My 20-Year Reunion Plot.

Well, I COULD do this. My 20-year high school reunion is this summer. July, I believe. And, I'm on the fence as to whether or not I will attend. I'm not sure if I want to. I'd rather be a fly on the wall. Or, I can do what the chick in this video did. She used a stripper stand in.

The jury's still out, but I do think this is absolutely brilliant.

It's Official. My Puppy is Brilliant.

I know - enough with the puppy stuff already, huh?

I can't help it. My puppy is brilliant. Let me explain. Jeb is only 10 weeks old, and he's only had about two accidents in the house in 7 days. This may not seem like a big deal to the non-puppy-raising person, but it's monumental to an old dog-raising veteran like myself.

Now, if I could just get him to sleep, all would be well.

Regardless, he's brilliant, and his blatant intelligence makes me think that I should've named him Brian:

Speaking of Dogs....

My Dad sent this clip to me today. Love it. Had to share.

The Sun is Shining - and Jeb Lives

Today is a good day. It's Thursday, which means there's only one day to get through until the weekend. It's supposed to be 80 degrees this weekend, which has not happened in Indiana for, um, about 7 or 8 months, I think. I shall use a tiller to prep my garden, plant that said garden, and try as hard as I can to get sunburned and soak up as much Vitamin D as my pale and sun-starved body can possibly handle.

And, all the while I'm doing this and other various errands this weekend, I will be loving on my new pup, Jeb. Yes, I got a new puppy. He was a first-wedding-anniversary/it's-just-time-for-a-new-dog thing. Jeb makes our canine brood's number go up to four. I now have four dogs. I think I wished for this once...in fact, I recall actually saying out loud to someone, "You know, someday, I just want to have a lot of land and about 4 or 5 dogs."

See, kids? Wishes do come true.

As for Jeb, he's a now 10-week old, fawn Great Dane. His paws are huge, he'll surely surpass Zeke (our almost 2-year old Dane) in both height and weight, and I can already see that he's going to always believe he's the size of a Yorkie. Total lap dog.

Enjoy the mooshy squooshiness that is Jeb. You're welcome.

Music for a Rainy Tuesday...

I know this isn't a music blog, nor am I trying to make it that. But, I just can't help it these past few weeks - I've been very music-centric. There are three main reasons I'm posting the following Led Zeppelin song for your listening enjoyment:

1. I'm going to see Britney Spears in Chicago with my two gal pals in a few weeks, and I need to redeem myself with some "real" music. If not, I fear I may become just another chick who wears braided pigtails and Catholic school girl outfits at too old an age.

2. It's raining today, and so this song is apropos.

3. It's a gorgeous song. If you can't feel the pure emotion in it, then you're officially a music tard with no soul.

Ten seconds of fame, and my idea of fun

You know what I think is totally fun? Going through the local, small-town Dairy Queen drive-thru and ordering a butterscotch-dipped cone in a British accent. That is a self-imposed gigglefest, people.

Speaking of funny voices, the powers-that-be at my company asked if I'd be the "voice" of my company and do the voicemail message on my corporate main line. I know this isn't a big deal at all, but I am looking at it as my 10 seconds of fame, especially since I've always considered my voice to be about as professional as a 15-year old boy going through puberty. Now, everyone who calls my company will hear my scratchy voice in its full glory. I didn't get any sort of promotion or extra pay for this monumental task, but I am expecting Husband-Man to start stocking Perrier in the fridge, as I can now refuse well water, since I am a celebrity and all.

You know what else is awesome? Neil Diamond concerts. Since we're on the subject of doing very weird things like ordering Dairy Queen in a hill-jack town in a British accent, Neil Diamond concerts are about as cool. But I've been to three or four now, and they've always been great fun. I grew up on the music. My sister and I were subjected to it at a young age, as my Mother has always believed that Neil was her long-lost soulmate. Neil Diamond is fabulously sparkly, and I love that a good Jewish boy has put out a really great Christmas album. Love.

