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.

Super-awesome Christmas gifts for your kids (if you want to damage them).

1. Tauntaun Sleeping Bag

Looks cozy enough, but then I thought: "Tauntauns are NOT for sleeping in! They are for riding in extreme weather conditions on Hoth. Han Solo had to make an executive decision under extreme pressure in a life-or-death situation and THAT’S HOW Luke Skywalker got inside that tauntaun. I just really think this kind of thing sends the wrong message…sleeping in guts…gross.

2. “First Act Discovery” Recorder

As if the availability of thongs for your 12-year old daughter isn’t horrifying enough this was the packaging choice they went with? Someone get me my pitchfork.

3. Sperm Shoes

Okay, they’re not really sperm shoes but evidently that is their shoe’s logo. I guess it makes sense because sperm like to race one another and ultimately speed is rewarded. Stop imagining!

Read this book. No really, read this book.

I just finished "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle" and despite having "Oprah's Book Club" stamped on the front, it has actually now become my third favorite book of all-time. In future blogs, I will be posting passages from my favorite novels. But below is why you should definitely read this book by David Wroblewski:

Edgar

THIS WILL BE HIS EARLIEST MEMORY:
     Red light, morning light. High ceiling canted overhead. Lazy click of toenails on wood. Between the honey-colored slats of the crib a whiskery muzzle slides forward until its cheeks pull back and a row of dainty front teeth bare themselves in a ridiculous grin.
     The nose quivers. The velvet snout dimples.
     All the house is quiet. Be still. Stay still.
     Fine, dark muzzle fur. Black nose, leather of lacework creases, comma of nostrils flexing with each breath. A breeze shushes up the field and pillows the curtains inward. The apple tree near the kitchen window caresses the house with a tick-tickety-tick-tick. As slowly as he can, he exhales, feigning sleep, but despite himself his breath hitches. At once, the muzzle knows he is awake. It snorts. Angles right and left. With-draws. Outside the crib, Almondine's forequarters appear. Her head is reared back, her ears cocked froward.
     A cherry-brindled eye peers back at him.
     Whoosh of her tail.
     Be still. Stay still.
     The muzzle comes hunting again, tunnels beneath his blanket, below the farmers and pigs and chicks and cows dyed into that cotton world. His hand rises on fingers and spider-walks across the surprised farmyard resident to challenge the intruder. It becomes a bird, hovering before their eyes. Thumb and index finger squeeze the crinkled black nose. The pink of her tongue darts out but the bird flies away before Almondine can lick it. Her tail is switching harder now. Her body sways, her breath envelops him. He tugs the blackest whisker on her chin and this time her tongue catches the palm of his hand ever so slightly. He pitches to his side, rubs his hand across the blanket, blows a breath in her face. Her ears flick back. She stomps a foot. He blows again and she withdraws and bows and woofs, low in her chest, quiet and deep, the boom of an uncontainable heartbeat. Hearing it, he forgets and presses his face against the rails to see her, all of her, take her inside him with his eyes and before he can move, she smears her tongue across his nose and forehead! He claps his hand to his face but it's too late - she's away, spinning, biting her tail, dancing in the moted sunlight that spills through the window glass.

National Geographic will accept anyone into their society. Even me.

The Officers and Board of Trustees have enrolled ME as a member of the National Geographic Society and I've got proof...

See...



Okay, so that's not my real name...just a "pet" name from my loving husband. He's such a sweetie.

I love National Geographic. So much. It's the only magazine I read cover-to-cover.

But, I gave up my subscription due to the recession. I  mean $15 a year here and there really adds up. So for me, it was back to stealing old copies from the doctors' offices.

Here is a picture of my loyalty...my goldenrod, heavy, dusty loyalty... which wasn't as strong as it looks:


What? You don't like my foot high stack of NG's dating back to 2005? I don't like you then.


In July, I decided I had suffered long enough and asked Matt for a new subscription for my birthday.

It was a glorious day when the first edition arrived, all wrapped in recyclable plastic. I put the first book aside for the honeymoon but couldn't help it and ripped open the next one I saw. King Tut was totally inbred and crippled...read all about it!

Anyway, I started reading and a flood of emotion came over me. I was feeling guilt and then anxiety...what had I been missing? I frantically flipped to the back and saw a crossword...I LOVE crosswords. I was pretty much melting at that point. "How long has NatGeo had a crossword?" I asked myself. "Whhhhyyyyyy did I cancel my original subscription???"

The worst thing of all: It's been a purely love relationship. Who leaves a good thing like that? Again: What was I thinking??? All this was pouring through my mind as I opened the folded Gulf Oil Spill insert and in my focused thinking, while my brain was trying to puzzle out my quandry, I was distracted...

I should have been paying attention, though...I should have thought about what might BE on that insert.

Touche National Geographic. I will never leave you again.

P.S. Who KNEW there were effing sperm whales in the Gulf of Mexico?...AND Giant Squid??? That is now the scariest place on Earth nearest to me.

Come on guys, really...ewoks?

I can't stress enough...STOP PUTTING WEIRD SHIT ON YOUR VEHICLE. It's like a bad tattoo and you will just regret it later. Below you will see case in point:

Your creepy dog paintings look like ewoks with cat ears...