Last night in one of my horrible dreams, I had a brief flash of Katherine Hepburn. This caused me to remember one of my old blog posts, back from '03 sometime, in which I spoke about a dinner KH had with Michael Jackson. During the dinner, Michael called cauliflower "white broccoli" and Katherine called for a stiff drink as soon as he left.

Those old posts don't even have a permalink option on them, so I have to paste the copy here. I figured I'd do this in case all 4 of my readers haven't been keeping up on this site for the last 3+ years; there's a chance some of you never saw my old stuff. So, in the spirit of the season, I will be lazy and just post something half-assed. Enjoy!
***

Before I say anything else, here's a teaser: WHITE BROCCOLI.

I recall a more innocent time, when I actually enjoyed the musical stylings of Michael Jackson.

This was in the 1983-84 era, to be exact. I saw the video for "Thriller" and was all "wow" and "he's cute." Back then, I did think he was cute. In his little white and yellow vest with the one curl down on his face, that was my idea of non-threatening, androgynous cute. I was only about 8 or 9 at the time, mind you. I also saw "My Little Pony" dolls as cute, too.

Now, I am loathe to say I ever bought this man's records. I can't think of a stranger celebrity. I don't need to get into the whole bleached-your-skin-white, removed-all-bones-from-his-face, slept-with-children-and-rode-in-a-"hot air balloon"-with-Macauley-Culkin shit he's been up to since the mid 80s. But every now and then, a story breaks about him that just makes me smile all over again and remember why we need really stupid, really insane celebrities in our lives.

I've been thinking about this Katharine Hepburn dame now since she went on to the next level. I really liked her in the "African Queen" and thought she was a cool looking lady as she aged. And they did a wicked good impression of her on SNL back in the Mike Myers age (..."And who should walk through the door but Gumby and Pokey!"). She wore a kick-ass little bun in her hair and liked to wear pants. So I have a special little spot reserved inside of me somewhere for KH.

Anyway, this morning my respect for her went up a notch. I read this on AP today and had to laugh:

NEW YORK - Having Michael Jackson over for dinner was such a strain for Katharine Hepburn, she needed a stiff drink afterward.

Scott Berg writes in his new book about Hepburn that Jackson didn't know what cauliflower was when Hepburn served it to him. He called it "white broccoli."

Jackson kept telling Hepburn over dinner that she was his favorite actress, but he couldn't name any of her films.

Berg says the minute Jackson left, Hepburn cried out for her housekeeper to "get the whiskey."

********
OK, first I have to say I do question her judgement about having Michael Jackson over for dinner in the first place. But maybe it wasn't her idea; maybe he was one of those people who kept calling her and sending her flowers and being really weird--maybe she would hear the sprinklers go on at 5 AM and then hear something that sounded like a 4 year old girl crying outside her window. So she pulled on a robe and peeked out through the curtains and saw Michael J. standing on her lawn dressed in a tuxedo, holding a bunch of balloons that said "I love you Kate!" and trying to sing through his tears. Maybe she sighed and thought, I'm gonna have to do something to get this asshole to leave me alone. Her agent said, "Have him for dinner just once. But here's the thing; confuse him with vegetables while he is here. No man every returns after he's been shamed with vegetables."

So that's what she did.

Lucky for her, Michael Jackson hardly ever eats anything except gold-crusted donuts and Captain Crunch in a bowl full of baby formula, so he doesn't have much knowledge of vegetables. He had once seen cauliflower when Joe Jackson was driving him and Tito past a cauliflower field once on the way to a gig. (The other 3 Jacksons were already there, because maybe their mother drove them to the hospital beforehand to stitch up their ass cheeks after their father had cracked them with a belt, so they got to ride with their momma) Anyway, there goes Michael and Tito looking out the window, their eyes wide with child wonderment. "What's that?" cries a curious Tito.

"Shut up and sing, you little shit! You gon' make your daddy rich, ya hear? No questions!" says Mean Old Joe.

Tears fill tiny Michael's eyes and drip down his naturally wide nose. "You know what it looks like, Tito? White clouds. I love white things. Maybe it's some kind of broccoli, maybe--"

He didn't get a chance to finish telling his brother his theory because Joe punched him in the kidneys and threw him through the windshield for talking. His childhood was lost forever. At least, it was lost until he made 3 billion dollars and could buy a sham childhood back again.

So anyway, years later when sassy Katharine Hepburn presented him with the mystery vegetable, you can see why he would say white broccoli. This is a man stuck at the mental age of 7, and stuck on the day he flew through a windshield and Joe Jackson ran him over with his pickup and smashed his innocence all over a dirt road while Tito wailed like a little girl.

Also, the memory of this trauma caused him to blank out and get nervous and not remember any of her films. He was desperately trying to win her approval. This strategy had worked before with Liz Taylor and Emmanuel Lewis. However, he was too blasted full of bleach to think straight. Can you blame the man for wanting to achieve purity (AKA: "whiteness") in order to ease the pain of his ruined childhood? And for wanting to appease older, more respected, more talented, and better people like Kate?

No. I hate his excuses. He is just fucking crazy. My bet is that after that dinner with Kate, he was on his way to molest the whale from Free Willy or something. Dirty no-nose asswipe.

But good for you Kate-- glad you had the foresight to get drunk afterwards and then write about this in your memoirs, so we could all laugh at him some more. Thank you, you truly are my kind of actress.

Did you ever just smell baby?

