My friend likes dogs.  In theory.  He likes the Frisbee-catching, tennis-ball-chasing and bandana-wearing.  He likes the come-when-I-call-you and the tongue-flapping-in-the-wind-out-the-window-of-the-car.  But he becomes irate at the chewing.  “Why would any animal chew on a rock (bike helmet/moldy sponge/support beam of a house)!!” He doesn’t understand that it feels good (apparently) and “that” (i.e. the chewing), is essentially what dogs do.  Look at the teeth.  Teeth chew.  Teeth like that aren’t truly meant for quaint companionship, bay-window-in-the-afternoon-sun kind of lolly gagging.  Teeth like that are meant to hunt, catch, kill and chew, be it gopher, quail or Wilson pro tennis ball (or, most recently, the left half of a still functioning pair of children’s gym shoes.)  He (my friend) is also visibly annoyed and wholly embarrassed by the public defecating and urination (on the part of the dog).  He is especially put off by the essential good-boy kudos that follow during clean-up. “My god,” he says, “look at that thing, what the hell are you feeding him!?”  Just dog food, I explain, with a side of my favorite geraniums.

Upon deeper inspection I would say my friend really wants, nee, yearns to be the type of guy who likes dogs.  The carefree jeep-driving-down-vest-wearing carefree fella who always smells vaguely of bonfire.  But in actuality, I believe what he really likes is Air Bud.  Or the Shaggy D.A.  Dogs with the secondary characteristics of humans.  Above average humans.  Humans who can score from outside the key or can bring in a six-figure income.  Perhaps it’s safer to look for these traits in dogs rather than in fellow persons.  That, after all, would be snobbish.  But even my friend can’t deny the true draw of dogs to dog people, the sweet reward after a day, week or lifetime of unsightly landscaping, stinky car interiors and missing shoes.  Every night at exactly seven thirty-one the dog collapses next to you on the floor, half rolled over, hoping, praying in dog prayers that some part of you will just pet some part of him for ten, no, forty minutes.  And then he’s asleep dreaming about chasing birds.  Or shooting the winning basket.  Or winning that big court case.

Kim
Currently in love/hate relationship with 10 month old black lab.

CONGRATULATIONS, MADAME PELOSI, YOU THE MAN!!  or
LOOKING FORWARD TO THE HOMOSEXUAL AGENDA….

I don’t generally comment publicly on political goings-on, what with there being so many more well-informed, more opinionated, better qualified and/or louder mouths out there doing it, however, I can’t help but be slightly giddy with all of this BLUE washing over Washington last night.  I’m especially intrigued by Nancy Pelosi and her homosexual agenda.
I  didn’t get to see many of the  negative ads that referenced (ever so
subtley) that, for God’s sake, she’s from, you know, SAN FRANCISCO, and
it’s so, you know, GAY.  And there’s this implied homosexual agenda and
all.  That got me thinking, “what exactly IS a homosexual agenda and how is different that mine?”  If it’s anything like a lesbian agenda, I’m all for it, because you know The Kids in The Hall had it right – “those lesbians sure get things done.”   My agenda is loosely based on old to-do lists and the Girl Scout Law: clean the kitchen, be honest and fair,  responsible for what I say and do, eat more orange and yellow vegetables, respect myself and others, use resources wisely, make the world a better place, re-stock the earthquake supplies, don’t make a pig of yourself, be fabulous.

If there is a homosexual agenda, it probably goes something like:  make coffee, go to work, vacuum traffic areas, reform equitable human rights in local, state and federal laws, pick up dry cleaning.

If I might make a suggestion to any potential agenda committee members out there, how’s about addressing the flag issue?  I’m all over the rainbow flag.  Love it.  Embrace its symbolism.  Proper usage can be quite effective.  Witness:
 
However, maybe there should be a Rainbow oversight committee to avoid unsightly graphic uses such as:

I mean, please.  Eeew.

And someone on a committee somewhere needs to address this:

Is there a Homosexual Computer Agenda?

WHY I LOVE MY HUSBAND: REASON #3  or  OOPS I VOTED AGAIN……

This morning my dh and I were drinking coffee and looking through the newspaper coverage of yesterday’s election.  I was reading the front page, going down the list of Propositions and Measures that passed or failed and waht-have-you.  The conversation went this way:

Me:  Measure G failed
Mike: wow
Measures I and J passed
Mike: of course
Me:  all our school board people won
Mike: cool
Me: (looking at an entertainment preview below) Brittney Spears is divorcing Kevin Federline.
Mike: I voted for that
Me:  Proposition K-Fed?
Mike: Against it
Me: I love you
Mike: I know

Sigh…………………

Kim

It’s difficult to quantify the effect a fluffy blonde wig has on those around me. That is to say, my wearing the wig, not, for instance, a blonde wig laying in the middle of the street, which would in fact have a startling effect on any thinking human.  Harder still to narrow down and name the effect said wig has on me, the wearer. 

I was born a poor black child…no, wait, wrong speech. 

I was born blonde.  I was on the swim team which made me blonder (with slight tinges of green).  This faux Nordic head trimming lasted well into middle school when I naturally started turning what is referred to as “dishwater” brown.  “Dishwater.”  Not “fall turncoat” or maybe “walnut shell,” but “water in which dishes have been washed and food particles swirl and would no doubt make you puke if you were challenged by your rival to drink it.”  Dishwater. 

I started to dye my hair at the tender age of sixten.  First Elizabeth Taylor black (also known as Superman black, Elvis Black – blue black.)  I did Lucy red, color-crayon red, magenta, Big Bird yellow, Mamie Van Doren blonde, purple and many combinations of the above, but usually deferred to…Elizabeth Taylor black (with the omnipresent Bettie bangs, which are not-so-sexily also called third grade bangs in my family).

After *$&%*# years of dying my hair thusly, I decided to let it all hang out, go natural, hope for some beautiful gray (there were hints of it), and say good bye to monthly touch-ups and messes in my bathroom for good.  Growing out blonde (ish) hair from black dye jobs is very attractive.  One looks greasy, then bald, then unemployed, then unemployable (read: all of the above).  I believe it is officially step five in “letting yourself go.”  You buy more and more wonderful scarves and hope, pray if you’re that type of person, for the day that you finally look in the mirror and have a head of silver white hair.  Or salt and pepper.  Or even lemon pepper.  I didn’t.  What did I end up with?  Have you ever seen the wood chips on the ground in children’s playgrounds?  They’re not really a color.  They used to be bark color.  But they’ve been trampled and bleached by the sun and mistreated for twelve years by the feet of children and homeless people.   And maybe dogs.  I had a head full of this color.  Not a color.  A utilitarian safety feature purchased with public funds.  Mmmmmm….sexy. 

So now, naturally, I dye my hair again.  And we’re all the happier for it.  I feel better, and friends, acquaintences and new-ish people I meet don’t have to listen to me go on and on about the damned “phase” I’m going through with my hair.

I used to be blonde. Now I’m #43.

This picture, for as long as it’s up, is me at a Halloween Parade, dressed as my favorite waitress from my childhood.  She would never have settled for “dishwater” or “woodchip.”

Kim
p.s.  good to be back.   working part time now, but the kids, house, dog, bills, etc don’t seem to understand that they should only need me part time, after all it only seems fair – to me.  so i’m doing everything poorly but with great aplomb.  or a blonde wig, which passes for great aplomb in some circles.