It's Been Real and It's Been Fun and It's Been Real Fun

I am sad to report that this will be my final posting on blogger :( One of my New Year's Resolutions is to "Be Less Busy." Unfortunately, my blogging life has taken more of my time than it needs to, which brings me to my second New Year's Resolution: to publish the novel that I finished in 2004.

Look for me on the New York Times Bestseller list -- the book is titled "Primadonna in a Visor." It's a coming of age story. I think it's pretty damned good.

You a-holes better buy a copy when it's out.

Seriously, thank you so much to anyone who read my blog and especially to those who have read and commented through all 96 posts!

For prosperity, in the event that someone lands here randomly from the WWW, here are a few of my favorites from the past.

Goodbye. I love you guys (said in crackling, verklempt voice).

The Best of the Past 96 Posts:

http://whatih8.blogspot.com/2006/08/cracker-jaxass.html

http://whatih8.blogspot.com/2006/09/canal-fishers.html

http://whatih8.blogspot.com/2006/11/raw-buns.html

http://whatih8.blogspot.com/2006/03/kleenex-kriminals.html

http://whatih8.blogspot.com/2006/05/weeds-in-my-salad.html

http://whatih8.blogspot.com/2005/12/geriatric-grocery-affair.html

http://whatih8.blogspot.com/2006/02/wwjd-in-game-of-twister.html

http://whatih8.blogspot.com/2006/06/beasty-princesses.html

http://whatih8.blogspot.com/2006/08/meet-gym-grunters.html

Little Pinch

Most of my friends are in their 20s, a full decade younger than I am. I used to think this was because of my youthful appearance. And the fact that I was so damned cool everyone wanted to hang around me. But lately, I've realized it's because I'm motherly.

It's true. I think the 20-somethings are attracted to me in a surrogate mother way. And that's okay. I understand this. So, it turns out it's not because of my youthful appearance, but rather because I give really good advice. I can live with that.

I'm pretty much the Queen Bee of my social circle. My spring chicken friends call on me for guidance in pretty much all categories. Why? Because I know it all. "What to Expect When You're Expecting?" Who needs it when you have Vicki as a friend. "Women are from Venus; Men are from Mars?" Yeah, well Vicki is from Earth. And she knows a helluva lot more than John Gray.

A couple of years ago, one of my best friends -- we'll call her "Melissa" (because that is her name) -- got pregnant with her first child. Oh, the joy! From advising her on which pregnancy test was most accurate to helping her decide how to tell her husband, I was her prenatal consultant through this experience that I knew all too well. She called on me regularly, because she was young and inexperienced and I was, well, really smart in such areas as sex and babies.

I still remember one of our first discussions of what to expect at her first OB/GYN appointment. I believe the discussion went something like this:

"Vicki, I'm so frightened. And I have no idea what to expect. Since you're an expert on EVERYTHING, why don't you help me understand what this initial appointment will be like."

"Oh, honey: there, there. You will do just fine. The nice doctor will ask you some questions to determine your due date, hook you up with some prenatal vitamins, check for your baby's heartbeat, then slap you into some stirrups."

"Stirrups?"

"Yes, dear. Stirrups. Now, the first exam is pretty, well, thorough. But don't be scared. The doctor is just making sure your uterus is in tip-top shape to carry this baby. Oh, and the rectal prod only lasts a second or two."

"The WHAT?"

"Rectal Prod. It's not as bad as it sounds. The doctor will place her finger in your anus and feel around a bit. Really, it's nothing. Don't be concerned."

"But I've never had a Rectal Prod. What...what...why...how..."

"Sweetheart, you're getting all worked up for nothing. Just, when you hear the doctor say, 'little pinch' you will know what's coming. Just relax. It makes it easier on everyone that way."

"Little Pinch?"

"Yes, Little Pinch. That is your cue to let your muscles relax."

"I'm not looking forward to that. It sounds very scary. Why do they do it?"

"Dear, dear. They do it for your safety. And for the safety of the baby. You will get this as part of every exam you have with your OB/GYN."

A few weeks later, Melissa called to report the outcome of her first trip to the OB/GYN.

"Well? How was it?"

"It was fine. The baby is fine. I heard the heartbeat. Everything went great. But..."

"But what?"

"Well, I didn't get a finger up my ass."