I mean, you enter a room or building and a certain scent just hits your nostrils and even though you don't see or hear a baby anywhere nearby, you KNOW a baby is lurking in the vicinity.

I smelled baby today, when I came into work. Except, it turned out, there was no baby. It was phantom baby. And no, this doesn't mean anything. I am not hankering for a young'un of my own, and I am certainly not in-a-family-way. It's just one of those things. It could have been old man that I smelled; or unkempt scrapbooker. This time it happened to be baby.

What I smelled was, I think, split pea soup. I've never actually eaten split pea soup, and to be honest I doubt I could seriously identify it in a smell-test if it was up against another similar soup. But when I thought about what that smell was, I immediately thought of split pea soup. Someone in the office was eating it.

Split pea soup makes me think of Gerber baby food. I remember some jars of green babyfood in the house when my sister was a wee one, and I think they might have been smooshed peas, or something. It smelled awful. And it looked awful all over her face. She was a cute kid, but cripes, when she ate she made one hot mess of herself. It didn't help that my Mom would scrape the food off her little baby cheeks with the side of the spoon and then feed her the very same food that was just hanging out on her own FACE. Why do Moms do that? I guess it has to do with not wasting food, but it can really look gross to everyone else, including impressionable 4 year old sisters. I can say with all certainty that I don't have any urge whatsoever to cover my face in food, scrape it off, and then eat it. YUM. "I can still taste my own oils on it!"

The split pea soup/ baby food smell lingered for awhile, but there was one more smell to come. As I walked to the breakroom to fill my water glass, I passed the bathrooms. You can tell where this is leading.

It smelled like DIAPER.

Dirty, pooped-in diaper. I shit you not, pardon the pun.

That did it. There had to be a baby squirreled away in this office somewhere. It was too coincidental that I would smell that pea babyfood smell, and then diaper. This was not Bring Your Infant to Work Day. This was no time for tiny little soft people with no teeth. This is Tuesday, and we work hard on Tuesdays. Babies are not part of the schedule, and they have nothing to offer in meetings. Period.

So why the baby smells?

I know I will probably never know if a baby was, in fact, here for a little while this morning. I know that the most probable reason for the seemingly-present infant is mere coincidence; some poor slob had some soup this morning and it happened to be the same morning when some other poor, intestinally-challenged slob laid a nice big diapery one in the bathroom. It's just odd.

I'd be perfectly happy if I never smell baby in this building again. I don't need these kind of stinky-baby hallucinations when I have a JOB to do. Damn it.

We live right next to a freeway, and regularly drive on the access road on either side of it to get pretty much anywhere we need to go. And nearly every single day, there are bums on the corners at every light, holding their cardboard signs up and asking for "help."

I feel bad for these dudes, I do. I even sit there and go all Christian on my own ass, finding myself praying for them. There have been a few times when I gave them a dollar or two, or the time I gave that one guy a bag of chips from my Meal Deal at Subway. But...

You just can't give them money and think their problems are going to be solved. So I don't. And like most people, I assume they aren't going to save it towards getting a haircut, a shower and a clean suit (at Goodwill, of course) to go on a job interview. Let alone use it to buy a meal. I admit I think it's going to booze or drugs. But that's because if I had to live on the street, I would need to do that to dull the crushing pain of living on the street. You know what I'm sayin'.

Anyway, since I see these guys all the time, I have had a lot of opportunity to view a wide variety of messages on their cardboard signs. Here's what I think about these signs, and how effective they are:

The most popular one in our neighborhood is something like this: "Homeless Vet -- Please Help -- God Bless!" We all know why they use this one: we are at war; sympathies are running high for the soldiers. We all support the troops, but not Bush. Soldiers, and vets, are on our collective minds. When we see a scraggly guy in dirty clothes staring at us with sad eyes and their sign says they are a Homeless Vet, it tends to tug at your conscience a little harder than some of the other dudes. And THEN if they add in the "God Bless" it softens them even more. I mean, damn...the guy is a vet, he's homeless, he just needs a little HELP (not money), he's saying please, and CRAP-- his faith in God is still intact! Dude probably had to eat three hot sauce packets out of the dumpster behind Taco Bell this morning, and most likely he's been stabbed by rival bums at some point, but he still wishes GOD would bless ME! Outstanding!! Roll down that window and quickly hand him a dollar; feel good about helping a vet the rest of your way to work. Repeat the following morning, and so on, until you become complacent.

Another one you see a lot is, "Smile! Things Could be Worse!" This one is a good marketing trick. You're not asking for money right on the sign. You're not even making an excuse or telling a sob story-- you're just wishing goodwill to everyone who passes you in their warm cars. Now WHO wouldn't want to help a dude like that? Using humor is a great way to bring in the cash. The downside: this sign is getting more popular, thereby diffusing the effectiveness.

Sometimes, the signs give you more info than you probably need; I think this approach is used by who I call the "shady-desperate." You know how we lie a little when we don't really have to? What I mean is, say we want a new desk chair at work. We could just put in a request to the operations people and just ask for one, period. But a lot of times we overexplain or go too far. Usually, this is when we know we are asking for something we don't REALLY need, but we WANT, and if the people in charge knew that our current desk chair was absolutely fine, and just not the color we want, we probably wouldn't get that new chair. SOOO... we lie. Usually uncessarily. "I need a new chair because last month I fell off of a horse when my wife and I were volunteering with the Take Handicapped Kids Horseback Riding group. I had been trying to reach out to little Stevie, who was beginning to slip off the saddle as he rode next to me. I was able to save him, but injured my back in the process. I have found I develop intense tingling and soreness after sitting in this chair for over two hours; I have noticed if I sit on a chair with thicker padding and lumbar support, I feel better. Therefore, could I please get a lumbar-support chair? Thank you for your attention in this matter." The elaborate nature of this story screams out LIE.

