Backfield In Motion

My son is home for the Holidays and I will say, he never ceases to amaze me with the way his brain is wired. I know his 19 year old intellect is still under construction and my crossing the yellow caution tape may lead to a hazard zone equipped with sink holes invading his infrastructure……but I continue to plow aHEAD as I bear witness to his teen logic.

Case in point: Since birth I have been privy to my sons underclothes all the way from his training pants to his XL Joe Boxers. I  have had this privilege not only as his mother doing his laundry, but also as a spectator during his youth.  I watched as he frantically raced down the stairs in his T-shirt and Power Ranger panties looking for something he urgently needed; like a small grey lego piece he left on the carpet over night that may or may not have been devoured by my vacuum.  OR ..fast forward to the present: His collegiate six foot frame harboring size 13 bare feet flapping down steps in search of his treasured cell phone lost in the couch cushions, wearing only his Christmas Boxers featuring Santa holding a Heineken.  My how the years breeze past us, from briefs to boxers is how I now measure my sons growth……..and maturity level.

It’s amazing what shows up when ready for prime time teens are independent and shop for their own clothing after they enroll in college. Possibly spending their college fund on seasonal items that cover their private areas and lay hidden beneath their worn denims only to surface when they bring their laundry home for the holidays. It’s amazing the barrage of unmentionables I happen upon publicizing clever jingles across their buttocks region, such as;  “Santa, Where’s My Ho’s?”.  OR, how about the ones with the red and green ornaments spread over the fly area touting: ” Like My Balls?”.   Oh how I miss those Sesame Street days when it was a Muppet dominating the BVD empire and little fannies  everywhere tooted Gonzo’s trumpet from behind….

Oh but I digress.

My son brought his Christmas break laundry home and nestled on top peaking out from under some crusty towels sat a lonely pair of white Briefs.   I asked my son as to when he switched his undergarments  from boxers to briefs, and then proceeded to expound on how Calvin Klein will have to decrease the Font size in order to encrypt their Holiday magic across those “whitey-tighty’s”.  Looks like there might be just enough space in the front to photo shop in one of Santa’s helpers.  “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins”.  How can it? There’s no room.

My son didn’t laugh. He merely explained how he “bought the wrong kind”, and  he was looking for the new and improved Euro slim fit hipster comfy-style entitled:”Boxer -Briefs”.

Boxer-Briefs: The oxy-moron of the underpants world.

“Bought the wrong kind”:  The moron who neglected to read the packaging and fell victim to the buy -one -get -one- free syndrome who is now stuck with eight pairs of Calvin Klein’s never to be worn again mini-briefs at $19.50 a pair. Guess who will be comfy in his hipster briefs sitting in the school cafeteria with no money to eat……

My plan was to donate the items and write off the mistake. However..

One Sunday afternoon the temperatures in our area registered just above freezing and while I was carrying the laundry basket down to the laundry room I notice my son jolting out of his room wearing a short sleeve T-shirt with an NFL logo scrolled across his chest accompanied by knee length soccer shorts, and in bare feet.  He flashed past me beating me to the laundry room. He stuck his lengthy arm into the core of his piled clothing  and tore out a white cotton crumpled mass and held it high in his palm, and yelled, “YESss!”.

I said: “Son, that is the whitey-tighty error – in -judgement you are now holding.  Why did you just fish that pair out from the rest of your laundry and hold it up to the underwear god in praise?;  and, why are you dressed like you are vacationing in Hawaii when it’s sub-zero degrees in Pennsylvania?”.

” It’s game day and these are my lucky clothes. Every time I wear this my NFL  team wins”.

And the Mini-Briefs?

“Those are included in my lucky clothes, they complete me”.

Here’s hoping they make the play-offs….you have seven more pairs upstairs….

