Follow that bird.

My 15th birthday sucked.

School was OK, but when I came home after school, I distinctly remember walking into my parents' bedroom, where the rest of my family was solemnly watching the evening news. Sammy Davis, Jr., had died. And so had Jim Henson.

I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.

Worst. Birthday. Ever.

But it turns out I wasn't alone in my grief for this stranger who seemed like a member of my family. I kind of knew that at the time, but it's been illuminated for me, thanks to a new book.

I just finished listening to the best audio book. And yes, I'm trying really, really hard to stop referring to them as "books on tape."

The audio book? Street Gang. It's the story of your favorite show and mine, Sesame Street. And the audio book (see, I did it again!)? Read by Caroll Spinney. Yep - Big Bird himself.

I was born about five years after the show debuted, and it was such a huge part of my childhood. My mom reports that one day, she overheard me reciting the alphabet - thanks to the show, I thought it was just another song, not a major developmental milestone.

But it was a big deal - like the show getting off the ground in the first place. Street Gang goes into detail about how the show came to be, and I learned a lot. It's also funny to think that it was so revolutionary. To me, it was just my favorite show.

I was occasionally thrown by the familiar voice reading the text - Spinney's voice will always be Big Bird to me, even though his natural speaking voice isn't quite the same. Hearing him read text about himself was a trip. Hearing him choke up reading about Jim Henson's sudden death about made me need to pull off the road.

But I also learned about the backgrounds of the humans on Sesame Street, and how the Muppets came to be. The book also covered the aftermath of Henson's death and that crazy "Oh, there's this whole other neighborhood around the corner!" thing that was adopted and ultimately abandoned in the late 90s.

I will be honest: I can only handle so much of Elmo's high-pitched squawk. But Street Gang made me remember all sorts of things that brought me joy. One-two-three-FOUR-five-six-seven-eight-NINE-ten-eleven-twelve!

I love this song. I'm proud to report that courtesy of my old Sesame Street record, I know all the words. Maybe this explains my love of thrifting and flea marketing.

This one was on my record, too. It made me feel crazy smart.

And who doesn't love a good play on Billie Holiday? I had this album, too.
And no, I'm not a paid spokesmodel. I just loved this book and it made me happy - and made me think of happy times. Big Bird was my favorite character and for my fourth birthday, my mom painstakingly decorated a cake that looked like a giant Big Bird head.

Best. Birthday. Ever.

What are your favorite Sesame Street memories?

Image courtesy of Muppet Wiki.

The face of evil.

Spring has finally sprung. And that means one thing: Foxie Doxie is losing his shit.

We've been going on walks, and it's painfully obvious that any leash training Foxie might have ever had is gone. Gone, like dinosaurs are gone. Totally extinct.

I can handle the "hearn Hearn HEARN!" when we're first starting out and he's excited. But it's the rabid "HEARN HEARN HEARN!" when he sees another dog that makes me crazy.

He pulls on his choke chain and pulls himself up on his rear legs. He acts like he's going to devour the dog in his sights.

I do the Dog Whisperer "tsk!" sound. I attempt to shape his rigid little body into a seated position. When that fails, I attempt to fwop him onto his side into a submission pose.

All the while, Lil' Frankfurter looks around, wondering what the big deal is.

Sometimes, I momentarily come to terms with the fact that when on a leash, Foxie is just always going to freak over other dogs, and that's just the way it is. But then I think, "No! I am the alpha of this pack! I can shape his behavior!"

But mostly? Mostly, I just try to avoid other dogs. And when I can't? I try to come up with good excuses for the other dog owners.

"We're working on training" is my perennial favorite. But sometimes, when the other dog owner thinks they're Cesar Milan and freaking stops - making Foxie's fit longer in duration - to offer "helpful" hints?

Well, a hearty "Fuck you" is always on the tip of my tongue. I can only imagine what it's like to have human kids and be subject all the crazy "advice" that anyone who's ever seen a kid on TV feels obligated to give parents. Why yes, all my best parenting advice has always come from complete strangers who don't know me or my kids. Thanks!