Anyway, the bums who use this approach usually have signs that say things like this: "Stranded-- Need money to get back to NY to see my sick father," or "Down on my luck-- want to see my kids in Missouri-- please spare change for bus fare," or "Need help-- DIABETIC-- anything helps"...you know the signs. I feel upset when I see these signs; I want to roll down my window and yell, "Hey, buddy, just write "PLEASE GIVE ME MONEY" on your sign and be done with it already!" I don't do this, but give me time. I know one of these days I'm going to have a bad day and I will start yellin' at them. (I'm known for yelling at people I don't know when I am upset about something...ask my sister about my rant into the doorway of the leather store in the mall that one time)

And, finally, there are the miscellaneous ones. Signs with major misspelling or misuse of punctuation. I have no sympathy for the illiterate, I have found out. Call me insensitive, but that's how it is for me. I hate them. I hate that they can't take the time to learn how to READ. Learn basic english, motherfuckers, and THEN ask me for my help. I am not helping some dirty, lazy lay-about who had to drop out of school and spend time not-learning-to-read. I mean, at the very least, see if there is another bum who can help you out back at the shelter; ask for someone to write it for you. It's not like they're BUSY. Just put a little effort out, that's all I am asking.

I wonder if there is a trade magazine or meetings for the bums. Some source for them to know the latest trends on begging; what works, what doesn't, and what will get you arrested. If not, I think I just found my next career move. I'm just the editor/writer to do it. As long as they keep their distance and there is NO touching whatsoever. I am not going to catch bum cooties for my job. Hell no.

One of the most ominous sentences you can hear is: "I think I pulled something."

I know whenever I hear it, I think, "Oh no. Now this person is going to be gimping it up and I'll probably wind up having to do some of his/her work." I also automatically think of groin pulls. I don't know why. It's not like I have ever had a groin pull, myself, or participated in one (is it anything like a tractor pull? No? Well, I never participated in a tractor pull, either). Anyway, the way my mind works is to automatically think of the word "groin" when someone mentions pulling something.

Today, I do think I pulled something. I'd actually say on record that I don't just think it, I KNOW it. And it's not my groin. Or anywhere near the groinal region. It's my neck and upper back.

It happened like all these things happen: while filleting the corpse of a runaway teenager. You really need to be careful when deboning a person. One false move will leave you unable to properly turn your head and unable to look over your shoulder to see if the dark overlords are still standing there in their fancy dresses, awaiting their new host skin. This is not good. Stretch first. Don't piss off the overlords.

The truth is, I leaned forward to toss a cotton swab into the trash under the bathroom sink and something felt like it snapped in the vertebrae at the bottom of my neck. I don't mean my neck broke, but rather, the cheap rubber bands holding my spine together might have given up. This may lead to a downward spiral in which all of my spinal rubber bands stop doing their job and I wind up with Accordian Back. You'll be able to push down on my head and I will fold up down to my feet, like the guy in the Popeye movie. I doubt this could help me further my career.

I hate having a weak back. It's a bother, as the English would say. What a spot 'a bother! This is far from the first time I have injured delicate muscles, disks and nerves. I think I don't fully appreciate the times when I am not having back pain of some sort; I take 'no-pain' for granted. I wish I could go back to those spoiled times right now. This hurts.

I really can't move my head much right now. Driving in to work this morning sucked so hard. I had to basically stay in one lane and turn from the waist to see anything around me. Think Joan Cusack at the water fountain in Sixteen Candles. That's how I feel like I'm moving today. And now, sitting at my desk and typing, my shoulders are cramping up and the pain has reached the throbbing threshold. This makes me sad. :(

I shouldn't bitch too much. It's not as bad as some of the other times my back "went out." Especially not the Grand Dame of Lisa's Back Injuries: the Ruptured Disk of 1993. God in heaven. When that happened, I couldn't even stand up straight or walk more than five feet without having to sit down and rest. The disk ruptured, you see, and pinched down hard on my sciatic nerve, which meant I had 24/7 searing pain down the back of my left leg all the way to the arch of my foot. I should also mention that it happened to be during the first semester of my freshman year at college. Having pain like that really puts you to the test when you need to walk to class from one end of the campus to the other, and you need the help of a cane, and you need to do it in enough time so you won't be late. You learn a lot about yourself when you have to do that every day. You also learn how to cry very, very quietly and position your hair so that it wipes your tears if you turn your head right. Well, on a positive note, it does get you one of those temporary handicapped parking tags to hang on your rearview mirror so you can enjoy the good parking. It's fun to be the only one under 70 in that area of the parking lot. We had secret parties sometimes.

Please let me know if you know any crazy scientists/engineers who can build a bionic spine to replace this one. I'll pay handsomely: $74, a homemade batch of cookies and a wee chihuahua. It's a good deal.

I wish I had more to say on this subject, but after several minutes of sitting here staring out the window and playing with my fingernails, I realize I don't. I'm off to down about three more naproxen pills. And cry a little into my hair.

Today is Old Spice Tuesday!