There are, I’m sure, powerful new technologies to track a 19 year old’s development to investigate their brain functions and connections. When they are connecting. And I’m sure this research will reveal factors that impact a teens behavior that might provoke vulnerabilities and cause an erupt purchase of “the wrong kind” of underwear to only be worn on Game Day at $19.50 at pair. I know that during the formative years there is a decline in volume of grey matter, which I found out, is necessary for maturation, however, I did read that a turn around happens in their early 20’s, and one of the Hallmark’s of this turn in behavior is the ability to “Plan aHEAD”……

 even if your sons “Plan aHEAD ” may be Brief(s)….

spread the humor.

Blogger’N Hell…

One of my favorite authors wrote a book in the 70’s entitled; “The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank”.  I was barely out of high school when I became a big fan of Erma Bombeck.  I found her to be one of the most clever humorists on this globe and was particularly enchanted that she was nearing fifty when her books began to orbit the planet.   Impressive.   She built her career with articles which lead to best sellers based on her suburban home life, possibly some whilst in the midst of menopause.  Most impressive.

I loved her her work and often wondered how she  might have come up with the novel idea of the a fore mentioned  title.  I asked myself if maybe she was just sitting outside taking a quiet moment from the chaos of motherhood to watch the grass grow;  or perhaps  chasing after the crazy dog that ran out of the house with a Bra clenched between his canines and tripped over the cesspool cover causing a fall face down onto a greener pasture……….like I encountered.

However  the case, I commend her creative thought.   Imagine that book’s title had Erma lived on the Public sewer system.

My blog titles may not make sense to anyone but me. My format is to think of the heading first, then eventually fill in the puzzle with pieces of nonsense, quasi truths , and an added touch of experience and observation. For example: Blogger’N Hell.  I think of the expression “Hotter’N Hell”,  and obviously replacing a word in the phrase with the term Blog, either in past, present, or future tense.  My idea for this technique is not ingenious for I was new to the blogging world and had no idea at the time ,what in the hell I was doing.  The titles I came up with stem from a  catch phrase, or maybe a song, or some slogan I overheard while shopping for eggs. Then I laugh to myself as I enter the letters onto my keyboard to layout the Post Heading. I am smiling because I have no inkling what the body of the blog will contain.  I am a massive free-floater.

The title “Blogger’N Hell” made me think of Heat. Not Satan’s fiery Hell, but the earth’s climate in general.  Summer has past and the Fall’s atmospheric conditions showed signs of  sun and wind, ergo, I decided to dress warmly today. I grabbed last seasons leggings and covered them with a sweater dress , slipped on some wilted suede boots and a leather jacket to  head outside and walk the dog.  I barely got down to the end of the lane when I felt the sweat forming at the temples of my tinted hairline. I should have watched the morning news as the weather-person predicted temperatures in the 70’s.

Lately I have been having difficulty with the fluctuation of temperatures and I don’t mean of the external kind. Menopause and I are having a temporary battle of the bulge and sweats which do not coincide with the rest of the environment. My intrinsic Meteorologist has its own agenda. This attack of my internal global warming is causing a meltdown of decision making every time I enter my closet to dress for the day.  I spin my wardrobe wheel of fortune to help with the days pick of attire as I listen to the hormones whispering their “Yays” or “Nays”.  While my tempered hands glide across fabrics, I sense the Goldilocks  syndrome chiming in: “This Cashmere  sweater is too hot!”…..”This cotton shirt is too cold!”…..”This ugly-ass pair of sweat pants is juuussst right!”.  So I put on the cotton shirt, pull the cashmere sweater over my head, and jump into the ugly -ass sweats as I give the rest of my closet the finger.

Temperatures rising and falling biologically can explain certain side effects  a woman  in her fifties might encounter that cause her thought process to detour or stray.  For instance, someone in the drones of menopause may start the day off at her computer wanting to write about Global Warming in relation to the Earth, but end up in stead, twisting her genre to center around her hot-flashes.