All of this makes me truly and deeply appreciate one group that often doesn't get the love they deserve.

Yes. I'm talking about dogs that behave even more horribly than mine.

When those dog owners apologize for their canines' behavior? And I'm all, "It's OK! Really?" Really, I mean, "Thank you! Thank you for making me feel like less of a failure! Your 85-pound dog ran across a busy street to hump my 12-pound dog, and I'm so glad! We're all better for it! Are you sure you don't want to forget a poop bag so that I can feel really superior since I always clean up after my kids? Are you sure?"

I'm hoping that with daily walks, Foxie will calm down. Maybe he'll be consistently too exhausted to lose his mind. Or maybe I just really need to start getting up early so I can walk the kids before other dogs are, you know, awake. I'd like to walk in the middle of the night to really be safe, but I've been told that's a bad idea.

Once, twice, three times a lady.

Both Poochie and I were home with the 'rents this weekend. No particular reason - just keepin' it real.

Real as in I made $10. Cash.

Poochie paid me. To eat a dog treat.

Yep.

If you have dogs, you probably know all about Greenies. They're green bones and dogs freak out over them. As my dad so accurately noted, it's like they're made of heroin.

Poochie pulled $14 out of his shirt pocket, smoothed the bills, and laid them out on the kitchen counter. "Cha Cha, I have $14 here. If you eat a Greenie, it's yours."

Stupid me? I was all, "OK!"

I guess there's something about being around my sibling that makes me revert back to, oh, about junior high.

My mom looked like she was going to pass out - laughing so hard she was crying. Before I popped the treat into my mouth, I read the ingredients list. When I got to "chicken tendon," we all sort of agreed that $14 wasn't quite enough. So Poochie ripped the treat in half and offered $10.

Side note: the Greenies site doesn't list chicken tendon, but "natural poultry flavor" in the ingredients list. Whatever. CHICKEN TENDON.

I popped the green snack in my mouth and chewed. And chewed and chewed some more. It tasted like dog food, but not disgusting. It's not like it was rotten or made of pickles or anything gross like that. It just tasted ... sort of eww. And dear God in heaven, was it ever chewy. Chewy, like Poochie began taunting me that it would be stuck in my teeth and so I'd relive the experience over and over again. However, my teeth would be clean and my breath would be oh-so-fresh.

Finally, I got the treat down. And I pocketed my winnings.

Later, I texted My Guy about my feat. Surely I am the woman of his dreams, right?

His response was simply, "Too sexy."

Damn straight.

What's the grossest thing you've ever done at the prompting of your siblings?

Going to pot.

Iron Needles made a funny comment about my former elementary school being turned into apartments for seniors:

I cannot get out of my mind the seniors using the restrooms with the little shorty commodes!

Dude, I know.

But! My elementary school was built in 1912. There were only two bathrooms in the entire building - one for boys and one for girls. These loos were on opposite sides of the basement - a basement that was split down the middle by a huge boiler room. And this boiler room was, of course, pretty well lined with asbestos insulation.

Anyway. So, it was a three-story building, right? With high ceilings and transom windows above the doors and what seemed like very steep staircases. And let me tell you - if you were in class on the third floor, you had to really, really need to hit the little girls' room before you walked all the way downstairs and then climbed all the way back up.

As for the mini-johns?

I don't recall them being shorties. Which is really too bad. Because I love the idea of the seniors using the shortie johns, too. Nevermind the fact that they gutted the building and I imagine each apartment has, you know, its own bathroom.

No, it's much better to think of the elderly sitting on a mini john and being unable to get up. Because there's one toilet on my floor at Corporate Behemoth that's maybe an inch shorter than the others. And every time I sit on it, I'm surprised and think I've gotten taller. And then I realize it's harder to get back up, especially if my quads are screaming from doing Shred with Jillian Michaels.

Luckily for Krampus, frogs don't use public restrooms. Especially not frogs with batteries in their bellies.

However, Krampus did take a tour of my past educational haunts.