In my humble opinion, the new Old Spice commercials are the absolute best commercials on TV right now. My sweet husband found the following videos on YouTube today, and in the spirit of sharing, I am posting them here for others to enjoy.

First up, we have BRUCE CAMPBELL!

I love him. I think he's wildly underused by the Hollywood movie makin' machine. The man is funny. He has, unlike some actors whose names rhyme with Pickleass Sage, charmisma and a certain 'something' that makes him interesting to watch and listen to. Having him in an Old Spice commercial was a stroke of marketing genius! No one else would be so perfect at walking around in a smoking jacket in front of a repeating painting of old-timey ships. Long live the Chin.

The second commercial is the MANLY TEST:

"Old Spice performs in real man situations like basketball, recon and... frenching."
The delivery from the manly actor; the hair growing where the Old Spice is applied; the comment about "wildflowers and shame"... so enjoyable. Awards all around for the Old Spice team!

If I weren't a chick, I'd wear this shit! Oh, and I would take a moment to check out my new set of testicles.

Here's some Japanese kitten:

Yeah, he's cute, but can he do math?
Probably not.

Meanwhile, in TV news...
Smallville has a lot of new characters now. This makes me happy. I want conflict, and I want variety. I really have grown to like this show so much. Same thing with Veronica Mars: I love it. Good thing that's coming back on the air soon, too! And I won't get started on my favorite show of all, LOST. Making the fans wait this long for new episodes seems ridiculous and I would almost like to not tune in out of protest, but...who am I kidding: I have to watch it!

Greg and I have been watching a lot of HGTV these days. (Or the other network, the Home Channel or something) I love watching Flip That House, Designed to Sell and lately, I really love Hidden Potential. Greg has noticed that all of the Hidden Potential shows take place in NJ, which makes me both happy and bummed out. Happy, because the Jerz gets some recognition, but bummed out because of the horrendous houses they visit on that show! They are usually very small, with dark, cramped layouts, lots of wallpaper and outdated fixtures, with odd architectural features. I know the idea is to look at 3 sub-par houses and see them for what they could become with renovations, but MAN is it depressing to see those houses in the raw. It reminds me of so many houses I've either lived in, visited or driven past for all the formative years. Here I am trying to talk up NJ any chance I get, since I want people to respect it and stop making jokes about it, and then this show comes along and reminds people of just how crappy it can be. Thanks for undoing some of my work, Hidden Potential. Still...I must watch you. I love the computer-generated layouts with the cool colors and furniture, and I love finding out which house the people pick at the end of the episode.

One thing that hasn't gotten old yet is calling Barry, the architect/design guy on the show Peter Facinelli. We really think he looks like Peter Facinelli of "Can't Hardly Wait" ("...and someone in there just called me a fag!") and Fastlane (no quote available, as I don't know any). It's fun to say, "Let's see what Peter Facinelli has to say about THIS house," or "Oh come on, Peter Facinelli, you can do better than that!" Maybe this is only funny to Greg and I. Still, it makes me smile so that's all that matters to the Armsweat blog. (As a sidenote, www.Peter-Facinelli.com exists. Think about that.)

I love daydreaming about flipping houses, or just redecorating and renovating our own house. It's normal for me to crave going to Lowe's, or to scan through real estate listings for decent investment properties (or just to be nosey and see pictures of other people's nice houses). Greg is into it too, so that works out well. In fact, right now we are taking this little passion to the next step and making the first moves towards buying our first true investment property! It's a little scary...I mean, I never thought I would be a person to have a 'second' home/investment, meaning two mortgage payments...we are not Rockefellers over here...and I worry about little things like people breaking into the other house because we won't be there all the time. But if it works out, it will be pretty sweet. We've got a place picked out near Tijuana.

Yeah, we want to buy in Mexico. It's just something we're investigating right now. We'll see.

For our house now, we're in furniture-buying mode right now. We need a larger couch and some dining room furniture. I really enjoy browsing and getting ideas, but recently our furniture-seeking outings have taken on a tiresome, hopeless feel because the one sectional we found that we liked and is under a grand only comes in one layout, and it's the opposite layout of what we would need in our rather small living room. We've talked to salespeople, researched on the internet and I've even gone so far as to write to the manufacturer and ASK for one that juts out on the right rather than the left. It's serious, people. We are on a quest for this sectional and we will not REST until justice is served. Or something is served. We happen to enjoy pancakes. If pancakes are served, we just might take a little time to rest.

I wanted to say a little about the Golden Globes: I'm very glad Sasha Baren Cohen won! And I am happy about that Jennifer Hudson girl, too. I like it when newcomers get the awards. I am sick of Meryl Streep going up there. Nothing against her, but it's too standard an image to see her at a podium with an award in her hand. I want to see tears, and forgotten, flustered speeches and the shots of crying family members/dates in the audience.

We didn't watch very much of the Golden Globes, because we went to see Stranger Than Fiction that night (which was a great movie, by the way), but what I did see made me realize the following:

* I would not like spending time with Kyra Sedgwick. Her speech and thinly-veiled sense of entitlement said so much to me. She seems like the woman who will ONLY drink a certain wine with dinner, or would chatter endlessly about her trips to some super-exotic and expensive resort--she seems braggy or snooty. I don't know. It's funny that Bacon is hittin' that. Or that she's getting her some Bacon all the time.

* As much as I like the dude, I can't stop staring at Forest Whitaker's eye. Which one is the normal one? Which is the one that's 'off'? I know I should see his talent only, but damned if I can't see past those eyes. Ha ha ha.