When I  keyed in the Title, Blogger’N Hell I was going to rant about the cause or causes of Global Warming………………..from my viewpoint.

Ok, here goes:

Personally I think the polar ice caps are melting due to the fact  that has been overlooked for a long time. In 2010 the population of the States was 308.7 million  and I read a stat that showed  a rough estimate that 49% are male and 51% are female.  Of the 51% of females around 26% are women between the ages of 45 and 64. Now ,if I may estimate or Guess-timate to divide the country in half  lengthwise and roughly focus solely on the female population in the 45-64 age group that dwell below the 37th parallel, I might inject a reasonable fact that maybe…just maybe a very high percentage of these women could possibly be experiencing symptoms or are in full blown menopause.  AND keep in mind the geographical area of where they live; Southern California, Arizona, Texas, and Florida to name just a few parts of the United States that harbor temperatures in triple digits that can process humidity which will frizz the near bald head of a new born.

Now here’s my theory as to why all this is melting away.

If you are experiencing menopause under normal temperatures even in the dead of a winter blizzard you will find yourself dressed in your home in nothing but your underwear. The rest of your family will be appropriately attired and dialing their cellphones to reach a psychiatric unit to commit you.  So…Imagine the percentage of  women  aged 45-64 that reside in the unbearable heated climates below the 37th parallel  going through menopause and looking for a place to cool off and fan their internal heat fueled by a hormonal imbalance. Imagine. Where to go to retreat the heat.

THEY ALL MOVE RESIDENCE TO THE POLAR REGION.  All 26.4%  migrate to places like; The Yukon Territory, Siberia,Antarctica, or The Icebox of the Nation; Fraser, Colorado.   Imagine, all those menopausal women  that have been basking in sunshine and heat for the majority of their lives taking refuge in sub zero temperatures to seek relief, soaking their over heated bodies into the cool temps offered up by Jack Frost. This could react in a massive menopausal melting pot.  Why the internal heat alone from this 26.4%  would radiate into the Alps causing an avalanche of epic proportion.  This internal heat filters out of the menopausal body into the frozen environment as women scream out their cries of joy: “Ice Ice Baby”.  This, my blogger friends, is the cause of global warming.

I’m sure Erma would agree. Maybe she’d  a had another best seller with titles that include:

” The Ice Melts Faster if You Sit On It.” or ” Menopause..Into the White, the Other Side of Fifty Shades of Grey” or ” My Hormones Caused an Avalanche Over Alaska”, or “High Anxiety”, or “Incontinence…The Eighth Continent”.

Erma would have a hay day..she’d be dancing around to Nelly Lyrics….

spread the humor

A re-Blog to wet your whistle as I prepare to return…

Charlywalker's Blog

My high school son announced the other day that he was getting a tattoo.

I told him: “That’s nice, and when you leave for your  INK appointment make sure you take extra clothes with you”.

He stated back: ” Why? Do they make you change your clothes?”.

“No”.  I smiled back at him….” You’ll be needing something  to wear when you find yourself  no longer living in this house for doing something stupid”.

“My friend Jordan got one”….He mocks back.  “It’s scripture, written under his arm”.

“Well”, I breath out between gritted teeth, “I’m sure  God will be pleased to know that his word is being spread through Jordan’s armpit”.

 He carries on:  “You know I turn 18 soon, and I don’t need your permission. That’s what Jordan did”.

I hate that sense of entitlement and the continual referencing of the legal age of consent being thrown…

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Guess The Age

CW has a birthday coming up. Please be kind….& feel free to lie & flatter.

I blogged it Myyyy Waaayyyy….

OK…..all right…..I am trying to calm down  and stop foaming at the keyboard.  I haven’t blogged for a while due to an unpleasant sighting on this word pressed ship.  I noticed a stowaway one day when scoping a freshly pressed victim from their opening page,  and discovered a minor round of similarities from a post gone past.