"Wh...what? Why surely you did. You were probably just so relaxed from my advice that you didn't feel it."

"No. I'm sure. No digits in my bunghole. I am confident about this. And, I've been asking around to all of my other friends and none of them have had their doctor stick her finger up their asses, either."

Gulp.

"Well, what country are they from? Because in Turkey, they don't do the rectal prod. I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere."

"No, they're Americans. I hate to say this, Vicki, but I think...I think you were molested by your doctor."

"What?"

"Yeah. Molested."

"Oh. I see."

"I know you're not laughing, but it's pretty damned funny."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, yes. That's why I told you that story. For comic relief. Yeah, that's it -- comic relief. Because I knew you were scared. Ha ha ha. That was a good one."

And that was that. In one fell swoop, I had lost my credibility. And my anus' virginity. Damn that doctor!

12 Dancing Princesses

So I went to my first ballet yesterday. I know. I'm a maven of the arts. I watch musicals ALL the time -- "High School Musical," "The Muppet Movie" - stuff like that. But I hadn't been to a ballet. And neither had my kids. And I want to maintain our cultural edge, so off we went to see "The Twelve Dancing Princesses."

Which should be renamed, "The Twelve Boring Princesses." Seriously. Why is the ballet so popular? Here's a little secret about the ballet that they don't bother to mention in large OR small print on the tickets: there are no words spoken. That's right -- NO WORDS. Which made the whole thing very charade-ish. Don't get me wrong: I love playing charades. But I don't slap a $30 price tag on a piece of paper and call it a program!

The whole event reminded me of when my sister and I used to make up synchronized swimming routines in our backyard pool in the 1980s. "Let's pretend you are a swan and you are floating on your back." "Yeah, and then you see a unicorn in the sky and you try to leap up at it." "Yeah, and then YOU are the unicorn and you land in the pool and start to swim in Figure-8s in the deep end." "Yeah, and then the unicorn and swan BOTH start swimming in Figure-8s." If you're a dancer, I'm sorry. It's just so hokey.

I couldn't follow the story line, no matter how hard I tried. The only thing I gathered about the plot was that there were some princesses. And they were dancers. I think.

You know it's bad when you're leaning into your 6-year-old and whispering, "What is happening?"

So, that's our family culture for the next decade. Sometime around 2017, we'll probably head off to the art museum and then I'll have another blog for you all to read.

My dog is a retard

My dog is a retard. Now, I know you're all sitting there reading this saying, "yeah, but ALL dogs are retards. This blog sucks. She writes stuff we already know." But wait. What they say about dogs having pea-sized brains doesn't do my dog justice. He has a brain the size of a sand granule. That's been split into thirds. And put into a shrinky-dink oven. And then vacuum packed.

He's that dumb.

Why do I say that? Well, to start, when he gets excited, he scoots his dingleberried-ass across the floor. Yeah, I know. The same floor we eat off of.

I don't always notice that he's doing it until I turn to find the floors have been air brushed with a line of skidmark. I'll be talking to our other dog in that high-pitched pooch-speak and I'll look over to find BoeDee overcome with excitement and taking an rectal-spin across the Travertine.

I don't blame him for being excited. Sometimes I get all juiced up, too. And I can hardly contain myself. But... you don't find me in my birthday suit doing the electric slide -- bottom's down -- across my Pergo. I have, well...manners. Do dogs feel shame? I mean, if they can smear brown pixie dust all over my wool rugs without any semblance of remorse, I'd hate to see what type of activity would cause them to feel humiliation. I'm pretty sure said activity would get me put in the 6 o clock news under the category of "Squalid Living Conditions."

This isn't the only thing that has caused BoeDee to earn his Special Needs status. He also prefers to eat cat poop over the Chicken N Rice dog food that sits in his bowl and collects ants. "Shit or food? Shit or food? These decisions are sooooo difficult. It all looks so good. But I'm gonna go with the shit this time."

Retarded dog.

I always wonder what the kidneys are thinking when they are presented with a literal load of shit. The kidneys are like the Salvation Army of the internal organs -- they take in a donation and decide what's good and what's to be tossed out. Given cat waste has already gone through this process, I'm guessing the kidneys become totally confused. I picture the kidneys sorting through all this saying, "there must be something good in all this mess."

