Gater

Jake the Three-Legged Wonder WINNER!

He won!

It’s hard to build dramatic tension when I’m just so excited about something. But let me explain. Last Saturday, Paw Pals of Quincy held its third annual Mardi Pals in the District (which is downtown Quincy for those of you not from around here). There was a parade, a costume contest (more on that next week) and, most importantly for this household, wiener dog races.

The races were divided into three groups: The Cocktail Wieners (under 10 pounds), the Ballpark Wieners (11 to 20 pounds), and the Plumper Wieners (self-explanatory). Yes, these Paw Pals people have a sense of humor about this. Jake is somewhere between 13 and 15 pounds.

There were four heats for the Cocktails and Ballparks, but only one for the Plumpers. The winners of each heat ran in a final race to qualify for the championship race. Yes, the Plumpers had a leg up here–they only had to run one race, but then, that’s probably for the best. Jake was in the third of the Ballpark heats.

The guy in green, there in the middle, was the announcer for the event. I wrote down Jake’s whole name–the part about the three legs and the wonder wiener–and that guy read the whole thing. Now, I’d spent the previous two hours parading my dogs around and talking to people, so I already had built up my fan base. But when he read the Jake’s whole name, he added, “Don’t let the three legs fool you, folks. He’s not slowed down by all those extra legs. He’s built for speed!” The crowd loved it.

The dogs were all loaded into this plywood contraption. Envision, if you will, a horse-racing chute. Now envision it at 1/6 scale, with outhouse-style cutouts for each dog to see through. You get the idea.

Did I mention I was doing this with Gater, The Kid, a camera, and that’s it? Next time, I’m bringing along an extra set of hands. But the park was filled with kind-hearted souls who held Gater for me while I filled out registration forms, went to the bathroom, and raced my wiener dog. God bless kind-hearted souls.

Anyway, on with the race!

Okay, we’re set. We’re on the finish line, The Kid had two treats cribbed from the Sam’s Club display, and I’m ready with the camera. The crowd counted down from three, and the chute was open! And they’re off!

See how the majestic wiener dogs spring forth and fly down the track (also known as Hampshire Street)! See their ears flop mightily in the racing wind! See the limbs moving so fast, it looks like they aren’t even there!


(Eadweard J. Muybridge would have had a field day with this shot. Look! It proves a wiener dog can run with, um, let me count–ONE leg on the ground!)

The chalk was the finish line, and Jake was first by about three feet! Now, I don’t necessarily think that he was faster than all the other dogs–but all the other dogs were slower.

Mommy? Why is everyone yelling? Did I do something good? Or something bad?
Wait–two treats? I DID GOOD!
Now, sadly, Jake bombed out in the finals round. The crowd was about five times louder, and he got completely discombobulated. So many people were yelling his name that he got turned around.
Note, if you will, the tail and ear in the forefront? That’s the winner. Jake is aaaaalllllll the way in the back left corner, facing the wrong way. Yup. We lost that round, by about half a block. Da agony of Dafeet, ya know.
But we got a nifty, homemade, first-place ribbon! The Kid took a pretty good picture, huh? He’s actually almost as good as I am half the time.
Finally, after a fun-filled four + hours of dogs in a park, we headed home to celebrate with . . .
The victory nap.
My little winner. I’m so proud!

Randomness

Yes. There is no coherency to today’s post.

For example:

Yes. That’s a dog–a yawning dog–in a laundry basket. Somehow, the three-legged wiener dog–whose three legs are all of 2 3/4 inches long to begin with–managed to get into the laundry basket all by himself. Warm-from-the-dryer blankets will do that, though. Guard your baskets carefully. Wiener dogs may be lurking.

Which has nothing to do with my continual obsession with What Not To Wear As A Cowgirl:

So, this is pretty good, right? My Fashion Stylist vetted the skirt; the belt over the shirt works, doesn’t it?

Do Cowgirls wear pantyhose? Tights? Leg warmers? Anything? Because I’ve got to tell you, the high that day was 34 degrees, and I was cold. Not to mention my legs are not exactly things of tanned, toned beauty. Oh, the sacrifices I make for fashion. Hopefully, San Fran will not be that cold.