 Blogging  is relative to my brain and my experiences and I am very happy to know that some folks enjoy my rhetoric, but not happy to discover a desire to inhabit some of the sparks.  I’ve read that imitation is a form of flattery, and accept that notion, but when a piece gets freshly pressed off of a knuckle head idea formed from my skull….well….that crosses me.   At least have the decency to ask me first.

I have noticed other blogs add a copyright corner to their site and I have followed suit, and this has been in place since the onset of my written material.  It may have been a little hidden considering It took a while to figure out the  purpose of the widget. However, those that are experience surfers are able to catch a wave in a matter of seconds to hook a fresh one.

 To hunt a Gentlman O’Fortune and pic a ruined idea lies in deep waters, plus, I am too tired and too old to to be upset over pirating  the booty of a blog.  I am considering a change of venue and charter my Furner to a private port and masquerade in a ghostly manner, or quietly sail off into the sunset to sip some grog and blog solo for few hearty Matey’s…

  Getting inspiration and triggering an epiphany are avast on these still waters, but pilfering and plunder a little blog down under…well…I’ll leave that to Johnny Depp’s Movies.

Any other Landlubber’s out there experience this?  I’ll heed yer advice. Free of course……no charge…… copy that.

Yo-ho-ho…

You Are the Sunshine of my Blog…….

I have been nominated for The Sunshine Award.

I am honored yet embarrassed because I don’t know what that is….

LB of Woodgatesview bestowed this lovely nomination onto me and I am humbled beyond…well…as beyond humble  as you can get, wherever that takes you…..to humble infinity and beyond….

Thank you LB for all the kind words you wrote regarding my blog agility and calling me clever and entertaining.  * I’m blushing.*

And thank you LB for continuing your subscription with me whether you LIKE it or not…..but mostly; for getting my wayward humor.

Now to get down to brass blog tacks:  I am to answer ten questions about myself, and nominate ten others who have shared their inspiration and made me Aspire Higher…

Favorite Color: Green…..the color of money that is lacking in my wallet right now…

Favorite Animal:  ALL……o.k…maybe not the mosquito.

Favorite Number:  My children’s Cell…….speed dial.

Favorite Drink: A very fine Chianti with a side of Fava beans….

Facebook or Twitter:  I prefer a Face than a Twit.

Passion:  yes….Yes… Ohhh ..YES!!

Giving or Receiving Gifts: Both get equal time….

Favorite Day:  Everyone that I find myself awaking to….

Favorite Flower:  The Rose, preferably Yellow, and given to me unexpectedly for no reason at all….

Favorite Food: Italiano, naturalmente!  Ora Mangiare!!

Oh Lordy,  here comes the top ten nominees for the Sunshine Award:  This is always difficult, because I feel all my followers or even day trippers  deserve this award for thumbing through my Blogsense….

And the Nominees are ( in no particular order…please hold your applause until the end):

1) Gaycarboys.com:  Just go there and  try and tell me their posts don’t put a smile on your face.  My mind drives off with a new ride every time I click on their site.

2) Ronyaroshauthor.com :  He’s a Poet and he knows it. He’s clever and funny. And I like funny.

3) Myzencity.com:  I love how she brings NYC to my home in rural PA.

4) Ignorethebucklesonmyjacket.wordpress.com: Words can not Ignore the humor that exudes from this individual..

5) Renee Moore ( Pooter & Boogers place): Her blog is one to read before bedtime..like a great novel.

6) Offdutymom.wordpress.com: She nominated me for an award and I believe I forgot to thank her. Thank You. This woman does not sugar coat..nor is she off duty..she’s right on task.

7) Up2randomthoughts.wordpress.com:  You will not get your Phil of this blog…..there is plenty to Phil your mind…

8) rtewrite.wordpress.com : Harper Faulkner’s name says it alone…

9) coffeepoweredmom.wordpress.com:  Any mom who has coffee in their title is OK in my Blog….