* No more Angelina and Brad. Just...no more. They sat there looking like "Yes, we are the saviors of the poor and the weak; we are so above all of this Hollywood glitz... gaze upon us, oh mere mortals and superficial co-workers." Every time Angelina smiled it was a closed-lip, very I'm Royalty smile. And him! Don't get me started on him. Brad Pitt seems like the biggest follower in all of Hollywood. Remember when he dated Juliette Lewis, and he was all grungy and stinky-looking like she was? And then he moved on to Gwyneth, and suddenly he is blonder than ever, more preppy and taking more 'serious' roles. He did seem the most normal when he was with Jennifer Aniston, although he did seem to mirror her style here and there, and then went on her show to prove to the world that He Could Be Funny, Too. And now, here he is hopping onto the Angelina Jolie Goodwill Train. He is all about GIVING and ADOPTING and VISITING THIRD WORLD COUNTRIES and MAKING STATEMENTS and RAISING AWARENESS by not marrying Angelina and moving to New Orleans.

I mean, seriously, Brad Pitt: get your own personality already. You are completely lame. I don't care that I liked you in Legends of the Fall and Seven; you still manage to annoy me and that negates any physical attractiveness. Blah.

Well, that's it for today, I guess. I did want to thank you guys for your advice and the positive feedback you shared with me regarding the Indy Graduation Incident of 2007. We'll get him to chill out one of these days. He's got to get older, get a lobotomy, or get trained. Maybe all three. Either way, thank you for having our backs. Our backs are grateful.

I will refrain from saying ANYTHING about our fronts. Children could be reading this.

Indy 'graduated' from his beginner's obedience class at PetSmart last night. I use the quotes around that word for a reason; I don't think he should have passed. Not after the crap he pulled last night.

The thing about Indy is he is an incredibly willful, high-energy dog. He wants what he wants, RIGHTNOW. While other dogs in the class were able to calmly sit at their owners' feet at the beginning of the class while the trainer was talking, he was the jerk that had to get up, perk his ears forward and watch/listen to everything that was happening elsewhere in the store. (In the PetSmart classes, the 'training ring' is in the middle of the store, with plexiglas around it so people can look in and watch the class if they want to. It's probably not an optimal place to try to train a dog like Indy, but I'm not about to spend massive amounts of money on private training in a quiet place, or at our home, so...PetSmart it is.) He'd bark at the other dogs, which would earn him a loud QUIET and body-language from the trainer that clearly stated in dog language: "You shut the hell up, because I am the boss damn it!" I was often embarassed by the fact that my dog was the one that needed all the stern warnings and would resist my commands and leave me hangin'.

OK, they made it clear in class that there are no bad dogs, only bad owners. The trainer is very firm on this. She wasn't calling any of us bad, she just stressed the importance of consistency and being the dominant force in your home. Standard dog-training stuff, really. I can say the class was extremely helpful since we learned a lot about dog behavior, how to pick up on their body language to tell what they are doing, and how we can train ourselves to act differently around our dogs so that the dogs respect and listen to us. That was all amazing, really. This lady was a fantastic teacher.

But I am Lisa, and Lisa is a sensitive girl sometimes. Lisa gets upset when she can't do things. Lisa is basically a seven year old in a 31 year old body. Even though the trainer always told us "Don't take it personally when your dog does something you don't want-- he didn't do it to spite you, and it doesn't mean you are failing. Dogs are dogs"... what I do is get frustrated, mad at myself, embarrassed and finally, I don't try hard anymore. Yup, just like a little bitch.

I'm not proud of this. I am just stating the truth.

So anyway, last night in class, Indy was being defiant and disruptive as the trainer was teaching us some final points. She walked over to Indy as she has done in class many times before, and told him to be quiet in her loud boss-voice and he shut up for a minute. Only a minute. He started doing it again, and he began to do the thing he does with me all the time when I try to "be the boss"... he got in the playstance and barked at her. Like, "Fuck you, lady, I am going to bark anyway--neener neener neener!"

This got him flipped. What this means is the instructor grabs the dog by the throat and the hindquarters and flops them down onto the ground so the dog is lying on its side, pinned at the neck and hip to the floor. The idea is to make the dog give up and stop struggling against you...it's a dominance thing. The Dog Whisperer dude does it all the time. I've seen it work in class on other dogs; in fact, this was maybe the third class in which Indy got flipped by the trainer. And I know it definitely calmed him down those other times, and he listened a hell of a lot better for the rest of the class.

Not last night. He fought her. And it was NOT GOOD. First he was doing that loud dog-screaming that they do when they are upset. She wasn't hurting him-- it's just part of his power struggle. But the sound made some customers come over and watch the whole thing through the windows. Other dogs in the class started to freak out and whine and bark at the sound. I started to feel the stress of it; I was embarrassed that MY DOG was the one creating all this fuss and taking up so much of the trainer's time. I felt really bad for the other dog owners and dogs in the class.

And then, Indy struggled and jumped up and bit her. HARD. I couldn't believe it. The trainer kept working on him, though...holding him down and making him submit to her no matter what, all while assuring everyone she wasn't hurt that bad, it's not the first time a dog has bit her during a challenge like this... but it didn't change the fact that I had to sit there with Greg and watch her bleed all over the floor and on Indy's fur. It was FUCKED UP.

