At least I don't have to teach them long division.

Is there such a thing as a low-maintenance dog?
I ask because last night, Foxie Doxie dug around in my purse, finding a pack of gum. He promptly took the package to his pillow in the living room, which turned out to be a tactical error. I heard the sound of teeth on paperboard, and removed the gum from his jaws.

But! Had there been three pieces of gum in the pack? Or two? Because there were only two.

Dammit, Foxie.

We've been down this road before. About two years ago, Foxie ended up at the vet after eating an entire package of Trident. The vet was full of all sorts of cautions - lowered heart rate, liver damage, kidney damage - all due to xylitol. This shit is real. But what happened to Foxie?

He dropped trow in front of me and a vet tech, pooping a colorful array of orange gum and Trident wrappers. No sweat.

He's so street.

But last night? Well, it was Orbit gum, which has a higher xylitol content than Trident. And I was paranoid. So I poured hydrogen peroxide down Foxie's throat.

He was not pleased. But he didn't throw up.

I got some more peroxide down him, at the cost of some of the skin on my hand. But still? Nothing, except a very apparent disdain for his mama.

Finally, at 11:30, My Guy called his sister, the vet. We all figured that Foxie would be fine if he only ate one piece of gum, but he'd probably end up puking eventually.

He never threw up. But this morning, he got his revenge by tracking 27 pounds of mud inside my house.

I got my revenge by giving him a bath.

Lil' Frankfurter felt neglected and - I am not kidding - demanded a bath as well.

Then? Lil' Frank proceeded to bleed all over the house because the dry air is making his crazy-sensitive skin even more crazy-sensitive than usual. All four paws feature bloody pads. Neosporin and quiet time were in order.

And yes, I fell asleep on the couch with my dog. Is it any wonder I am exhausted?

Someday, I'll be the lady who insists you view all 4,278 of my vacation slides.

Because a girl can dream.

I have a bad habit (just one, of course) of not uploading photos off my camera for, like, 27 years. So, when I dumped pics onto my laptop this week, it was like an episode of "This is Your Life."

This is me when I was sick, sick, sick around the first of the year. I sat with a blanket or my collar over my mouth for about five days because it felt better to breathe that way. My Guy was kind enough to capture this moment.

Thank you, My Guy. Note, too, the healing power of puppy poultices. And don't worry, I've taken down my Christmas tree.

Here, we have the most awesome icicle. Massive snow in early January, followed by fantastic warm temperatures created this beaute. Sadly, these elements also created leaks in both my kitchen window and the ceiling of my bedroom. Home ownership? You suck.

In an attempt to brighten up yet another round of winter weather, I doubled my dishes. I now have settings for eight, so c'mon over for dinner. And don't these colors make you happy?

They make me almost as happy as this.

I'm not sure why I took a picture of this. It just seemed important at the time, because I snapped more than one. Note that it has to be Skippy and it has to be Extra Chunky. Accept no imitations!
Finally? You know that 90 percent of my photos featured the dogs. Because I'm all cool and non-cat lady like that.
Oh, that sweet, sweet face.

I'm going to refrain from posting the photo of Lil' Frank taking a dump on the deck. (Why? Why? Why did I feel the need to capture that moment?). Because I love you that much.

All images courtesy of me, my lack of artistic vision, and my questionable taste.

Lil' Frank, mentor.

I'm just gonna come out and say it.

Corporate Behemoth is stressing me out.

Or, rather, I'm choosing to be stressed out by Corporate Behemoth. It's making me brittle. Brittle and crabby. Brittle and crabby, yet subdued.

Today, I came home to find that Lil' Frankfurter, little angel that he is, discovered that by gnawing on the cushion in his kennel, he can access mounds and mounds and mounds of fiberfill. This is also the same sort of fiberfill that I occasionally find in his poop. It's the sort of fiberfill that makes his mama crazy.

