It's Been A Good Run, Dr. Drew...

I am officially breaking up with Dr. Drew. Sigh… it’s been a good run. I remember falling for him in the Loveline days. It seemed like he really cared, probably because Corolla came off as such an asshole, but nevertheless, there was something about the combination of empathy and smarts that was incredibly attractive. It carried right through the first few seasons of Celebrity Rehab. Something about the way he tipped his head and made a sad face really made me want Brigitte Neilsen to get sober. Do it for your kids, you crazy bitch! He made me get past some of my dry drunk judgment and be thankful that things didn’t have to get all Jeff Conaway in my life. I wanted to slap that beauty queen princess for calling him a fake tv doctor who didn’t really care about his patients. But sadly, she may have been on to something.

Yes, I am guilty of watching way too much reality programming with Dr. Drew. I have no issue in admitting it. But the guilty pleasures of 16 & Pregnant and Teen Mom have finally pushed me over the edge. I say guilty pleasures as there is a part of me that can’t help but watch the train wreck. The most fascinating part is the follow-up shows. This one kid, Aubrey, was knocked up at 16, had a quicky marriage, and is already getting divorced a couple years later. And now she’s doing the pseudo-lesbian thing, partying, and saying things like, “Maybe I would strip to support my son. It’s good money,” and making allusions that someday her son would be proud if she stripped because it would prove she was a MILF. And so it goes…

Let’s reward this bullshit behavior with a television show and a large sum of money. Just more appealing to the lowest common denominator, I guess. Everybody’s capable when we set the bar low enough. Don’t get me wrong, some of these kids get it. Some of them make sacrifices, work hard, finish school, and learn to parent. There are parts of these series that need to be aired. There is one where a girl chose to have an abortion and others who chose adoption. It’s not sugar-coated. There are the fights, the problems with the daddies, and issues with custody and child support. And of course they pick some of the most messed-up situations one can imagine, like girls who had absent fathers or the boy whose mom was a drug addict. I know they want drama to get viewers to sell ad time. I guess I just feel bad for the babies and the fucked up video diaries that are left behind. The moms are in People and US Weekly magazines and gossip websites. It’s an extension of the Paris Hilton and Kardashian model of fame, these girls get famous for doing nothing. Or I should say famous for getting knocked up.

I work with a girl who is 20 and almost all of her friends have babies or have been pregnant. I’m 33 and have never been pregnant. I guess it just always seemed pretty easy to not get pregnant. Lots of friends my age don’t have children or are just starting families. So I look at these 20 year olds and have to think that growing up in a state with no comprehensive sex education sure did them a lot of fucking good. Yes, I blame the abstinence-based and abstinence only bullshit of the Bush years. And yes, I know teenagers are gonna get pregnant regardless of the political situation. It just seems to be a bit of an epidemic right now, or at least it seems that way when I see really young moms pushing their kids around the downtown area, usually after I get off work at night.

So I have decided that as long as Dr. Drew supports and profits from this he will no longer be my mature boyfriend. I hope on some level, kids watch the show and realize that being a parent is the hardest job in the world. My fear is that some kids watch the show and think it’s a great way to get famous and make money. Want money? Work. Wanna be famous? Do something worth fame. Create something. Play something. Solve a problem. Lots of us want fame and money when we are young. But if you grow up a bit, you realize who you want to be and for nearly all of us, that has nothing to do with how many people recognize us or know our names. It’s about connecting with other people and having the love of family and friends in your life. And for some people, part of that is creating another life when they feel more capable.

Lessons from Dad

The third Sunday in June is recognized as Father’s Day here in the US and in many countries around the world. I guess the tradition of Father’s Day started in the early 20th century in West Virginia to honor a couple hundred men who passed in a mining accident. Perhaps fitting to start the tradition in a state where you were likely to have more than one familial reference for your pappy? I like killing two birds with one stone. And we certainly don’t have an Uncle’s Day…

Anyway, I hit the cosmic jackpot with my dad, who I started calling Lar Bear for some odd reason. One of the coolest cats I’ve ever met, so today I dedicate this to writing about the most important lessons I’ve learned from my father.