Here he is lounging outside of my junior high.
And here? My high school. The tree that Krampus has so carefully climbed?
It wasn't there when I was in school. Speaking of elderly ...

In which I am judgmental and catty.

I'm helping host a baby shower for Alice. My job is the invites and RSVPs.

It's a whole new world.

First of all, did you know that you can order baby shower invites with a silhouette of a pregnant belly ... a silhouette into which you then insert your own ultrasound photo?

In keeping with the title of this post: are you freaking kidding me? Nothing gets me psyched about gathering newborn essentials like a picture of E.T.

Secondly ... I've had two invitees ask if they can bring their young children.

Oh, sweet eight-pound, six-ounce baby Jesus in your golden fleece diaper.

I know I sound like the old spinster biddy I really and truly am when I say this, but ... any invitation you receive is generally limited to the people listed on the envelope. When I receive an invitation addressed to Cha Cha, I somehow know instinctively that this does not also mean that I am to bring Foxie Doxie, Lil' Frankfurter, my cousin, and that guy pumping gas next to me at Quik Trip.

How is it that I know this and other people don't seem to? I'm really not that smart. If I can grasp this concept, you can, too!

And as for the woman who e-mailed and asked if she should get a babysitter?

I love kids. I do. And I understand that last-minute stuff comes up and sometimes bringing your kidlet can't be helped. And newborns? Everybody loves a good round of Pass The Baby.

But.

If you ever find yourself asking if you should get a babysitter, the answer is always, invariably, yes. A thousand times, yes. For the love of all that is holy, yes.

Ahem.

Krampus is a gentleman of style and panache. He understands the etiquette of the invite.

Here, he was invited to visit my elementary school, which is now an apartment building for seniors.
Evidently, Krampus was also invited to ride the OATS bus.
Rock on, Krampus. Rock on.

Snow is sexy.

We got six inches of snow on the first day of spring. Yay!

So, my friend A. and I did what any normal women would do when faced with roads that were slushy at best and completely uncleared at worst.

We went to a sex toy party.

Yes. We drove across the metro to support our friend Amelia's little home party. A trip that should have taken 25 minutes took about 45. This was fine, but meant that when we arrived, all the other partygoers had been drinking for at least half an hour.

Drunken women + sex toys + more blue margaritas = excellent blogging.

I learned several important facts last night.

1. There are lotions on the market targeted at making specific ladyparts more sensitive and - this is important - you can't use a lotion intended for one ladypart on another ladypart. The G and the C? They don't like the same salves. However, I'm not sure how a product that has, like, 27 different kinds of parabens in the ingredient list can be safe to put on your most sensitive tissues. But that's just me.

2. A dildo and a vibrator are not the same. A dildo doesn't have a motor. This sort of rocks my world because one of my favorite photos in the entire universe is all of my college roommates posing at an adult emporium in front of what we termed "The Wall of Dildos." However, I now know that we were mistaken. We've been living a lie.

3. When seated in front of a basket of crackers, I will eat most of the crackers. Yes, I know this isn't really news.

4. Adding our drunk Latina friend to your white-bread, white-girl sex party is a must. She will teach you the Spanish words of all sorts of body parts. She also has no filter. This means that when asked to taste the edible strawberry massage oil, she will recoil in horror and announce to the consultant's chagrin that "it tastes like merde!"

5. Our drunk Latina friend was so right about the edible strawberry massage oil. It tasted like ass. When I got home, I couldn't figure out what that sick, sweet smell was. Finally, I realized it was my arm - the arm where I'd sampled both the edible strawberry massage oil and the edible strawberry lotion. It smelled like what I imagine being a stripper feels like - nauseous desperation. I took a shower.

Lest you think the strawberry / merde edible concoctions ruined the evening for me, don't worry. In true English major fashion, I did order a little something: a book.

Awareness is so important.

One of my friends had her kids - ages 3 and 5 - fill out brackets for the NCAA tourney. You know, just for family fun.

The 3-year-old? Stated that she wanted Melanoma to win it all.

Melanoma.

My friend is guessing her daughter meant Villanova.