Along with the cushion destruction, there's also Lil' Frank's proven ability to chew on his blankets and the fact that he's gone through six water dishes in the last year. Water dishes of hard plastic. He gets mad and breaks the brackets that hold them to the kennel.

Yes, my dog looks like a rabid hound from the lowest depths of Dante's Inferno. Yes, my dog weighs seven pounds. Yes, that's a lot of destruction per pound of dachshund.

So, I cleaned up the fiberfill and inspected the latest water dish. Then, I realized that the kid is sending me a message: he's just annoyed with his daily surroundings and routine. He needs more enrichment.

Like me!

So, basically, Lil' Frank just trashed his cubicle.

I'm now having visions of really sticking it to Corporate Behemoth. I'll chew up all the papers in my cube and leave the frustration confetti everywhere. I'll break my office chair and knock my monitor off the desk. And then, when I'm reprimanded? I'll follow Lil' Frank's lead and look innocent and adorable.

Sounds like a plan, right? Right?

Tribes.

This weekend, I got together with two of my college roommates. It's good to have friends who know all about you and like you anyway.

We talked. And ate. And saw Mamma Mia, featuring the guy who played Jack on Days of Our Lives back in the day when all activity in the sorority house ceased from 12:30 to 1:30. It was back when Marlena was possessed by that demon and was levitating and stuff. Good times.

But back to the food.

Saturday wasn't that bad. I ate a veggie burger for lunch and a Greek salad for dinner. But Sunday?

Well, Sunday, our hostess with the mostest made pancakes and bacon.

Mmm, bacon. I realized that night that yum! My pajamas smelled like bacon. And who doesn't love to dream about bacon?

But just how much do you love bacon? Because Sunday afternoon, in lieu of lunch, we traversed to an old-time ice cream parlor, where we, uh, did enough damage to make any Jenny Craig consultant faint.
Sundaes. Malts. Deliciousness.

But ... there was a piece of bacon on the floor. Just left there. So we asked ourselves: just how much do you love bacon? Do you love bacon so much that you'd eat floor bacon? Maybe floor bacon is a specialty in some eastern European country where everybody only has one eyebrow. It could be delicious. You just don't know.
And ... we still don't know. Our love of bacon, sadly, has its limits. As do my attempting-not-to-get-caught photography skills. Because it's rude to take photos of floor bacon.

We rounded out Sunday with fried chicken. And yes, I did Shred with Jillian Michaels today. I probably should have done it three times instead of once. I realized this weekend that my days of eating whatever and it all coming out in the wash, so to speak, are over.

Oh, sweet, sweet metabolism. I hardly knew ya.

Now? I think I'm safely a member of the Eat It / Work It Off Tribe.

It kind of sucks.

I also think I'm a member of the Sleep On An Air Mattress / See Your Chiropractor Daily For A Week Tribe.

These tribes? Not as fun as the Greek Letter Tribe where I met my partners in crime. Thus far, there are no mystery dates, no t-shirts for every event ... but also no hangovers. And since I've been a member of the Sunscreen Every Freakin' Day Tribe since college, things aren't looking too bad.

But working off the sundae and the bacon and the fried chicken? I'm also a member of the Jillian Michaels Is Trying To Kill Me Tribe.

Ivan Drago would call his mom.

Remember my theory about the evil Russian ice skater actually being the evil love child of that dude from Def Leppard, Barry Manilow, and Wayne Gretsky?

Yep.

I was talking to my mom and we were comparing notes on The Bolympics ... and also noting that we will never, ever pronounce it properly after Poochie's infatuation with The Bolympics started in 1984 ... before he'd fully mastered the English language.

Anyway.

Mom: That Push-whatever guy?

Me: Yeah?

Mom: He reminds me of someone.

Me: I know!

Mom: But I can't quite put my finger on it. But I know him.

Me: I've got it all figured out.

Mom: Yeah?

Me: Yeah. He's the guy from Def Leppard ...

Mom: I don't know who that is.