I remember one time when a guy had upset me and I was being a pissy pants. I was the type of young person that couldn’t understand why I never had a boyfriend or why guys weren’t interested in me. (I now know it was because I was too awesome.) Lar Bear’s advice, “Let him take a running fuck at a rolling doughnut.” I probably still think about that at least once a week and laugh out loud. I took that as my dad’s version of “don’t sweat the small stuff.” Laugh and get on with it. Duly noted.

My dad’s patience is one of my favorite things about him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s got that Schooly stubborn streak, but he taught me that retribution or revenge isn’t necessary. Let God or god or the universe or whatever you believe in sort that out in the end. It might not come on your time or in a way that you easily understand or even realize, but everyone really does get what’s coming to him or her in the end.

Lar Bear also taught me that silence is gratifying. Never talk just to hear your own voice. Your words have more power when they really mean something. Whether you’re watching a game, fishing, singing, or whatever, the space between the sounds is sometimes more important.

Being a hunter and fisherman, my dad has a respect for the Earth. He isn’t some hippie dippy PETA environmentalist, but I had a great example in him to not litter, to recycle, and to appreciate the beauty and gifts that this planet provides us. I may take it a few steps further to the left, but he planted those seeds.

If you know me at all, you know how much I love cursing. Fuck, shit, and cocksucker are the brightest crayons in my language box. Of course, you can go over board and sound ignorant, but I did get some of my fabulous cursing skills from my dad. When I was little, I thought cursing helped him put things together. Just ask him about the grill at Grandpa Muller’s. The big lesson as far as dirty words was that it’s okay to curse at things, just don’t curse at people.

He also taught me that there is always time for a game of HORSE. I used to sit on the step and wait for him to get home from work so we could shoot some baskets. He was probably tired and his knees probably hurt, but he never said a word about it. I was just a little munchkin not even half the height of the basket, but he would let me win and I felt taller than the trees.

The best thing about my dad is that he probably doesn’t even realize that he taught me all these things. He just does. There’s something to be said about someone who is a quiet example and never feels the need to get preachy or rant and rave about his ideas or opinions on leading a good life. He might not have been the flashiest or loudest guy at the party, but he was probably the best one, so good grab, Mom.

Alli’s one experience with a papa resulted in the bitchnapping of her sister, so she’s a little leary of Father’s Day. That said, the bitches would like to send HFD wishes to their dogfathers, Man Friend and Chef Boy.

Let Them Eat Cake

Sweets. I could eat sweets everyday. I would pick sugar over salt every time and sugar is best with fat. I've always been that way; it's not that I dislike chips or fries, it's just that sugar, in all is delicious, make my brain happy glory, is soooo much more delightful.

I remember helping both of my grandmas and both of my parents make cookies when I was little. Chocolate chip was paramount. Peanut butter on occasion. Personally, I like a good oatmeal raisin or monster cookie, but apparently we were cookie purists in my family. Even the California Raisin craze couldn't get Tiny T to eat one. Christmas cookie baking and decorating was a huge production each year, with mom patrolling to make sure we didn't overload on the colored sugar or sprinkles.

My first pie was apple and I made it at my Grandma Mil's house. It had something to do with earning a badge for Brownie scouts. I was eight and I still remember how important I felt slicing the apples and rolling the crust. It seemed like such a monumental task for my tiny hands. Now I can turn out a crust like it's nobody's business.

The cakes, though, are what has really become a lot of fun. There are hits and misses, hell sometimes there are near catastrophes. Like the time I was asked to make a red velvet vampire cake. Cool, right? Red velvet, black and white frosting, fondant vamp teeth, and lots of red food coloring blood spatters. Sounded great. Except the cream cheese frosting you need for red velvet doesn't set up great for decorating and doesn't hold food coloring all that well. So they got a droopy vampire and black mouths. Like really black. But apparently it made for funny pics at the party. Or the time I tried to make a pug using my lamb pan and it looked like a deranged racoon. But I guess the kid loved it and I'll say thanks for the non-judgmental nature of a two-year old.

But then there are the times where I just get in a creative groove. I put on some music, apron up, and something just clicks. Sometimes the ideas I've drawn up or have floating in my head actually end up right before my eyes. In sugar! And fat! Like my Scrabble cakes or the Woody from Toy Story. Looking into my refrigerator can be really funny at time since there could be anything from a chocolate beaver to two dozen Cletus the Fetus cupcakes staring back at you.