Finally it was time to get everyone out in the aisles to do the training drills, so the trainer went to bandage up her arm and all of that. As I was leaving the training ring, this old man who had been watching the class through the window--and saw the whole thing-- approached Greg and I as we walked Indy out of the ring to follow the rest of the class. By this point, I was crying. I couldn't help it. It was a shitty day at work, I was stressed out to begin with, and then this had to happen...yeah, I was upset.

The guy says, "I don't think that was right of her to do that." We thought he was making a joke or something, but he kept talking. I handed Indy's leash to Greg and asked him to take him, because I really needed a minute to myself to calm down. This jackass guy then says to me: "That was not right. You let her throw your dog around like that?"

I said, "She was getting him to obey and listen--she was training him!"

He makes a face and says, "No, no...she was abusing that dog. I wouldn't let someone throw my dog around and make him holler like that!"

"Well I don't think she was abusing him!" I said in a hostile voice. I ran away and cried in the aisle with the cat toys for a few minutes until I got it together enough to join up with the class again. Why do some people insist on giving their opinions on things like that??

So that's how Indy's final class was. He was also the first dog to move during the sit/stay and down/stay competitions; he really seemed to be the class failure. He was the one who needed to go on to summer school. Or rather, ME, the owner, needed to go back to school, because I was the one who failed. No bad dogs, remember? Only bad owners.

I am having trouble looking Indy in the eye right now. Last night I was just horrified at what he did. He was not aggressive at all, I should mention, after the fact...he really only bit her as part of his struggle to escape her grip. But he still stayed defiant, and not twenty minutes after the biting incident, he was back to being "Fuck you guys, I'm doing THIS" Indy again. Like it never happened. Now a dog like Hailie would be mortified by something like that--she'd cower and her tail would be tucked down with sad eyes. She is a dog who wants to please her owners, and readily learns new tricks. NOT INDY, though! He's like teflon. Can't get much to stick at all.

Dog people out there-- have you ever had to deal with crap like this with a certain dog before? How the hell did you remain calm? I feel like an emotional ball of mess over this one. How do you not take it personally? That's the part I am not wired to do, so I could use some help with the re-wiring process.

Fuckin' dogs. They are so lucky they're cute. It's the only thing saving Indy from beat-downs on a regular basis these days, really!

So here's what happened. I did a Yahoo Images search on the phrase, "Milk Parade," and I thought I would get at least one picture of some milk cartons walking down a street with balloons and streamers, or at least some kids dressed like milk cartons, being in some parade. You know, like if their school was participating in Dairy Appreciation Week or something. At the VERY least, I thought I would find a picture of someone drinking milk while watching a parade.

Those are the images you think you'll find when you do a search like this.

Instead, I was at first surprised and then filled with much glee when I found this picture while performing this search:


I guess this guy has something to do with a band called Milk Parade. Huh. I don't think I've ever heard of them. And when I listened to them, honestly I have to say they just aren't my style. Mostly, I am upset that I don't hear any reference to milk OR parades in their Untitled songs. And I don't know what that guy has to do with any of this. Maybe he is the Marshall of the Milk Parade? Look at those teeth, and that hair. I don't think he would make the ideal candidate for Marshall of the Milk Parade. Sorry. I just don't. I'd pick someone with all their teeth, I know that much. Broken and missing teeth just doesn't do it for me when it comes to milk-related festivities.

At this point you might be wondering why I was looking for "Milk Parade" pictures in the first place. I guess I can tell you, although it's really stupid.

It's because of yesterday's national holiday. Martin Luther King Jr. Day. I was reading some article about the celebrations of his life, and then I ended up reading more about him and some of those great quotes. Honestly, that man was amazing. Simply an incredible spirit and a once-in-a-lifetime type of intellect. I was reminded of what he did for this country, and sad that this was the first Martin Luther King Day without Coretta Scott King (she died last year). My point is, I was reflecting and being absolutely reverant about the man yesterday. I am not trying to be disrespectful of him when I say that the holiday reminds me of milk.

It's because of those pervasive initials. Everywhere I look, I see it abbreviated to "MLK Day". So I add the "i" in, automatically. In my head, I hear "Milk Day" when it's a day that has nothing at all to do with milk. I think this is sad. He was a great man, and because we as a society are in such a damn hurry all the time, we need to abbreviate whatever we can and the result is people end up with a strong milk-association when they see pictures of Martin Luther King, Jr. or even hear a few words of the "I Have a Dream" speech. The words trigger some strange impulse to go find some milk. And preferably cookies to go along with it.

There was a huge electronic road sign over the weekend that was set up to remind drivers of the "MLK PARADE" that was going to take place yesterday. When I saw it, I pointed out the upcoming "Milk Parade" to Greg as we drove by, and since then I have been saying that phrase in my mind. Milk Parade, Milk Parade, Milk Parade! Parade of Milk. The Marching of the Milks. The Two-Percent Promenade. White Days and Creamy, Wholesome Nights: A Tribute to Milk. The Soy and Rice Milk Alternative Procession. Cortege of Calcium.

So that's all I have to talk about right now. God Bless Martin Luther King, Jr., and then, I guess, God can go ahead and bless milk, too.

Being sick is the worst. I have some kind of flu/cold/virus/whatever that is making me feel like absolute crap. Greg had it first, and now it's my turn. Yuck.

Anyway, since I am talking about things that are the "worst," let's take a look at some things I found online that are the Wurst: Oh, little girl...you shouldn't be riding that sausage at such a young age. Great. Now I threw up in my mouth.

