, this is what I got. Ahh democracy.

Overheard at the caucus:

• Hillary supporter: Good evening sir, are you here to support Hillary?
• Obama supporter: No, I'm going to throw this in the garbage can, which you Hillary supporters are very appropriately standing in front of.
• Hillary supporter: (stammering, after a moment of stunned silence) Oh yeah? Well if you were voting for Hillary, you would recycle that plastic bottle!!!

• Hillary supporter: What did the precinct captain just say? I couldn't hear him.
• Obama supporter: Don't worry, you can just have Bill explain it to you later, like you always do.

Meeow, Democrats! Can't we all just get along?

truth in advertising

Hot. Stone. Massage.

Check, check, and check. I had my very first hot stone massage last week at the Venetian's Canyon Ranch Spa in Las Vegas. As advertised, there was a massage, with stones, which were very hot. I loved it, but. . . the lady who did the massage -- Peach -- was weirdly businesslike.

Normally, I love businesslike -- especially where massages are concerned. And I am on record as being firmly against new age. I am old age. I hate patchouli (which was a major problem when I worked at the OAG in Austin and had to walk through an ever-present cloud of incense en route to that sushi place on the drag. I would instantly lose my appetite and my $3.00 tuna roll would go to waste. blech.); I am not in touch with my feelings; I spend the meditation part of yoga reviewing my to-do list for work; and sitar music gives me a stabbing pain just behind my left ear.

As much as I thought I liked businesslike, Peach out-businessliked me like she was taking candy from a baby. I almost longed for a little Yanni to soften the mood. Can we light some candles in here or something? Yeesh. Getting a massage from Peach (who is in her 60s) was kind of like visiting your Grandmother. Not the one who buys you things and lets you eat the crap that your parents won't let you eat -- the other one. The one who's going to do what's best for you, even if it's unpleasant. The one who thinks you should be out of bed by 7:00a.m. or you're wasting the day; the one who never spends her money on frivolous things and who goes for vigorous walks after sensible meals. That's Peach. Anyway, after 80 minutes of yanking and pulling me around the table, mechanically pressing rocks into my body, firmly placing my limbs where they needed to be, and snapping the sheets down over me, I was done. And I have to say, it was kind of a relief. My muscles were relieved, and so were my nerves. Definitely get a hot stone massage sometime, but not from any lady named Peach.

in case of emergency, break glass

This photo was taken in the C terminal of Houston's Bush Intercontinental Airport. In case the picture doesn't speak for itself, this is a proactiv solution vending machine. It only takes a second to realize the sheer genius of this marketing ploy. 1. The TSA has just thrown out all of your face stuff b/c you forgot to put it in a stupid ziploc baggie; 2. the line at Starbucks is prohibitively long, so you're bored; 3. when you're bored you shop; 4. you're going to be gone a week -- the perfect length of time to start a new beauty regimen; 5. you want to look good while you're gone; and 6. you want to come back and have people say to you, "oh my god, you look great -- so refreshed and youthful! that must have been a great vacation!"