Archive for the Daily Watering Category

We are having a lazy weekend, mainly because we just returned from Disney World and Universal Studios.  Family bonding was at an all-time high, but it was the least magical of our trips because of a tropical depression and some puking.  One day we had eight inches of rain; the next we had eight inches of vomit.  Five out of our group of twelve got sick, ranging from Big Joe admitting that he “threw up in his mouth a little,” to my daughter losing it big-time.

It rained two inches on this day; the eight inches of rain and puking were yet to come. Woot!

So, we made very few plans for this weekend.  I stayed up way too late last night working on my computer, and my brain is having a hard time processing today, especially with hearing.  I heard a commercial for Hass avocados and thought it was an ad for ass hugs.  I don’t know what an ass hug is, but I’m pretty sure they shouldn’t advertise them on network tv.

At the last minute, I also invited family friends over for dinner tonight.  I explained that it was very casual; I’m fixing Taco Bell style enchiritos.  She’s confused—are we eating Taco Bell?  No.  I’m making food to taste like Taco Bell on purpose.  It’s basically burritos with enchilada sauce on top.  I don’t have any canned dog food so it won’t be authentic Taco Bell, but we’ll make do without.  She claims to be sick with walking pneumonia.  That’s a really good excuse, and I’m going to use it someday soon, like when she invites me over for Costco pasta.

Day: Saturday
Location: Giant hunting store
Time: God help me—I’ve been here for hours

I’m not that brand-conscious.  Practicality runs through my veins. I’m a huge TJ Maxx fan, and I’ve been known to buy clothes at Wal-Mart.

But right now, I’M HAVING A SNOBBY MOMENT.

I’ve been in a big-box hunting store for way too long, and I just had clothes in-hand, ready to try on, when the reality hit me:
This store purposely labeled their clothes “Bob Timberlake.”

They took a perfectly cute skirt and totally ruined it for me.  I imagined myself wearing the Bob Timberlake skirt to my Women’s Club meeting, and I had to put it back on the rack.  No Bob Timberlake for me, thank you.  Even if I’m the only one who ever knows that I paid full price for something called “Bob Timberlake,” I just can’t do it.

I’m sorry that I’ve offended all the Bob Timberlakes in the world just now.

However, here’s a good piece of advice: If, Bob Timberlakes, you go into designing women’s clothing, brainstorm a better label.  There is nothing sexy about your name, sirs.

Time: Thursday, 6:00 a.m.
Location: In the car on the way to football practice
Radio: ON

Son: “I saw a video of this band, and the singer looked like a total nerd.”

Me: “Yeah, lots of musicians are ugly, but they still get girls. It’s amazing.  Dad and I figured that if a guy is really ugly, he can still get a pretty girl by either being rich or in a rock band.*  For some reason, playing an instrument in public makes a guy instantly more attractive to women.  But you don’t have to worry about that because you’re a good-looking guy.”

Cutie

Son: “Yeah, but if I want to be really sure….”

So now he’s taken up the family guitar.

*Example: I find Tom Petty attractive.  I’m no supermodel, but I’m pretty sure that I’m better looking than Tom Petty.

Is this tough to beat?

My friend emailed me today about her new puppy’s vet visit.  I was relieved it wasn’t a sad story, but it turned out to be sad for someone else.  Ahem.

The new puppy is doing well—fabulously, in fact, because V takes better care of her animals than anyone I know.  So when the vet advised “no more rawhides,” V went right out and bought another chew toy alternative that was still all-natural, but not rawhide.

Her two dogs went bat-shit bonkers over the new chew toys, and her husband asked what the heck they were made of.  Turns out, they are dried bull penises.  Let me type that again in case you didn’t believe it the first time: Dried bull penises.

I told you the story was sad for someone.  Poor dickless bulls. And it gets worse. Bully Sticks, as they’re called, are measured by thickness, I discovered.  The dickless bulls are probably dead now and posthumously judged on penis size—even “HAND MEASURED,” according to the diagram.

Anyway, V shooed the dogs outside as she told them in her high-pitched, talking-to-the-puppy-voice,”Absolutely no bull penises on the carpet!”

Because, as she said, you have to draw the line somewhere.