When the kidneys finally render the load a complete crock of shit, they toss it out. More often than not in my living room. On the rug. Next to the doo-doo demarcation.

Peas N Carrots

The other day, I was hungry and began digging around in my freezer trying to find a wayward fudgesicle or perhaps a bag of tater tots that had slipped into a deep crevice. I found this. Peas N Carrots.

I'm pretty damned sure that I never purchased this item. What would I do with it? I certainly wouldn't eat it. Poor-man's marbles? Maybe that's what I was thinking??? But no, because the carrots are squares. Perhaps I thought those carrots could double as the little real-estate in "Life" the boardgame? Maybe I was going to string them on a thin wire -- alternating colors -- and create a festive bracelet?

No, I never bought these. I'm sure of it. So, they must have been given to me as a gift. "Thank You" to whomever gave me these if you're reading this. I'm sure that I've at least nursed a sore ankle with my bag o' Peas N Carrots. So thanks.

By the way, I checked the date on my Peas n Carrots. I'm proud to announce that my babies are turning FOUR this January! I know, huh? They grow up so fast.

These Peas N Carrots are the "Encino Man" of the frozen veggie world. By the time they finally thaw out, they will feel shame over their antiquated ways and will marvel at the modernization of the new world.

Naught-Naught, my love

This is my new format. I hope you all like it. I was getting tired of writing about what I hate. I felt stifled. Now I can write about whatever I want. I can write about hate and I can write about love, too. These first couple of posts might be somewhat boring and insufferable. But bear with me as I find "my voice." And don't be all selfish and stop reading after one bad blog. I'm really sensitive about my blogs.

Since I've been writing so much about what I hate, I want to write about something I love. It's a family member. She's wonderful. And awesome. Her incisors are a bit on the rotten, black and crumbly side but that just makes me want to smell her breath all the more. Stinky but unique to her. Which is why I love it. The family member I'm talking about is my cat, Naught-Naught. Shut up -- like your cat's name is any better. Geez. Anyway, she's my pride and joy. Here she is:

I know she's gorgeous. Thank you. But here is why I like her: 1) She fetches balls. I'm dead serious. I know this is a dog trick. Don't ask me. Maybe she's some kind of hermaphripet -- half dog/half cat. 2) She answers all my questions with an "A-for-Effort" half-laryngitic mew. Unlike my husband. Or my kids. Or my boss. 3) She snuggles like there's no tomorrow. She gets under the covers, purrs like a Harley and starts drippin' drooly spit everywhere. It's awesome. I love that freakin' cat.

I'm definitely having her stuffed once she's passed. Not like you're thinking. Not like taxidermy. Gross. I'm sure. I'm not a weirdo freak who takes her dead pet in and says "put that head on a plaque for me. Then varnish the whole shebang up so she don't get mold on 'er."

I wouldn't do THAT. Silly you.

No, I'm going to get her stuffed at Build a Bear workshop. Don't be jealous. This way I can sleep with her at night. And buy her Hello Kitty pjs and matching slippers (two pair) and even her own little skateboard. I can toss a plastic heart into her little lifeless carcass, too. For only 3 extra dollars. And I can say something into a really small recorder and they'll toss that shit in there with the cotton-candy fluff, too. For only 10 extra dollars. But it will be worth it when I squeeze her little hollow paw and hear me imitating her meowing. And even though she's really at this point dead, I can resurrect her by making her a little birth certificate. For only 5 extra dollars. Naught-Naught will live forever. Thank you, Build-a-Bear workshop. For making dreams come true.

My cat Naught-Naught, by the way, has a long-lost twin brother. We found him while on the Internet the other day. It's freaky. FREAKY how much they look alike. And the cat's description even says he fetches balls (insert Twilight Zone music here).

Anyway, I'm going to leave you with a nice poem I have slaved over to describe my feelings for my beauty-queen cat, Naught-Naught.

Not your average cat

And not your average dog either (but possibly a mix of the two)

U know she's cute; just admit it.

Geez. Admit it, I said.

Heart full of love (and hairballs that need to be lubed up with some greasy Meow Mix and then dislodged on the rug)

Treasure

-

No, we're not done with this poem.

And don't close this browser, you rude bastards.

U know who you are.

Getting back to the cat...

Her fur is soft as feathers

Totally in love am I.