10) Mostlybrightideas.wordpress.com:  This Bronxboy55 can and will entertain you with his bright ideas.  Enuf said.

11) MommyMan.wordpress.com: The bouts of rearing twins with a flavor of humor sum up this mommy man..I had to sneak him in…

Well that’s it folks, I would like to add the other 71 to the list,but I’m not allowed.  Says who??

Thank you again LB for this nomination and should I get elected I promise “No New Blogs”….er..I mean..I will blog more. I promise.

Spread the Humor.

Charlywalker.wordpress.com

Thrill of Victory and Agony of De-Feet.

I had a big foot sighting.

It was right here in my own home.

I saw it’s hairy extension propped motionless atop a California King mattress. I stood outside the entrance to where this Big Foot was resting it’s size 13 in silence, hoping not to awaken the beast. I haven’t done any research on Big Foot and their nocturnal habits and why they find themselves sleeping until noon throughout their Teen years.   I thought about grabbing an artifact from this Big Foot’s Den and poking him to arouse this body that has been Facebooking friends and streaming movies into the dawn.

I decided to approach this non- erectus Homo Sapien from another portal and cut through the adjacent bathroom to get a closer look at this Big Foot.  I waded through the natural habitat left behind by this boy beast , Yet I  was afraid he might awaken from his stupor and throw harried statements at me. I’d hate to have to Quash that Sass.

I tried to divert my attention to the relics covering his domain and in doing so, I managed to trip over a snowboard washed up on a wave of dirty laundry.  It appears this Abominable snowboy is oblivious to the hazards that surround him and does not fear the fungus atop his half eaten sandwich lying on the night stand.  This wild boy has many manifestations growing about his man cave.  One  might attempt to upset the atrocious smelling applecart by, say, grabbing a weapon of mass disinfectant and spraying the underbrush of his prideful dust collection into smithereens.  This might cause an unruly effect as this Hairy Hominoid defends his territory from intruders by placing land mines of stray shoes  disguised as trip wires upon crossing the threshold of his  sleeping lair.  This teen -wolf is the boss of his woods.

( Once I tried to move a blockade of unread school books to higher ground  where they  stood a chance to be saved and returned at the end of the year intact, but I was met with  snarls and shouts that could force one to the ground, declaring me to:

“Leave his stuff alone”……. I want them there”.

I am disinclined to acquiesce to his request and overlook his adverbial particle of  speech dangling like his lengthy arms…

I retreated from this Skellring of firing words and the Big Foot’s bedroom  unscathed by any free-floating bacteria , only to returned at a later time after the boy beast stuffed his Big foot into his  designer DC’s and left for school ).

My curiosity climbed as I drew closer to this nocturnal Neanderthal enigma, and wandered to the head  that is attached to this Big Foot. I slowly circled the foot of the bedrock and noticed this distinctly human Big Foot with  phenomenally long toes that would unconsciously spread while he slumbered.  It took great restraint for me not to grab those giant digits and have a round of; ” This little Wookie goes to market…”, but I knew better than to startle the beast with childhood ploys.  An action like that would bring this bipedal to his Big Feet screeching his mantra……..”MOOOMMM GET OUTTA MY ROOOOOM!”.

Quietly I reached the head of the beast and witnessed a tuft of stiff black bristle protruding from his shaggy chin.  I noted his swarthy matted hair had taken an unusual form from lack of AXE hair products, and  the odor penetrating the environment screamed of over usage of cologne the day before.

  ……..YOWIE.…….he needed a bath. 

I did not hover too closely in fear of disturbing the Big Foot.  I realized this developing inhabitant likes his tranquil rest and to provoke him would result in this Great Teen Bear to rise and KIKOMBA my ass….outta his room.  This Big foot desires solitude from pestiferous parents lurking about their den of perennial inequity. A sleeping hairy big foot does not like to be encumbered with early risings and packing their goods for college.

