A dream deferred.

Remember a few weeks ago when I was all excited because I found my calling in life, my life's work? I was going to open SlutMart, where reality show hos could get all of their Lucite heels and coochie-baring dresses.

Sadly, I think someone beat me to the punch.

See, I ended up on a mailing list.

A mailing list for a particular catalog.

Perhaps you've heard of it ... Frederick's of Hollywood?

I know!

First of all - how could my business plan for SlutMart have been so flawed to overlook such a huge competitor - a competitor who may have actually cornered the market on hoochiewear?

Secondly - how did I get on this mailing list? Don't they realize that I'm a former mathlete who never goes anywhere without an iron-plated, industrial-strength over-the-shoulder boulder holder? I am not the target demographic for the, uh, recreational underthings that are the hallmark of the Frederick's of Hollywood empire.

I will say, however, that good ol' Fred does offer clothing and accessories for any occasion.

Need to throw on jeans and a shirt for a quick run to WalMart for cigs and baby formula? Fred will hook you up.
Or how about taking the kids to the zoo, getting in touch with your own wild side?
Nothing says, "I am an important businesslady going to an important businesslady meeting" like this little getting-down-to-business number.Tell me these wouldn't be perfect for meeting your boyfriend's parents. Seriously.Oh, crap. I actually kind of like this one.

Ideal for a job interview ...

... while these are better suited for your boyfriend's parole hearing.

And this? Well, it's just perfect with any ensemble. Because nothing says, "I am an intelligent, rational woman with goals and a strong sense of self" like a $12 necklace that's going to turn your neck green.

I know I'm being harsh ... it's just hard to let go of the SlutMart dream. And looking through Fred's stock is like planning your outfits for the elimination ceremonies of any vh1 dating show.
But really? Really, who buys this stuff? Who are these women? And how did I get lumped in with them with this stupid catalog?
All images courtesy of fredericks.com.

Hold me closer, Tony Danza.

Thanks for your well-wishes about my current incarceration. I'm glad that we can all agree that the girl who thought Chris Daughtry was a bigger deal than an Elton John / Billy Joel combo just plain ol' needed killin'.

But the show?

I will now admit something very painful.

Elton John did not bring home the bacon, nor did he fry it up in a pan. Dude phoned it in.

One of my coworkers who also attended the show interpreted it as Elton getting old and unable to really be the showman we all wanted. I felt that was very generous ... and then felt like a hateful little bitch for thinking of Elton as a lazybones instead of a possible invalid.

His set was like watching the radio. So, I watched the crowd, which was infinitely more interesting. Couples were slow dancing. Two teenaged boys became progressively less embarrassed of their dancing dad and got more and more into the music. But mostly? Mostly, it was lovely and amazing to see people step outside of themselves.

You could see the people they were when they first heard Elton's music. Those three middle-aged guys in the polo shirts? They weren't middle managers on Saturday night. They were kids listening to vinyl in the basement. And that white-haired couple giving the secret looks? They obviously made out to Tiny Dancer in the back of his Monte Carlo, back in the day.

For me? That was the real show. Not watching kids make out in a Monte Carlo - don't be gross. Seeing music transform people into the selves they were when the music initially made them so happy, those times that the music still takes them back to now.

And for the love of all that is holy, why do I not have my own Time-Life Infomerical? You know I would rock that gig. Rock. It.

And then Billy Joel came on, and his show wasn't like watching the radio, so I mostly watched him instead of the crowd. I love him ... so maybe I was one of the people transformed.

Billy Joel was my first real rock concert. Forever cementing their place in the Cool Parents Hall of Fame, our parents took me and Poochie when I was a sophomore and he was in fourth grade. That show opened up so many possibilities for me. And then? Then, my dad drove us home in a blizzard. A trip that should have taken an hour and a half took more than three hours. Poochie now refers to weather where you know you have no business driving as just "Billy Joel." As in, "I'm so glad to be home. It's totally Billy Joel out there."

What were we talking about again?

Saturday night. Right. Daughtry girl? Needed killin'. Elton John? Very ill or very lazy. Billy Joel? Rockin' the house and representin' bad driving conditions since 1991.

Why I'm in jail for homicide.

Overheard while in a very, very long line to get into the arena to see Elton John and Billy Joel - two legends with, like, 80 years in the music business - perform:

Wow, this line is insane. We're gonna hafta get here really, really early to see Daughtry! That line's gonna be even worse. I mean, their lead singer is Chris Daughtry. He was on AMERICAN IDOL!

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.