Check out that crazy horny butcher! He's trying to pull a fast one. Or, get a fast one when she lifts it up.
And with that...I leave you now to go back to bed and try to get this fever down. All this wurst-shit isn't helping matters.

It's January 8, 2007 and this photo has not gotten any less hilarious.

It’s sunny out and today I believe it is expected to go up to 73 degrees. I’ve been here for almost 9 years and every now and then, I still feel amazed at the winter weather here. My snapdragons in the garden are thriving; I can wear a T-shirt in the middle of the afternoon and be OK. It’s kind of cool.

On the other hand, I also have days when I remember that it’s January and there is no hope of seeing any snow on my yard anytime soon. I don’t know why that’s a bummer, but it is. I hated the frozen car doors, windshield scraping and that painful cold-shiver I’d get sometimes no matter how many layers of clothes I had on. Snow as an adult in NJ sucked ass. But then there was snow as I remember it as a younger Lisa, and that snow was pretty sweet.

I’m thinking of sledding, specifically. We had a wooden sled with the red metal runners forever, and that thing worked pretty well for most of our sledding needs, but things took on a whole new level of awesome when we got a toboggan for Christmas one year.

It was electric blue with a bright yellow rope, and it was just one molded piece of plastic. Trish and I loved it. It went so much faster than the old wooden sled, and never sank down into wet snow as much as the metal blades on that old thing. If we rubbed the bottom of it with wax paper, it went even faster. It was easy to steer, too, as long as you got the knack of leaning at the right time. Luckily, my sister and I were not retarded and we figured that out quickly.

We used to go to Beacon Hill to sled; it was a country club with a golf course that had massive hills and no shortage of places to hurt yourself in the snow. The big kids would go to the top of the hill, from which you could see the NYC skyline, and sled down, but I don’t think I ever managed to get brave enough to do that. Plus, there was an urban legend going around that some kid had sledded down from the top of that hill and went so fast and so far that he went right out into the traffic on Leonardville Road and got splattered by a car. So yeah, that kept a few of the more wussy children from trying the big hill — myself included. Still, Beacon Hill was a good spot.

My favorite places were Holmdel Park and the field/ woodsy area over near Kristen’s house. Holmdel Park was cool because of the sheer number of kids there. We would always see someone we knew, and it was fun to go to the lodge where they had a giant fire going in the fireplace and buy hot chocolate. As I got older, the park was the best place to go if you wanted to flirt with guys from other schools. Because, you know, we were so sexy in those snow pants with our wind-burned faces and red, runny noses. Woooo. Still, it was a lot of fun.

Why is it that my favorite memories of snow involve people getting hurt? Because that’s what I remember the most: the injuries, the tears, the crying and screaming. I’m sick, maybe. But it’s usually very entertaining to witness a kid-injury. I can’t help it. I laugh.

Here’s a few of the best ones:

• My friend’s brother Jason riding straight into a tree and slamming his face into the bark. He ended up with a bloody nose, and he had a huge scrape on his cheek. He was crying, and it was funny because he was always so tough—older brother and all—and there he was, crying like a little girl. Awesome.

• A girl riding through a temporary fence when we were sledding at the construction site of a new house. That fence ripped right off the post and she took it with her. I can’t remember any blood, but she was crying. Also awesome. You’ve got to see a kid take out a fence sometime in your life, if you haven’t already.

• My best friend’s sister flying through the air on her sled and landing hard in a ditch. There was a thump and a loud moaning-cry. She was sore, but not really injured, which was good because she was just a little kid and all. But we had to walk her home and scream at the older boys who were making fun of her. This one was awesome because her dad drove back over to the hill and yelled at the boys who were ‘laughing at his daughter.’ It was great, trust me.

• The time that a kid apparently broke his ankle on the hill at Holmdel Park. I didn’t see it, but I heard the scream he did. It was funny. Later, the paramedics came and took him off the hill. It caused quite a scene, and there was much crowding-around. I’ll bet some sick bastard kids wanted to get close to said broken ankle to see if bone was sticking out. Yeah, I would bet money on that, especially since I was one of them.

• It’s not really a sledding memory, but there was the time this little girl threw up in the snow after getting off the school bus, and a kid we called Tadpole laughed and called her “Puke Girl.” Later in the day, we drove past that spot in the car on the way to the A&P, and the puke was still there. Awesome! Snow puke!

Well, that’s it for now. What are you favorite snow memories? Did you ever see a cool injury while out there in the pristine, glistening winter wonderland? Tell me about it. I could use the giggle.

Let it be known that I am not what you'd call a wizard in the kitchen. I'm not even a minor witch. In fact, when I am in there, stupid things are bound to happen.

Brace yourself. Here comes the part where I show you my vomit:
OK...it only looks like a puddle of puke. It's actually a butterscotch chip cookie from the ungodly batch I attempted to bring into being last night.

I tried SO HARD to not have this happen. Around Christmas, I used this same Tollhouse cookie recipe to make chocolate chip cookies that also came out this flat and transparent. They were disgusting. I blamed myself at the time; I figured maybe the butter was too warm when I blended it with the sugars. Or, maybe I over-beat it and made it too smooth. Then I blamed the oven, thinking the actual temperature was way off. And finally, the truth came out: it was the RECIPE.

