Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Reason why Steph is a dumbass #4,567

I broke the garage door.

And not, as one of my friends suggested, because I have superhuman strength (although that's a nice way of looking at it) but rather because I impatiently pulled out of my garage before the door was fully up.

It gets dumber.

Hearing the awful scratch and clank I jumped out of my car. Seeing only a small scratch on the back of my little red wagon, I breathed a sigh of relief and went on my merry way. It never even occured to me that I could have fucked up the garage door until I returned home and the damn thing nearly fell down on top of me.

All I have to say is, thank god my husband is a nice person. Because I GUARANTEE you if it had been him that backed into the gargage door I would not have remained calm. I get mad when he pulls into parking spaces too far and I hear the front fender scrape on the cement parking stopper thingie (of course when I pull in too far I assume it's because the parking stopper thingies at that particular establishment are just too darn high). But Danny handled the situation with his usual cool demeanor.

The thing is garage door maintenence is freaking expensive. Like more expensive than it would be to fix my Mazda. We learned this when our "coil" broke a few years ago. (Which in case you're wondering sounds exactly like someone got shot point blank with a rifle in your garage.)

So now I'm waiting for the repair man to come and tell me how many thousands of dollars he needs in order to fix it.

If I would have waited one tenth of one second more before pulling out I could have avoided this catastrophe. Okay universe, lesson learned. I will get a garage door that opens faster.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Best in Show

Last night I was watching the American Kennel Club’s dog show. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a dog show, or it’s Christopher Guest docu-parody Best in Show, but let me tell you they are quite entertaining.

As a dog owner, I can’t help but wonder how my dog would fold into the world of fancy pooches. There is no doubt in my mind that in the show ring my dog would break her leash to make friends with all the other dogs. When she was finished jumping all over them like a hyper leprechaun, she would proceed to bury her nose in the judge's crotch before attempting to climb him like a rope ladder on a game show obstacle course. But, after all that, maybe the judge would appreciate her spirit and lovable swag. She’s pretty darn cute if you can get her to sit still.

The dog show is one of the things she will sit still for. Kiddo sits at attention on her leopard pillow and watches the show right along with me. I suppose it’s like the celebrity red carpet of the canine world. (Oooh! There goes Lemon Drop China Winchester III! He is one hot stud!)

It’s kind of fun to watch the exotic breeds of dogs canter by and stand still while a man gooses their undersides. But the real show, is watching the “handlers” (this is dog show speak for a person who ferries the dog around and brushes its hair every so often).

The world’s finest dogs are accompanied by some of the worst dressed people on the planet. It’s like the entire population of folks who could use a “What Not to Wear” episode have gathered in the arena and brought their dogs.

On these “handlers” I’ve seen black panty hose under Kelly green capris, solid gold bedazzled ballet flats worn with a burgundy skirt suit that looked like it was loosely fashioned from a hotel couch cover, paisley ties worn with striped shirts, a navy blue blazer paired with a too tight ball gown, and a bright blue suit with clunky black patent leather shoes.

I should say here that I’ve been guilty of some major fashion don’ts in my day. I’ve been known to wear a yellow terry cloth jumper with red and white Coca-Cola knee socks (knee socks folks!). In seventh grade I came to picture day (picture day!) wearing green and purple peacock pattern pants and a purple silk shirt fastened with gold military style buttons. The thing is though, I can recognize those things as mistakes. But I wonder if some of the people at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog show would find them perfectly acceptable get ups for a whirl around the center ring?

Can all of those people really be so sartorially clueless?

My only plausible theory is that some of the handlers at dog shows spend so much time conditioning their dog’s hair they forget to spend at least five minutes in their own closet. Oooooh! I just had a fabulous idea! Stacey and Clinton (or Tim Gunn---pick your network) could do a whole show at the Kennel Club! We’d all be better off I think. Especially the dogs. Will someone please think of the dogs?

P.S. Thanks to alert reader Sharon for pointing out that it's "Patent" leather as opposed to "Patton" leather. Although I can't help but find the image of Patton Leather shoes extremely hilarious...

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Michael Phelps goes to Pot

Yesterday I read that Michael Phelps was caught on camera smoking pot. People made a big deal. He apologized. Blah blah blah. I feel I must throw in my two cents here.

If there ever were to come a day when I won eight gold medals at one Olympics (stop laughing for a second and just go with me on this one okay?). Ahem, as I was saying, If I ever won eight gold medals in one Olympic Games:

a) Please check to make sure my body has not been commandeered by an alien species.


b) Leave me the fuck alone. I've earned the right to celebrate any way I damn well please.

I have not in fact won eight gold medals, or, it may surprise you to know, any gold medals (unless you count second place in a fourth grade spelling bee and the consolation medal I got for running the half marathon). So I suppose I have not earned the right to freely partake of illegal substances.

But Michael Phelps? If that guy wants to go to a party and eat a crack-cocaine pie with a side of heroin sauce, fine by me. He has proved his discipline. He has proved his physical prowess. He has proved he's worthy of a Wheaties box. Let the man hit the pipe in peace already.

I have to give him credit. At least he didn't pull some shit like, "Oh, that was Marijuana?" or "Yeah, that was me on the bong, but I DID NOT inhale." He owned it. He was like. Yeah, that was me and that was a device for smoking some J. I promise I'll never do it again (or at least I won't do it again when some silly drunk girl has a camera).

Sure he's a role model for kids. But here's an idea, promise your kids they can do whatever drugs they want...as soon as they win eight gold medals. My parents used that line on me all the time. Sure, you can go to the Guns n' Roses concert, right after you paint your room and re-landscape the backyard.

Give the man a break. He probably needs a little relaxation in his life. Doesn't he get up at like 4:30 in the morning and swim the length of the Nile or some shit?

Personally, I think he should put on some star shaped sunglasses and one of those Dr. Suess hats and market some t-shirts.