Me: I know. Stick with me. It's the guy from Def Leppard, Wayne Gretsky, and ... well, your favorite artist and mine, Barry Manilow.

Mom: (shocked silence)

Me: Mom?

Mom: Oh. My. God.

Me: Mom?

Mom: Oh. Shit.

Me: Mom?

Mom: You're so right. I don't want Barry to be involved in anything so evil, but you're right!

And ... scene!

What would Ivan Drago do?

Last night’s Olympic men’s figure skating seemed like something right out of the Cold War – the handsome American underdog fighting the evil Russian.

Sound familiar?

Perhaps you’ve heard of a little movie called Rocky IV?

Now, I don’t think Evan Lysacek was trying to avenge Apollo Creed’s death. But really? Yevgeny Plushenko was not gracious after winning the silver, behind Lysacek’s gold.

This is the frickin’ Olympics. (Or, as Poochie used to call them, the Bolympics, the games of the 23rd Winter Bolympiad.) Don’t be a pouty loser.

I know I sound like my mama, but if you’re not a real champion if you can’t be gracious in defeat. Sure, Ivan Drago didn’t have a wide emotional range, but at least when Rocky kicked his ass (oops – spoiler!), he didn’t whine to the press.

But the more they show Plushenko, the more I think, “Hey, I know that guy!”

First? I thought he looked like Def Leppard’s Phil Collen.

Close.

But then? Then, I realized that no, Plushenko is actually the hateful love child of Cullen...

Your favorite musical artist and mine, Barry Manilow...

And a back-in-his-feathered-hair-glory-days Ice God Wayne Gretsky.

And that’s pretty much the extent of my Olympic coverage. I just can’t take the drama.

Lovers forever, face to face.

I started out my day with an 8 a.m. dentist appointment. This dentist is within walking distance ... of the apartment I lived in when I first moved to my fair city 11 years ago.

Now? It's a bit of a haul. But I'm lazy and don't want to find a new dentist. And I figure that it's only twice a year anyway.

So I hauled ass to get there by 8 a.m. and was quite proud of myself when I pulled into the parking lot at 8:01. Brilliance, thy name is Cha Cha.

I walked into the dentist's office. The receptionist recognized me immediately. "Susan! Good morning!"

Now, I was still sleepy, but I wasn't that out of it. "Umm, no. I'm Cha Cha."

"Ohhh," said the receptionist. "Take a seat."

A few minutes later, the hygienist came out. "Good morning, Susan. C'mon back."

"Umm, I'm Cha Cha?"

"Oh, right. C'mon back."

I was leery. But she had my chart and all the pertinent details were right. She even remembered that I'm freakishly sensitive to cold. I was doing OK until the soft rock hits radio station they were playing went right from Hall and Oates' "She's Gone" - again, brilliant! - to Don Henley and Stevie Nicks singing "Leather and Lace."

And all I could think about was My Boyfriend Dave Grohl and Will Ferrell and their dynamic interpretation of this classic.

Have you ever tried to stifle a laugh while you're getting your teeth cleaned?

Umm, yeah.

I wasn't terribly successful, and the hygienist thought I was in pain with my cold sensitivity. "Oh, Susan, are you OK? Here - let's rinse."

And then the song was over and the dentist came in and asked me, "Susan, how are you doing?"

I just went with it and got the hell out of there, so that I could get to Corporate Behemoth at a decent time and cry at my desk.

Obviously? Susan's had a very full day.

Some loves are just that pure.

Last night, I had dinner with a friend and her three young children. We ate tacos amidst a chorus of "Mom! Mom! Mom! I want milk! Mom! Lookit me! Mom! Mom!"

And a member of the chorus was a 4-year-old who is, by all accounts, the future Mr. Cha Cha. He's an accountant trapped in a little boy's body, a very serious kid who just makes my heart melt.

Last night, he did not disappoint.

Future Mr. Cha Cha looked up from his tacos and said thoughtfully, "I love boogers."