Alli got into a cake once. It was supposed to be a 2010 end of the year cake for my friends Brian and Veronica. I didn't close the door to the spare room and as I was laying in bed, I heard Alli eating something. I lept out of bed and found her, guilty with her face in the cake. Bitches do like chocolate apparently. It was late at night, I was tired and out of eggs and couldn't bear the thought of driving to HyVee for more supplies. So I emailed B&V my apology/excuse for why I couldn't have their cake done in the morning. Defeated, I went to bed. They showed up at my work with a HyVee cake, decorated with a dog and "My Dog Ate the Cake" excuse on it. Alli couldn't have picked a better cake to ruin.

A Guest Blog by Alli

I am not a pit bull. Not a hard concept for anyone vaguely familiar with various canine breeds. I'm a fairly calm, middle-aged German Shorthair Pointer. In human years, I'm more mature than my human momma. I enjoy a good run and a fine bowl of kibble, crunchy brown lamb kibble, and a nice drink of water. I am smart, athletic, and love my humans. Really, I am exactly what you would expect of a good GSP. Check out my photograph, I have big, floppy ears and the long, regal face of a sport dog. My fur is almost all liver-colored, minus the white spot on my chest that Uncle Chef Boy calls my royalty mark. My eyes are almond shaped. My point is that I really couldn't look less like a pit bull. Yet several humans have mistaken me for one. One human even snatched her little punt puppy out of the yard while yelling, "Keep the pit bull away.". I'd like her to know that not all pit bulls are mean. Any type of dog can be kind and any type of dog can be mean. That has a lot to do with how many of you treat us. Momma just stopped and stared at that dumb human, then shook her head.

Like humans, our backgrounds are part of our identity. I'm sure a Korean human would probably get tired of another human calling him Chinese. So humans, since you don't speak dog, please ask the other humans what breed their dogs are. Or otherwise, just say Lab mix or Shepherd mix like they do with every poor dog at the shelter. I have to go sleep for awhile. Morning kibble will be here before I know it.

It's All Good In This 'Hood

He’s baaaaaaa-aaack. The sweet heat brought the return of our ass-bearing son. I was sitting out in the yard, getting my daily fix of Bust-A-Marble on the iPad, when I noticed the top of his head bobbing along my fence line. I cut the game short and called in the bitches. The viewpoint is from the kitchen. It’s the only place to really appreciate the spectacle since I put in the privacy fence. It was an orange and yellow string number that night. The Thongman cometh.

My weird voyeuristic fascination with Thongman is strange. We’ve been neighbors for six years and he’s really only pissed me off once. His family is nice. I still think Alli ate one of his kids’ pet rabbits, but that’s a whole other story. The entertainment factor of my neighborhood is fairly high and for my money, he is king.

I gotta give the guy props for confidence. I don’t think I know many people, let alone men, who would wear a thong with pride while doing the yardwork. It’s slightly amazing to me how he never seems to get much of a tan. Plus, it’s his yard, do what ya gotta do. I like to steal the Moto Cat summer fashion sense and run around in a sports bra or bikini top and shorts while I do yard work or hang out at home. Maybe someone calls me Bra Lady and has a weird interest in my activities.

Speaking of Moto Cat, she is linked my favorite Thongman memory. The mail carrier accidentally delivered his men’s underwear catalogue to my house. Since it was bulk mail and had things like latex boy shorts in it, I kept it, taped the pages together, and wrapped Moto Cat’s wedding present in it. “It’s a long story,” I said to the aunt collecting gifts at the reception. Her depanned reply? “I’m sure it is, honey.”

The funny part thing about Thongman is that when it comes to this neighborhood, he really is just the beginning. Okay, like I said, he’s king. He’s the magical center of the central SF universe, but there is a fabulous cast of supporting players around him. Like the guy I see walking his coon. Not a racist remark. Not a dick joke. Homey actually has a housebroken, leash-trained raccoon. You don’t see that kind of shit south of 26th Street.