Well…I’ll show him whose boss of these woods….I’m not gunna take it no MO-MO…..

Never underestimate the power of a MOM and her Cannon sure shot……..right SKOOKUMS???

spread the humor.

Eat My Blog!

Ok…bare with me….I’m going to go on a tirade that will get your juices flowing.

Recently I stopped into a Walgreen’s in search of a Slip-n-slide to entertain the twin boys  next door.  Now that my children are  off to college and surpass the height, weight, and age requirement posted on the front of this Wham-O box, I thought I might spread the joy onto another generation.

Although it’s the end of summer and the aisle’s in Walgreen’s are embellished with Halloween decor,  I just thought I might get lucky in the leftover  “Summer water-fun” section and happen upon a lonely re-taped box containing a Surf Rider for the lawn.  I ended up going to three different stores before I  finally stumbled upon my Product of Gold.  And I do mean stumbled Up On.

After countless minutes of wandering aimlessly through misdirected passageways offered up by the one purple haired  texting employee,  I turned toward the area that her rolling eye’s pointed to and tripped over a yellow and blue box waving it’s slip-n-slide tongue  at me.  I noticed the empty shelves of  all the Summer days drifting away and me standing alone at the end cap of aisle seven investigating the last Slip-in Slide exploding out of it’s cardboard casket.  It appears that I was not the only one in search of Summer Fun that afternoon as I witnessed a glob of amber synthetic petrochemical out pouching from it’s home.  It look like another patron did a little breaking and entering causing  an escapee of  fire retardants to seep through the strapping tape.

I slipped the collapsed slide from it’s pocket to inspect it for flaws; as I would hate to get the three year old twins jacked up for a round of belly-flopping and later find a tear and cause their Summer dreams ripped into seams…..Well-a well-a-well a- huh…

Ok.. I’ll tell you more… tell you more…

This isn’t about the slip-n-slide it’s about the box Angry bird fruit gummy’s I purchased as an after thought while exiting the store.  Angry bird gummy’s that eventually found themselves returned to the store because the Green Bird contained something dark and sinnister in it’s gummy belly. This was noted when a child was about to pop it in her mouth at the poolside. It was a good thing that this kid likes to investigate her food as if she were a cast member of CSI, before she passed it through her gums.  Her keen sense of , ” Hey, what happened to this angry bird gummy”, brought my attention to the small black spot burrowed in the belly of this Angry Green Bird.

I snatched that gummy from her hand and inspected the foreign body lying inside the gummy bird. It looked like a small part of a bug.  This gummy had a bug up its ass…...now I see why they are called Angry Birds.

I went back to the store to return the box of Angry Bird  Fruit Gummy’s made in Mexico.  I did not go to the original store where I bought them, I went to a store closer to my home which is located in a different state.  I live south of the border in my state and have the opportunity to shop tax free  in another state on a daily basis.

I managed to track down a manager to present my Angry Bird Gummy case and produced the body of one disgruntled Green Gummy. I told her I read the ingredients on the side of the box and how it neglected to mention  any added protein to the mix.

 The manager was amenable as I handed her the receipt and I explained that I bought this item in a tax free state.  She counterclaimed that in my State most food is not taxed.  I was dumbfounded, as I thought all food was tax free. I asked about the gummy’s status in that genre of taxation. She expounded on the difference of percentages of Fruit in the food:

“If the gummy’s contain a high percentage of fruit they are considered Food”.

I asked her where is the cap line for the gummy birds and might this Gaggle of gummy’s not make the tax free cut.  Maybe the Red Angry bird has more fruit matter and carries the weight for the rest of the Angry flock. I asked if there is a flow chart that determines which gummy’s make it as food and which get (T)axed…and what about all the other products that contain Fruit. Like Orange Juice or Juicy Fruit Gum……W(r)igle(y) your way out of that one…..