The rest of his family sort of ignored his comment while I laughed, picturing future blog posts.

Later, while building a pelocopter (not a helicopter - geez, get it right), my future husband got that same calm, thoughtful look. Only this time, he proclaimed, "I love tacos."

I called him out.

"Now, wait a minute," I said. "A little while ago, you said you love boogers. Now you say you love tacos. Which one do you love the most?"

My future mate smiled without a trace of embarrassment or worry.

"I love boogers."

His older sister and his mother, my dear friend, both nodded.

"Well, it's true," said the most patient and accepting mother in the universe. "We think it's gross, but he does love boogers."

My future husband smiled contentedly and went back to building his pelocopter.

People spend years and years and years in therapy, hoping to get a taste of that kind of self-awareness and acceptance.

Now do you see why I fell in love just a bit more?

Keep me off TV. Really.

It's that time of year again.

Yes. DOGSHOW!!

That's right - the Westminster Kennel Club is holding their 134th dog show. The finals are tomorrow night - I trust your DVR is set. Mine is.

I'm sure you remember last year's winner, Stump. We loved her!

Last year, Foxie Doxie and I watched DOGSHOW! and the hideous Pedigree "I know how to sit. But I don't know how I ended up in a shelter" ads. And I cried. And then, that weekend? Lil' Frankfurter came to live with us.

Coincidence? Umm ... sure.

Lil' Frank has pretty much taken over the place. But he has no interest in watching DOGSHOW! with me and Foxie. He's too busy collapsing from Kong-induced exhaustion. But me and Foxie?

So, yet again, we're watching DOGSHOW!. And I cried at the Pedigree ads. And tried to explain to My Guy why dogs without homes, mistreated dogs, bother me so much. He was very sympathetic until it came to my logical conclusion that I needed to bring home more dogs.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Lil' Frank was literally sitting on his head while we were having this conversation.

My Guy suggested volunteering at a shelter. As if I wouldn't come home with another dog. Right.

I know that I need another dog like I need a hole in my head. But really?

I'm a sucker. And I think of all the dogs out there who don't have homes, who just want somebody to love, who don't understand how they ended up where they are. And I feel responsible.

This, of course, is the perfect segue to talk about my upcoming appearance on Hoarders.

So, I'm going resist the urge to dog-up and keep it at two. But really?

Really, I'm the person who makes the beeline to the dog when I walk in a house. They're often the most interesting people in the room.

This year, I'm pulling for the black dog who looks like a mop. It's all about personality.

But really?

Look at the old dogs. Look at the not-so-perfect dogs that other people overlook. Give 'em a chance. And prevent me from showing up on Hoarders with 38 animals. OK?

Leather and lace.

Tonight, I'm showing my love by making My Guy meatloaf.

Yes.

He's been talking about it for weeks. I am dating A Dude. A Carnivorous Dude.

Have I mentioned lately that I only eat meat about once a week? And now I'm about to submerge my hands into raw ground turkey (sorry, can't do the beef) to form it into a loaf-type configuration?

Still, it seems like an easy way out compared to all of the "Buy their love!" retail messages about Valentine's Day. Truth be told, I don't want flowers or chocolates or jewelry today. It would seem like something done out of obligation.

But meatloaf? That's love, baby. Real love. And yes, I'm throwing in garlic mashed potatoes. Because that's how I roll.

Since I can't make all of you meatloaf, I will instead share this inspired video. My two boyfriends - Will Ferrell and Dave Grohl - together at last!



Happy Valentine's Day.

I'm so threatening.

I feel like I should have something hil-AR-ious to post. I mean, c'mon - I haven't posted in three days. Surely, something vaguely entertaining has happened in those 72 hours.

Alas? No.