I was reminded of Mr. Diamond and his cheese-arific concerts when I watched Saving Silverman on satellite the other night. So, now you'll be subjected to the last few minutes of the movie's credits, where Neil Diamond sings Holly Holy with the cast.

You can thank me later. Again.

An 80s Flashback, Rip-off Music, and One Exception, Of Course...

The other night, Husband-Man and I were watching VH1's One Hit Wonders of the 80s. The only thing better than the "countdown" shows on VH1 is the show Tough Love (which has quickly become one of my Sunday night guilty pleasures).

I think I watched numbers 100 through 1, really, and it was truly a divine way to spend a few mindless hours. I love 80s music in all of its bubble-gum happiness. It's a representation of how much that decade totally rocked. You simply cannot deny its sheer awesomeness - especially if you lived through it as a teenager yourself. We had neon, legwarmers, and huge hair. We had Ronald Reagan, which meant that people were living pretty damn well and actually able to enjoy the fruits of their labor. I think I may miss Reagan more than the music, but that just shows my age, so I digress.

Now, I've always been a music person. I keep up with what's going on in the music industry, I know who people are, etc. I'm obsessed with my satellite radio and can't be in a car that doesn't have it for more than five minutes. On top of all of that, I have a 15-year old in the house part-time that keeps me on my toes when it comes to music, whether I like it or not. (I swear to God, I've heard Lady Gaga sing Poker Face against my will about 48,296 times - that is a man in drag, right?).

You know what I've noticed? So many of the popular songs these days are blatant rip-offs of songs in my past. Fergalicious (by Fergie, of course) was a total rip-off of Supersonic by JJ Fad (those girls just faded into obscurity, by the way). Dead or Alive sang "Spin Me Round," only to be completely ripped off by a heavy metal group (OK, I sort of like that one a little on accident) and now butchered by Flo Rida.

There's "sampling" everywhere you turn, and my stepson and his friends have absolutely no idea that a lot of what they're listening to is just recycled music wrapped up in their millenial packaging.

With all of this to slightly irritate me, there's only ONE exception of the remake gone good. And, of course, that's No Doubt in their remix of "It's My Life," which just happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time - then and now.

Lucky for me, the old version was in the VH1 countdown, and lucky for you, I'm posting a merging of the two versions. Kind of weird, but kind of cool. Happy Good Friday. Time to tease my hair now.

Crazy Days Call For Some Juno

Today was crazy and jam-packed full of too much crap. So when 7 pm rolled around and I saw that Juno was playing again on Cinemax, I of course had to plop my butt down and partake in the cinematic genius.

I'm a sucker for a cute ending.

Tomato Juice, Harassment, and Confirmation That I'm An American Patriot

This morning, I woke up in a Toronto hotel. And, my journey here was a long, weird, and very uncomfortable one, to say the least. In fact, I can't wait to get the hell HOME. God, I love America.

I'm on business again, and while I always hate traveling for business, this trip has already given new emotional, amplified meaning to the word "hate."

It all started when I got on the Air Canada flight to get here. First of all, the plane was no bigger than my Mazda, I don't think. It was tiny. In fact, my laptop bag couldn't even roll down the aisle, as it was too skinny to barely accomodate humans walking down it. I was wearing a white sweater - a beautiful, oversized, cable-knit white hoodie that I just love. Well, DID love, anyway. On every single flight I take, I always order tomato juice. (I'm sure you can see where this is going.) This flight was no exception, and the stewardess (I know I'm supposed to say flight attendant, but this one was a stewardess, believe me) brought me my tomato juice. Only, she didn't just bring it to me. She poured it all over me. Tomato juice - meet my white sweater. White sweater - meet tomato juice. Lovely.

So, I remain cool and smiling. I figured this was an accident, so there's no reason to become a raging bitch. However, she didn't even apologize to me. Not an, "Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry...let me get you some towels." I was sitting there, in my pool of tomato juice, trying to get it off my sweater with a beverage napkin that had about as much absorbency as a piece of baby hair.