I walked out of that store thinking about which elected official spending my tax dollars, actually sat down and thought this out to present to the government when the Food Tax  Addendum was in session.  I could just envision this appointed delegate entering the Senate with his/her box of Angry Bird Gummy’s to argue the amount of fruit contained in this Green Angry Bird.   I wonder if this dignitary presented the facts based on the history of the Angry Bird’s which shows that this Green Angry Bird can spin around and smash objects from the other side and is similar to and nicknamed; The Boomerang.

No wonder it came back to the store.

spread the humor.

Blog-Leg-Left

Can someone out there help me to publish this as a book? I surely could use the money.  I have decided to incorporate my relationship with my dog,menopause, raising children, and my marriage into some light reading. Oh and float the influx of alcohol into the equation it could  add some  unintentional lightness of being.

Anytime you affix alcohol into the picture it ads excitement and adventure; oh,  and a  slight headache.  Earnest Hemingway use to drink a bottle of Scotch before he  started to write his novels. I just uncork the latest Pinot Grigio and free float. Alcohol adds containment to life’s little sidebars;  And also works as a quick astringent for dog bites.

Yes, my lovely Charly The  Chaniel grabbed my hand with his Chi-hua-hua canines and left a one inch blood gushing gash in my right palm. That pissed me off. That’s my drinking hand.

No, Charly was not fighting me for the Chardonnay , I was attempting to recover a tuft of tissue dangling from his mouth that he stole from the waste bucket in the powder room. I used the command on him to “drop” before I reached for the used Ultra Soft Kleenex, but Charly was stubborn and would not surrender his  rumpled white flag.

So, I, being the larger of the two species, bent down to tear that paper out from his teeth and that’s when he charged and latched onto my hand.

I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but when I came to there was a lot of blood and a rolled up torn Times next to me and my dog looked like an Andy Warhol painting.

My hand did not require any stitches but I was hurting for a dog trainer.  I called a family meeting, minus my always traveling husband, and announced to the children that I was getting rid of the dog. My twenty year old  daughter said “Good” and continued texting on her Iphone, and my  16 year old son grew silent and grabbed some ice and a band-aid.  (I now know which child will put me into the Deluxe Suite at the Retirement Center and which one will leave me duct taped to a wheel chair drooling in a parking lot).

 There was no need to call the paramedics for me or an  undertaker for the dog; the only phone call I managed to dial was a local Dog Trainer in my “hood”. I had his card for months, but due to economic hardships, doggie obedience and doggie schools and doggie camps and doggie play dates where not in my budget this year.

Plus, growing up with German Shepherds as kid, I never recall any dog training with a professional in our household or even in the neighborhood for that matter. Dog’s just seem to be dogs and they either obeyed or were met on the nose with whatever was handy. Albeit a stick, magazine, or my mothers new Rubbermaid spatula that she ordered through the catalogue  that ended up mysteriously missing from the Gadget drawer one day only to be returned with large bite marks on the handle.

“Rubbermaid, Touching millions of people everyday where they live, work, and play”. Even while sent to the Dog House…at least my mother’s bark was worse than her bite…

I finally gave in to the recession and dipped into my budget Piggy bank and hired a Dog whisperer of my very own. Only he doesn’t whisper. He met with Charly-dog and took that Chaniel by the horns and showed him whose boss. He was The Trainer.  He was Alonzo Harris in Training Day with a mix of Kathy Bates of Misery, throw in a hint of Darth Vader ,  and a wardrobe from Barbara Woodhouse.

 This Trainer got my dog under control and civilized in under an hour. My Trainer can take my dog anywhere and meet any one or any other dog and my Chaniel never complains. Not one little bark or whimper escapes his little doggie lips. If he had lips. The Trainer can make Charly-dog do anything he wants him to do and Charly obeys him, because if he doesn’t he will face the almighty choke collar cutting off his air supply.