Lessee ... working. Collapsing after said work and sleeping for almost 10 hours on a school night. Working again. Eating awesome Italian food with My Guy, then watching the Olympic opening ceremonies (yawn). Cleaning. Being ignored by the shoe salesmen at Nordstrom because I was wearing a vintage Iowa Hawkeye t-shirt and three-year-old Sketchers. I know I'm not cool, but maybe I would have liked to try on those green pumps. Think about it.

So, yeah.

How do you keep those occasional day-to-day blahs from making your writing blah? I refuse to get into the minutiae. Twitter, I am looking at you. And Facebook. And my dear friend who learned how to merge the two and posted - I am not kidding - 104 Facebook status updates in 48 hours.

Help me. Or I might have to start writing about dryer lint, in all its intricate, interesting glory. Posts and posts about dryer lint.

You ask questions. I make shit up.

OK, not really.

So, remember when I was all obsessing over Miss America?

Iron Needles asked the question on everybody's mind: Why is there a Miss Canada in the photo? Did I miss Canada (Ar Ar Ar...miss Canada!) being made a state???

Dude. I know! My friend Google tells me that Miss Canada actually competed in the Miss America pageant from 1947-1963. Who's Miss Canada? Well, she's the fairest girl in Canada ... standing there for Canada and the world to see!

Next up? In response to my comp day recap, loyal reader Cyndi B. asked, BTW...what dog toys did you buy? I'd be willing (not happy, but willing!) to spend $40 for toys that are indestructible for the crazy beagles. They destroy every toy I buy!

Gurl, don't I know it.

I bought Jerry the Giraffe.

He's a gentle soul. And a Good Karma Rope Toy from Jax and Bones. So far, Jerry is holding up nicely, just like the pet boutique lady said he would. This might be, though, because Lil' Frankfurter is focusing all of his efforts on his new Monsterpull.

Yes.

We have the green one. And now we have the one-eyed pink one, too. The green one has lasted more than a year, so I'm a believer - just know that your dog will probably feel compelled to remove the squeakers.
A word of warning: Monsterpulls are made by the same company that makes Pentapulls. They are not the same thing.
Not.
At.
All.

Monsterpulls rules. Pentapulls are for wusses. And yes, I realize Lil' Frank looks first like a mighty Viking hunter and then like a cold-hearted serial killer. That's my kid!

Finally, my imaginary friend asks: Cha Cha, is your Jiffy layer cake / opossum surprise dessert really all that?

Uh, yeah. Let's refer to a text message I received from my friend KG on Saturday morning:

Dear Cha Cha,

I'm helping my friend Pammy today. As a thank you she made a cake recipe from your blog, minus the hooker opossum. The cake is some good shit. I will be sitting on my couch with the pan later.

And that's all I have to say about that. Next question?

Tryin' to get the feeling again.

I took a comp day today.

I liked it.

I ran a few errands. I spent $40 (Forty! Dollars!) on two (TWO!) hopefully indestructible dog toys and watched Lil' Frankfurter wear himself out. I got a massage. I watched three episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

I want to do it all again tomorrow.

I am fighting burnout. I haven't been writing about it because I don't want to give it breath and legs and make it even more real. I know that in some ways, this is making it worse. I know that it's not normal to sit at your desk and want to cry. I know this.

I thought I would be fighting the urge to check my work e-mail all day. I was both relieved and horrified to realize that I didn't think about it all day. I am terrified to think about what my inbox might look like in the morning. I don't know what would be worse - for it to be overflowing or filled only with the sound of crickets. I don't want to be overwhelmed, but I also don't want to realize I'm suffering for a need that isn't there.

I'm trying to hold on to my massage hangover.

These are my people.

My Guy and I watched the Super Bowl with some friends and their 4-year-old twins. It was educational, and I feel like I really grew as an intellectual.

Dad: Honey, slow it down with the crackers.
4-year-old boy: Yeah, they don't have any fiber.
4-year-old girl: They won't help me poop?
Me: ... (hiding head behind sofa cushion as I convulse)

The Denny's chicken commercial was my favorite ... you know, the one with the silent chicken scream in space? Yeah.