Thanks for flying Air Canada!!

I get off the plane, looking like I murdered a small animal with my bare hands. I'm OK with this, beyond being self-conscious at this point, and I go through the cattle lines of customs. After waiting for about 20-30 minutes with people staring at my red-stained white sweater, I get up to the customs counter and the customs Nazi beyotch starts asking me all sorts of questions. I answer happily, politely, and she continues to be a an obvious "I-hate-my-job-so-I'll-be-horrific-to-you" kind of gal. "What are you doing here? Why are you doing it? You're a consultant? What exactly are you teaching while you're here? Have you ever been here before?" You know the drill. And, I respect that she doesn't want idiots in her country, so I obliged with my detailed answers - all done with a smile.

I figured all was well when she marked my customs paperwork and sent me on to the next step. As I was cluelessly walking towards the final customs Nazi to let me through to baggage, she flagged me and motioned me to go to Immigration. This is where the real fun began.

So, I walk over to immigration like a hardened criminal that had just murdered a small animal with her bare hands, of course. They push me on through to this other room with about 12 immigration officials. This really fat dude motions me to come up to his window, I do, and then he starts with the most inappropriate line of questioning I've ever encountered in my 37 years.

First, he made fun of my name. Now, I know I've never divulged my real name out here, but I happen to go by two names and they resemble a name you'd see on the show "Petticoat Junction." I'm O.K. with this. I kind of like my little country-like name. And, it really wasn't this fat bastard's place to make fun of it, but I let him, because he was the only thing standing between me and my hotel room.

His first question, "So, (insert my Petticoat Junction Name here), I bet you're a Daddy's girl just hearing THAT name."

I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. Strike one.

Just some of the other wonderful tidbits in my conversation with him (and this is just the tip of the iceberg):

Him: "If you just agree with everything I say, then you can get out of here easier."
Me: "Um, alright."

Him: "Is that last name of yours a married name? You don't look like you've popped out a bunch of kids yet."
Me: (biting lip...fake smiling)

Him: "You have some pretty white teeth - your Daddy pay for those?"
Me: (more fake smiling, and 100% sure I could deck him and outrun the fat bastard)

Him: "So, you're a Consultant? We have about as much regard for those as we do attorneys around here....yeah, you're at the bottom of the barrel."
Me: (still fake smiling and seething with anger)

Him: "You realize why you're in immigration right now, huh? We don't take too kindly to anyone who may be wanting to take one of our jobs here in Canada, just like you guys in America probably don't want people taking your jobs - especially in your economy right now."
Me: "Yes, sir." (thinking: why in the SAM HELL would I want to come LIVE HERE AND WORK HERE, you bloated, ignorant moron?)

Him: "So, you've NEVER been to Toronto? How OLD are you? 37? And, you've NEVER BEEN HERE? Have you been living under a ROCK?"
Me: "No, sir." (Thinking: Yes, because you've been such a wonderful representation of this country and I'm just SHOCKED that I never, ever want to come back to this hell hole of a Nazi regime....but you're right, I'm sheltered. Now go home to your two cats and eat a dozen donuts while you wallow in your loneliness, you prick.)

And, this was just part of it. There were also comments about my hair, my American-jet-setting appearance (which I find hilarious, seeing as how I looked like a tomato-juice-covered hobo by this point), questions about whether or not I was married, had kids, had animals, other jobs I had, what I taught, where I live, etc. etc. etc.

I'm sure there are some really nice people in Toronto. I'm sure it's a beautiful place, even though I'll only get to see the inside of a hotel today. And, you know what? I don't give a crap...because I want to go home. To America. Today. I'm an official, American-loving, capitalist pig of a chick. A dirty American consultant.

My husband says I should file a complaint. I think I'll do that, but only when I'm safely the hell out of here.

I'm counting the hours.

GOD. BLESS. AMERICA.