When I try to emulate the Trainer and do as I am instructed Charly behaves like he should. Especially when the Trainer is present. I was impressed to say the least, that I actually had a dog that I could be proud of , and not fret every time I had to walk him and a car zoomed past and Charly would try to outrace the moving vehicle. I basked in the glory of strolling by folks in the neighborhood without Charly on High Alert Attack mode. I have to say that training day is the highlight of my life right now because my dog transforms into a T.V. dog that minds his manners….. For the camera anyway…

That’s right , when the Trainer is gone and I am solo again with my pup, mayhem breaks out and he regresses back to his original Hell Boy Look-a-like.  I can not afford to have this Trainer 24/7 unless I offer him room and board.

Hmmm…I’m thinking. My husband does travel a lot and I do have a guest room collecting dust more than visitors….

Well, it could make for some interesting blogging…………

Like a Blog’s Dinner

I can totally understand why dogs mate and not marry. Dogs like to run with their pack and scavenger around all night with their buddies rummaging for trouble and practicing their twilight bark in hopes it will fall upon some finer pedigrees silky ears. I can’t see a dog staying with another of its kind and claim that they are in Heavenly bliss after sniffing the same behind for twenty or thirty years. I watch my puppy outside on his daily walks and his nose is  constantly sniffing something in the air attracting his attention. An attention that spans a nano second.  I think if dogs got married their mates would have them on a short leash with a choke collar.

I have met many women with husbands that have a wandering eye or some other wandering part of their anatomy, and I have suggested they research the Pet Smarty  Store for control apparatus. Just think how much it would solve the cheating situations in our country and could put a damper on the high divorce rate. Instead of investing in high priced scheisters..er, I mean lawyers, you could shop online for a shock collar .There are various modes and models, for example;

There are bark collars which could suppress the nagging and whining.

There’s the Spray collar which could assist in training them to stop oogling the secretary or stop addressing the office help as Caro Mias.

AND not to mention the  wandering collar that features a venture control button in the hand piece to make sure they find their way back home.

There are ultrasonic collars which have a switch to submerge your captive under water……indefinitely.  (They have the Dogtra 200  Gold series which is water proof.)

There is a remote system that  could  be run from your home. Maybe directed at a Bar, or I’m running late at work excuse, and possibly help with being “stuck in traffic”.

 They have the Platinum collar with the LCD screen to provide easy viewing. So the next time they take a lengthy lunch break and can’t be reached, at least you’ll have the Name of the Hotel in plain view and on disk.

God I love technology.

Just think when he takes his office interest on an escapade to the Ramada  Inn you can adjust the Jump stimulator to a positive vibration and get a rise out of him.

Plus, there’s a negative selection as well…….Oh and the collar with the four prong  attribute….well need i go on?

 All these items are advertised to keep your dog in line. Can you imagine carrying this one step further and applying it to your mate?

I would invent a collar that instructs them to go “fetch” a menu from Chez Who-ever, and plan an unexpected dinner date along with purchasing a swanky sexy little black dress and a dozen roses.

I would attach the Extend -o– feature that ensures a fun night out…. lasting into the morning. There would be  menu options on this remote that would intervene when he starts to order a bottle of the cheap champagne. There would be shock values that would reach Hospital levels when they forget your Anniversary  or your birthday and bought a last minute gift at Target.

I would set this collar to the standards of our lovely Country and keep it at High Alert.  I would have the shock intervals set at every five minutes according to how often he chews with his mouth open, or asks you to put his wallet in your purse when you are out at a movie, or requests that you call his mother and/or send her a card while he’s busy traveling, even though he can’t take the time to send you a card.  Yeah, I would set that sucker on a “comatose” level……

Yeah, it’s a good thing dogs don’t mate for life; Charly would never find the time to buy them  dinner , he would chew his leg off first……Hmmmmmm…could I love a gimp? With a Rockefella bank account and a lot of Stoli’s, everyone looks good.