My new personal favorite is a fella I call Curses A Lot. I like the fact that he watches his kids while they are outside playing. That’s a good thng since there are like seven of them and they are all tiny. Seriously, there are seven of them, like diapered little dwarves running barefoot through the alley. They leave naked dolls in the mud puddles after it rains. The cynic in me can’t decide if they are playing CSI or swimming pool. Or maybe they are playing drown daddy’s bad words since I’ve lost count of the times I’ve heard him yelling GD or fuck at them. It’s sad in a way. Part of me wants to ask him if he wishes he would have bought some fuckin’ condoms and part of me is sad for the kids. They look at me with a longing that is 30% please save me and 70% I know I’ll be pregnant in middle school anyway and Teen Mom is gonna be paying mad by then, so whatever.

It’s not all weirdness and housing vouchers, though. Take out a few slumlords and there are actually some pretty cool properties around here. There are old people, young people, and families. There are people of every color and profession. And I think many of no profession, but what do I really know…

I like the fact that there are always kids playing outside and the trees are so mature and varied. Plus it’s fun to live somewhere that lets me forget that I live in one of the whitest states in the country. I guess I’ve always gravitated to places that aren’t cookie cutter and this is as good as it gets for now.

The bitches dig the ‘hood. There are plenty of other dogs around, although Alli is tired of being mistaken for a pit bull. We’ve only had trouble a couple of times, once early on a Sunday morning when a very drunk man started yelling at us in Arabic and stuck his finger in Alli’s face. She took a swipe at him, but held back and didn’t connect. Not too long ago, a couple of dudes were yelling, “You got a husband?” at me and Al’s hair on her neck stood up instantly. I think that was her way of saying, “No, but she has Man Friend and I love him, so get fucked loser.”

Old Yeller Schooly Style

I had to get Old Yeller on a bird this afternoon. I was Travis, but my gun was a shovel. The bitches and I had just returned from a walk and since I had a poop bag to dispose of, we went directly to the back yard. I didn't even see the little guy at first, but on my way back through the yard, I noticed the bitches were both hovering over something in front of the bush.

Its tail feathers were mangled, who knows what happened to get it in that condition. The bitches were interested, but they weren't touching it. Stupidly, I decided it must be dead, gloved up, and grabbed its leg for a proper Target bag burial with the poop. That's when things got a nutty.

The robin was not dead and my grabbing it caused its heart to nearly beat out of its chest. What was left its feathers began flying everywhere. It looked like Ryan Seacrest had a pillow fight in my yard.

Of course, once the feathers flew and the squaking began, the bitches wanted the bird. Let's remember that they are sporting dogs, so they have soft mouths. They took turns carrying it around the yard; they didn't want to kill it or eat it, but really took some pride in the parade. Our bird friend wasn't giving up, though, it wriggles around enough for them to drop it. And let's not forget the friend or family robin that began dive bombing the bitches as soon as the little bird was in their clutches.

I was hoping the little dude would have passed on by this point, but it just wasn't to be. So I grabbed a shovel and called off the bitches. I stared at its chest for a minute, then looked at its face. So much pain and fear in such a little face. It only took one soft blow.

I was already crying by the time I put it in the bag. Fuck, I am crying while I'm typing this.

I've always loved animals. When I was a kid, I would have funerals for dead birds I found. "You're in a better place now, earth isn't forever," the whole nine. I grew up with a Chessie Lab mix named Blacky. My brother and I would run outside to watch the geese migrating. That turned out to be a real mindfuck in middle school when he brought home a Canadian goose he'd shot. I held that dead bird in my lap and cried for the monster that my brother had become. That also led to a fairly long stint as a vegetarian, which eventually settled into being a flexitarian who is passionate about raising animals in an ethically and environmentally conscious way.

But I think today was the time I was responsible for the death of an animal. I never actually cut up a fish that I kept. And one time I hit a cat on the interstate, but I decided it was suicidal because it literally jumped out in front of the car. Plus it lived in Iowa. I know I did the right thing today, because I helped it and it wasn't scared anymore. But that certainly didn't make it any easier.

A Grateful Heart

One of the best parts of quitting drinking was learning to be grateful. The victim mentality that most alcoholics have was such a drag and I was the queen. It might boil down to the old misery loves company cliché for some people. Personally, I was just so mad at the world and people in general, I didn’t really even care if anyone wanted to ride the pity train with me. I didn’t need people; gin and whisky were my friends.