Greg reminded me that I had used this same recipe before and the cookies had not come out as thick, chewy, delicious pillows of sugary sin, but rather as flattened cookie imposters. I didn't remember them that way-- I thought the previous two times I had used this recipe had resulted in pretty decent cookies. I trust his judgement on this. I bet they were merely passable, but in my addled brain they were "pretty good" because I was overly impressed with myself for baking in the first place.

Anyway, that was at Christmas. And last night, like a moron, I tried the recipe again.

I really believed my error with the chocolate chips was the butter/ overbeating factor. So I changed that up and was super careful about how I prepared the dough. Somehow, the cookies came out looking and feeling a lot like oily, fake vomit that you'd buy to freak someone out as a third-grade prank. They actually fell apart as I tried to scrape them off the baking sheet. They were the definition of SAD.

You'd THINK I would learn and not use the same recipe that caused trouble before. You'd THINK I would spend some time online looking up decent cookie recipes. God knows there are thousands of sites out there (including the one I downloaded the godforsaken recipe from, of course). You'd THINK I might even remember to look on the freaking chocolate chip bag for the Tollhouse recipe that's always printed there. No. Didn't happen.

Honestly, I don't know what happens up there in my brain sometimes. I can be following a recipe to the letter and STILL make the strangest errors.

Like last week, when I was making a "Cheesy Chicken Bake" from a silly little Campbell's recipe card I pulled out of Redbook. I gathered all the ingredients and proudly went about making this delightful casserole for me and Greg, happily chopping fresh veggies to add in and shredding my own cheese. I was COOKING! Huzzah for me!

But when it came time to check on the dish in the oven, it appeared so...watery. Not at all like the picture on the card. I called Greg in to look at it, and he said the following: "How much water did you add to this? This is with cream of chicken soup, and it looks this watery?"

OH NO.

I had used chicken BROTH.

Somehow, I read the card wrong. It clearly stated in black and white: Cream of Chicken Soup. My brain took these words, shuffled them around and spit them back out as Chicken Broth. I don't know why I did that. It does make me feel like an illiterate bastard. Someday, when the adoption agency is doing its homestudy to see if we would be fit parents to adopt a child, they will find out about this stuff and deny us a kid. Can't have someone this dumb raising a baby. They'll come to my door and sternly stamp the word "UNFIT" on my forehead in permanent ink. I know it.

Well, just to let you know, the casserole turned out OK. We found the actual cream of chicken soup in the cabinet and added it in. Sure, the rice and vegetables were overly soggy by the time it was ready, but it was still edible. (Thanks to Greg, I should say. At least there is one thinking adult in this house to take care of things and clean up my messes.)

So, that's it. I'm done. No more cooking/baking for me. At least until I figure out how to read again. Or get some fancy brain-shots in my head, or undergo some sort of Flowers for Algernon surgery. We need to hide the butter and the chicken broth!

What's this?! A new post to my blog? No, it can't be! I mean, I had all but given up on ever blogging again. And here I am writing some junk again. I'm glad, because it really seemed like The End for this blog for a little while now!

I just haven't felt like blogging. I know I have no one to answer to, and if I decide to not-blog, that is totally my own business. I think I sometimes expect myself to blog all the time. Shit on that. Truth be told, I don't always want to blog. Sometimes I don't even read the other blogs-- which feels like blasphemy because it's such a part of my standard routine for the past 3+ years-- because my brain just isn't pointed in that direction during those times. Anyway, this New Year I resolve to let go of guilt, obligation and mental clutter.

OK! So...that being said, maybe I should list some of this junk that has been eating up my brain. Maybe, by making it public, I will make myself accountable. I've spent a lot of time not acting, so here are the things I need to get up off my ass and figure out/ do this year:

1) Write more. When I get a story idea, I should jot down the basics as soon as I can, and then write it soon afterwards. Stop stalling and just WRITE.
2) Stop being critical of my writing. If I am constantly editing my own writing as I write, it kind of sucks the fun out of it. But I am one of those people who feels like every sentence I write sometimes is full of grammatical errors, cliches and overused adjectives. I feel sub-par. So that means I often just put off writing altogether. I am going to stop doing this. Write and then edit it later--simple, right?
3) Find magazines, journals, websites to submit my short stories to. I get overwhelmed easily by the mountains of publications out there, and need to just calm down and sort through it all to find a bunch of them that would fit my writing.
4) Re-submit the children's book to at least five more publishers this year.
5) Write query letters. Lots of them.
6) Find potential agents and begin to bug them. Don't panic over the sheer number of literary agencies out there-- just do my homework and find the best ones for my type of fiction.
7) Stop stressing myself out regarding writing! Just remember how much fun it always was to sit down and write when I was younger...and go with it. Don't do it for money, attention, competition or just to meet my own crazy expectations.

There are other things that I'd like to accomplish this year that do not revolve around writing-- it's just that the writing ones are the most crucial for me. I need to get serious about exercising and eating right (I just read an article about heart disease in women and freaked myself out); I want to throw out and get rid of all the extra junk I have (clothes, CDs, books, movies, and other miscellaneous crap) so our house feels more streamlined, comfortable and easy to live in; I want to be the best wife and friend to Greg that I can be; and I want to begin the job search in earnest.

Now that I have written this crap out here, I feel a little more organized. I think I'll come back and read this post whenever I forget or get sidetracked. It's so easy for me to get sidetracked. I am SO forgetful and so easily overwhelmed these days. It's weird. I feel older than I am. And I don't even have a kid yet. Oy vey.

Here's to a kick-ass 2007. :)