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.