Bleh. What selfish way to live. I spent a lot of time being a jerk, but I did manage to learn one lesson from a Nebraska friend, OmaLaw. OmaLaw was one of the coolest, smartest women I’d ever met and she was the type who’d packed a lot of living into the first 20 years of her life, some of it courtesy of her family situation and some of it due to a healthy bit of feminist rebellion flowing through her veins. She had a great ear, a kind heart, and I am thankful to call her friend. She was the type who would hold your hair back when you puked. One time she sat with me in a theater after a movie really got to me and I just cried and cried and cried. She didn’t need to say a word. While careers, babies, and life in general might seem to have diminished our friendship, she planted the seed for my grateful heart.

I was having another bad day, which was pretty much everyday back then and I enlisted OmaLaw for another therapy session. It may have been drinks at the gay bar or a capp at the coffeehouse, the details escape me. After I complained about whatever was bugging me, she asked if I was ever happy. Now that was the question. Of course I got a little defensive, of course I was happy sometimes. I was happy when I could ride my bike. I was happy when I was partying (ha). On and on. But she stopped me and said, “The next time you are happy, write a list of all the things that you love. Then when you’re sad, you can read the list and you’ll feel better.”

Smart lady, right? I have been making those lists ever since. The frequency of the lists doesn’t really matter much to me anymore. I just like finding one here and there in a notebook, checking the date, and realizing that with all the ridiculousness and insanity in the world, there is still love, beauty, and humor to be found all around us.

Here’s a recent list:

Phone calls with my dad
Watching the bitches play
Man Friend
The sound of a basketball swishing through the net
How my mom says, “And stuff,” eighty times a day
Coffee with hazelnut creamer
Sushi
Watching “Jeopardy” or “Cash Cab” with Chef Boy
The painting DJ Extra Chromosome gave me
Getting a pedicure
Making one of my tables laugh
Laughing like a monkey
Warm enough weather to go running with Al and Jo
Queen and Al Green
Tattoos
Knowing that words and actions only have the power I give them
AMC’S Week of Oscar movies
When the bitches snuggle in for the evening and sigh in their sleep
Doctor Kracker crackers
iPod karaoke
Bob Dylan
Yoga pants

I hope I would make the bitches’ lists… Me, kibble, walks, treats, outside, Man Friend, drinks, kibble, Uncle Chef Boy, and probably more outside. My lists change with my moods and the seasons, I’m sure they would be steadfast in their devotion to their lists. As long as it comes from a grateful heart, human or canine, it doesn’t matter.

I Loves My Internets...

I steal internet. I'm stealing one's internet right now. Apparently people in Spink don't lock down the internet like people in Sioux Falls. Some nice Norwegians are providing me decent speed and uploading down here in Union County. I can't hack into the Four Princesses or BudSmokersOnly back home. Yeah, BudSmokersOnly. Personally, I strive to be more clever than obvious, but different strokes.

I guess I probably don't steal internet in a sense that would hold up in a court of law, but I refuse to pay Midcontinent or Bridgemaxx or Qwest or whoever the latest provider that wants my money happens to be. I just find that so many places I frequent offer Wi-Fi, which I should clarify by saying that some places I frequent include the dining rooms and decks of various relatives. I've scared the hell out of the cleaning lady on more than one occasion coming into my aunt's house. Tip for anyone planning to steal internet from my aunt: the cleaning lady puts FAUX News on the TV. Loud. Bring your ear buds.

I also have my Droid rigged up so I can tether to my iPad or laptop. Gotta get my full use outta that smartphone media charge. But I swear this isn't as much about being cheap as it might sound.

Every classroom I grew up in had a computer. You remember the old Apple green screen computers back in the day? Oregon Trail? Number Munchers? Yeah, totally pimp for the time and we couldn't get enough of it. Technology wasn't the totality of our education by any stretch of the word, but rather a rad complement and important component. What blows my mind is how much and how fast technology has changed over the course of my life. I barely had an email in high school. Now I rarely send a snail mail letter. We bank online, rent movies online, socialize with our friends online, and some of us even have avatars and entire lives online. I am totally guilty of over-Facebooking on my phone. It's a little scary to think how much you can become part of the machine.

