I haven't seen that guy whisper ONE time...

I have a new obsession...Cesar Millan. For those of you who don't know, he is the DOG WHISPERER. His show is on the National Geographic Channel which I just got through one of those cable deals that reels you in and rips you off in the long run...

Every time Matt comes home, I am parked on the couch watching the show. I pause and rewind to show Matt Cesar's techniques and I like watching the dogs' tails to see if they're up or down. Unfortunately, now I relate everything (even human affairs) to dog behavior and psychology. And guess what? *This* week is DOG WHISPERER WEEK which is tantamount to Shark Week for nerdy girls like me.

When I get obsessed with something, Matt is automatically affected since our apartment is so small and it's pretty much guaranteed I am monopolizing either the TV or the computer.

I haven't hit my bottom on this obsession so it's not tapped out but this phone/texting convo between Matt and I last night is definitely getting me there:

On phone:

Me: Yeah, we...um...I'm watching TV...
Matt: Did you say we?
Me: Uh, I don't know, probably. I mean...I don't know what I said. I probably did because I am distracted.
Matt: So, there's no one over there?
Me: No one that will be here when you get home anyway, he he he.
Matt: Awesome. See you soon.

Via text:

Me: Btw, by "we" I meant me and Cesar....Cesar Millan.
Matt: Tsssssttt!
Me: You "tsssstttt"!
Matt: Don't make me roll you on your side.

And then I submitted.

Cesar, Junior and Daddy.

Merry Meatmas to all and to all a good night!

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Being a butcher's wife is the coolest...

It's totally okay to sculpt animals out of other animals...

Sad Charlie Brown walking.

On Thanksgiving, Matt and I tried to go to the Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World super-mega crazy store, but they were closed. Sad.


We were returning from visiting his family and were enticed from the freeway by a giant, glowing sign … enticed by the promise of ammo, fishing poles and the beautiful art we call taxidermy.

But again, we were denied entrance.

Instead of walking through the 25-foot door adorned with about 1,000 antlers and two bucks fighting (no, I am not shitting you), we turned around and did the sad Charlie Brown walk all the way to the movie theater to see Harry Plopper 7 v1.

I was pretty excited to see HP, but less so when about six teenage girls and a mother who looked like a *really old* teenage girl sat in front of us.

Something you should know: Matt and I are strict movie non-talkers. You can whisper, fine. Just stop talking. Now.

I don’t know if it’s because of or in spite of this trait that we almost always end up seated near people who narrate the entire film. Or they say what’s going to happen before it does. Or laugh really loudly at parts that aren’t funny.

Anyway, after I heard them wantonly jabbering for about two minutes, I told them to “sssssshhhhhhh.” And if you’re thinking I am uptight, I have to say that I was thanked for doing so by other patrons during the credits.

At other points, Matt asked them politely to shut it and I *may* have cursed. I don’t remember. I was trying to watch a movie.

As we were walking out to the car, discussing how obnoxious they were Matt stopped in his tracks and then asked me: “Hey, were those chicks all wearing bumpits?”

I paused for a moment to ask myself, “Did my husband just inquire about bumpits?” and then I said, “Oh, you mean those hair-volumizing inserts? Why yes, I think they were.”

I’m f*cking with you. I didn’t say that. I burst out laughing at him. The end.

You broke my heart.