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.