Of course, I also laughed heartily and sincerely at this joke from a pair of 4-year-olds:

4-year-old boy: What did the zero say to the eight?
Me: I dunno ... what?
4-year-old girl: NICE BELT!

Bwah ha ha!

Cleanliness is next to dogliness.

I've been working like a dog. An ugly dog with no personality. So, really, I've been working like a opossum.

Yeah, I said it.

For some reason, all of this work has made me all itchy to nest. I finally combined the poster and frame that have been leaning - together - against my wall for several weeks. I cleaned off my craft table. I organized my knitting (size 6 bamboo needle, where are you?). And ... I cleaned out my medicine cabinet.

See, last night, in a burst of Cleaning Shit, I scraped a nice chunk of skin off my thumb. Oww. And so, as is my custom, I went to the bathroom sink and prepared the combination hot water / Bactine / Polysporin / Finding Nemo band-aid cure-all that has served me well. But in the midst of my Jesus-why-won't-this-stop-bleeding panic, I realized that there was a slight problem with my first-aid supplies.

My Bactine expired in 2005. My Polysporin? 2004.

I can't believe I've managed to keep myself alive for this long.

So, after eating Indian food last night, My Guy and I didn't go on our usual date-night Target run. Oh, no. We went to the CVS next to the Indian restaurant and I stocked up on all manner of up-to-date first-aid supplies. Because I am one hot hot date, friends. Also? I love drug stores and find them wildly entertaining. Purchase pantyhose, a GI Joe action figure, and some Funyuns? Don't mind if I do!

So, today, I decided to go through my entire stash of drugs. The good news is that all of the three boxes of Wal-Dryl (yeah, that would be off-brand Benadryl) are still fine. The bad news is that some of my band-aids were brown because they were so old. And I threw out not one but two large bottles of calcium supplements because, well, I forgot to prevent osteoporosis in 2003.

My recordholder was a package of Tylenol that expired in 2002. And, come to find out, drugs you buy in Mexico may or may not have expiration dates. Oh, Mexican FDA - you so crazy.

Side note: Ex-Ex, I miss your parents, the Coach bags your mom bought me for every holiday, and our trips to Mexico to buy prescription drugs. That is all. That Christmas your dad bought me a year's supply of birth control pills for $19 is still my favorite holiday ever. But other than that? You suck. The end.

So, now I'm watching Hoarders and feeling more superior that usual on account of my tidy and mostly up-to-date meds. But lest you think I'm nuts? I kept the just-barely-expired prescription one-pill yeast infection treatment. Some things you just have to keep. Just in case.

Let me give you my card.

Yesterday, on my way to a chiropractic appointment, I made a pit stop in the ladies' room.

Yeah, you know this is going to be a great post.

Anyway, in the stall, there was a business card - just sitting on the little metal trash bin. You know, the sanitary personal hygiene disposal bin?

Yeah.

Tiger Jones

Professional Boxer

Amateur 0-236-7

Pro 0-32-2

Thai 2-47-3

MY RECORD SPEAKS FOR ITSELF

Telephone 555-1212

Fax 555-2222

OK, then.

My gut reaction was, "Well. I guess boxers don't e-mail."

But then I woke up and started asking the tough questions. How does the business card for a boxer end up on top of the sanitary personal hygiene disposal bin thing for secret ladypart products? In the restroom of an office building?

And does the boxer reprint his business cards with every new fight? Otherwise, he's giving out-of-date information ... information that's supposed to speak for itself.

And if his record speaks for itself, why does he even need a phone number?

And then I looked up boxing records with my friend Google. Tiger's record sucks. He's only won two bouts. Out of 329.

So, having his business card land on top of a metal sanitary secret ladyparts product trash bin disposal thingy must either be finally hitting bottom, or just another exciting adventure in a life led with great humor.

It makes me want to print up bogus business cards and leave them in random places, just to see who will e-mail me.