Sometimes I feel a little dependent on technology. As much as I love my techie toys, I wonder if I am losing some bit of human connection. And thinking of some people I know, I am not much of a techie nerd. Tip of the hat to Tiny T and the 40 Year Old Virgin. So I wondered how many people in this world don't even use the internet. There are probably a two billion people who have never even used a phone, much less a computer. Yikes, so in March of this year, there were basically 2.1 billion internet users. And there are almost seven billion of us. I'm sure economics is the root of the non-users. I don't care what anyone says, technology usually increases the gap between the haves and the have nots.

What are they doing? No Angry Birds? I can't believe all of them are bartering sugar for boar down at the general store. How do they pay their light bill? No xCel. Wow... fat American alert here. I just don't see me weening myself from the sweet, sweet teet of Mother Firefox or Sister Safari. And what would we do without each other here on blogger? I spend most of my day at work talking to people, so something about the internet and sharing without a physical human connection sates the misanthrope in me.

The bitches do help keep me off the phone and internet too much. They get all weird and jealous. Alli will bark and bark and bark till I put down the technology and give her some attention. Or maybe she just wants me to go to the PetSmart site and order her some new toys?

Coupon This

“Extreme Couponers” is on and I find the show absolutely fascinating in such a weird way. It’s turned into a guilty pleasure of mine for so many reasons, partly because the whole concept is so incredible to me. I can’t lie, it also makes me feel good about myself. I love things that make me feel good about myself. Sweet self-righteousness…

Kelly, who was featured tonight, called out the viewers by saying that extreme couponers aren’t hoarders who buy things just to get a deal. Um, okay. In the same segment, her husband talked about the rush she gets from her couponing trips, not to mention the fact that she looked like she just took a hit off a crack pipe as she walked out of the store. So maybe you’re an addict, not a hoarder? Don’t get me wrong, getting 31 cents back from the store and filling your minivan with 1,300 dollars worth of shit is quite an accomplishment, but you still drive a minivan and have turned your spare room into something akin to a fallout shelter. Then again I’m not sure what good 100 tubes of Colgate or 55 containers of BBQ sauce would do after a nuclear holocaust. After the bomb drops, I’d want to be with Rebecca, who has boxes of something called “beef chunks” in her garage. Yes, I said boxes. Not sure how the tortured cows ended up in boxes that don’t require refrigeration and frankly, it isn’t something I want to think about for long.

It’s not that I don’t want to use coupons, it’s just that I don’t tend to see coupons for the things I buy. Ever see a coupon for fresh produce? Organic milk? Ethically-raised meat? You see what I’m getting at here. Plus, I couple of years ago, I drank the Melalueca Kool-Aid, so I buy all my cleaning and household products that way. The less chemicals in this house and in our bodies, the better. You’ll never find 40 gallons of bleach in this basement.

I know one of the big arguments for this stockpiling behavior is the cost of raising a family. Granted, I have no experience there. The bitches aren’t so fussy about their kibble or treats. I get their food for about a dollar a pound. I’m sure that’s expensive to the coupon ladies, but Alli has a few allergies and the wrong food gave new meaning to “the shits.” My kitchen looked like, well, let’s just say there were shitty paw prints on the backdoor and it’s probably the closest thing I’ve ever experienced to ‘Nam. But back to the kid thing, I guess what I don’t understand is that no one ever said raising kids was cheap. And why feed these kids that you love all that cheap, processed crap? You’re feeding them cancer, heart disease, and obesity.

I do wanna punch this Rebecca in the face for one thing. One of her amazing deals was on travel-sized shampoo. She bought 77 containers. What a fucking waste of plastic. I would like to know if she recycles all that plastic. And back at her compound, she even said it was often cheaper to buy new air fresheners instead of the refills. Could these chicks be half as concerned about saving the planet as they are about saving money?

I guess my idea of a super consumer is one who consumes as little as possible. All these ladies I see on the show drive vans and trucks and have houses large enough to store hundred and sometimes thousands of extra items. What a wasteful existence. It just seems like another example of putting stuff and money before people and when that’s out of balance, good luck finding a coupon for happiness.

Maybe I’m just full of myself, but I think the bitches would always put me first. And it’s bigger than the fact that I give them food and water. They stay right next to me when I’m sick. They lick my tears away when I’m sad. They tell me which people are trustworthy. And they’re the best running buddies I’ve ever had.