Why it's a good thing I live mostly anonymously in a large city where I will not be judged for my desserts.

With all of the talk lately about Jell-o and pudding and all of the awesome recipes you all have been so kind to offer, I truly had a hankerin' for my grandma's Layered Jiffy Cake Dessert. And, I was in luck - I had to take a dessert tonight to PEO.

PEO is a women's organization that provides assistance to women who want to further their educations. It's truly a wonderful group, and it's pervasive in small towns in the Midwest. My grandma, my mom, and all of my aunties are PEOs, and going to a PEO meeting in a small town is a bit of an Event. You wear a dress.

I am a member of a rogue chapter. We all hail from small towns but ended up in our fair city. We don't wear dresses. But every once in a while? We will channel our inner Small-Town Ladies.

And so it was last night as I made my grandma's dessert.

My grandma made this fairly often, and it's been my favorite for a very long time.

1 box chocolate Jiffy Cake Mix* – mix as directed and bake in a 9x13 pan for 15-20 minutes. Cool. Add 1 cup milk to 1 pkg. instant chocolate pudding and 1 pkg. instant butterscotch pudding and blend.

Now, if you're like me last night, at this point you will hear barking and - oh, yes - hissing coming from your back yard. Put down the whisk, abandoning your pudding mixture, and grab your coat and pink Disney princesses flashlight. Then, step out on the deck, grab the broom you use to sweep poop off the deck, and head toward the sound of the the barking and hissing.

At this point, discover Foxie Doxie (or the misbehaving dog of your choice) standing over a dead hooker. I mean a dead opossum. I mean a opossum who is playing dead. Your dog will refuse to leave the varmint. Realize that your dog isn't wearing a collar and so you don't have anything much to grab on to, so make several unsuccessful attempts to herd the dog with the poopy broom. Make sure that you keep a safe distance from the comatose varmint, as you'll be quite frightened to learn that playing dead includes opened eyes and a healthy dose of damn-you-need-orthodontia teeth on the part of the opossum.

The next step - and this is very important - is realizing that your other dog is standing inside at the back door, screaming. He is very upset about the goings-on in the back yard and the improper broom usage. Personally, it was at this point that I recalled a rainy night several months ago when I used the same broom to usher Foxie and yet another opossum out from underneath the deck while Lil' Frankfurter, upset by the commotion, ran around the house, dousing my floors with his nervous bladder.

Finally, use the poop broom to get the disobedient dog the hell out of the backyard and into the house. Foxie didn't seem to understand why I ushered him immediately into his kennel. But, like sifting flour, some things just have to be done.

Then, wash your hands and mix 4 cups vanilla ice cream (softened) into the pudding mixture. Spread the mixture on top of cake. Refrigerate until firm.

I don't recommend letting the pudding sit for 10 minutes while you go on varmint duty - my pudding never quite mixed properly with the ice cream. This might have been due to the fact that it was the sugar-free / fat-free pudding (never again!) or my dark and murky aura as I determined that no, my grandma wouldn't have left her PEO dessert half-done to go battle a dead hooker. I mean opossum. Grandma would have been wearing pearls, the opossum would have been scared of her (rightly so), and the dessert would have been flawless.

Serve with dollop of Cool Whip on top, sprinkle with pecan if you like.

* I have trouble finding chocolate Jiffy Cake Mix, so I just make a regular cake mix and only use about half of it – maybe make six cupcakes with the leftover batter.

He's obviously a keeper.

As I'm sure you know, this weekend was the Miss America pageant.

I love this pageant. I mean scholarship program. Love it. I'm pretty sure that Miss USA is just a dirty whore in comparison to college coed Miss America.

My Guy was kind enough to watch the pageant with me and listen to my ongoing (and oh-so-insightful) commentary. I will admit that one contestant in particular was just a bit too precious for my taste.

Me: I'm just so sick of her face!

My Guy: Maybe her talent will be suicide.

And ... scene!