I also have this:

I swear, if I show up with a camera at work tomorrow, I think the Lovely Mary will scream or something.

Anyway, I think if I’m going to wear the brown corduroy jacket, I’ll work with either a white or bright-colored shirt. But otherwise, I think this is workable.

Wait, that was almost coherent.

Ah, that’s better.

Let’s see that again, shall we?

Yes. You are looking at a snowman three times the size of the real men who made him. He’s across the street from my house. As we speak, I am sitting in my office and watching people drive down the street, slam on the breaks, back up, and occasionally get out and take pictures. His garbage can hat and most of his bricks have fallen off, but this snowman isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. This is no mere boy’s snowman. This is a real man’s snowman. And speaking of real men…

Holy Moly. It was 28 degrees out, and Mr. Carhartt Overalls there was busting out those guns in a big way. Those arms will be making an appearance in my next book, I know that much. It takes a whole lot of muscles to move that much damn snow. And a forklift.

Notice the dogs:

Jake (modeling a stunning, custom-made, hand-knit sweater) is sort of okay with strange men who have awesome biceps. Gater, on the other hand, is considering attacking. You haven’t heard a dog bark until you’ve heard a half-beagle howl in attack mode. Really. It’s almost like the sonic bark from that movie Bolt. It shatters my ears every time.

And, finally, for those of you who actually managed to hold on through all this randomness, I’ve updated my website, here, to include the blurb on the book I’m almost done writing. Yes. I’m almost done with another book. This one is called Mystic Cowboy. I hope you like it!

So, tune in next week, when perhaps a little more organization will have returned to my life.

Or not.

Cowgirl UP!

In today’s modern era, what does it take to be a Real Cowgirl?

Beyond the obvious. Sure, it’s a heck of a lot easier to be a Real Cowgirl if one is in possession of any combination of the following:

1. A Horse (preferably with a western saddle)
2. Large Tracts of Real Estate west of the Mississippi River, especially those that are edged by miles and miles of barbed wire fences.
3. Cattle
4. A Pick-Up Truck (and not one of those mutant poser ones with a opalescent ivory finish that’s never earned its mud flaps, either. A *real* truck. Gun rack optional.) As an alternative, a Suburban is the only allowable SUV, and it better have a damn hitch on it.
And, of course, the clincher in the deal:
5. A Cowboy (bonus points if he says “Ma’am” with a tip of his hat to your mother every time he sees her.)

If you have more than two of those things, you are fully licensed to say things like “I’m fixin’ to brand some cattle” or “Let’s RIDE” and if anyone even thinks of smirking at you, you get to kick them in the shins with your cowgirl boots (authentic manure optional).

Alas, there may come a point when some amongst us long to be a Real Cowgirl but meet exactly none of the prerequisite Cowgirl requirements.

Alas. I long to be a Real Cowgirl. And I got nothing.

I used to be able to fudge the requirements. I grew up on a tract of real estate west of the Mississippi River. True, it was only 8 acres in the middle of a heavily wooded forest and had minimal fencing, but it was, in fact, land in the West. I didn’t own a horse, it’s true, but I mucked stables and groomed horses for some wonderful women who lived on the other side of the valley for the whole entirety of my teen-aged years. They paid me in peanuts and horseback rides. I rode English dressage, true, but I also rode Western and bareback (although these days, my inner thighs weep at the thought.) That, to me, was close enough to being a Real Cowgirl that I wore cowboy boots in public, on and off, for several years before Garth Brooks hit it big with all his friends in low places.

No more. I live on the east of the muddy Mississippi now. I haven’t been on a horse since my honeymoon. I married an accountant. (But at least he grew up on a farm. He’s got some street cred.) The largest beast I own weighs 15 pounds and only has three legs. (Although Gater is taller, he technically weighs less. Jake’s got that dachshund barrel chest.) For Heaven’s sake, I drive a Prius.

In other words, there is nothing–and I mean nothing–about me that is any part of a Real Cowgirl. The best I could do was some modestly lovely turquoise jewelery. That’s it.

Which is, in my opinion, sort of a problem. I write New Western romance novels. Novels that prominently feature a real cowboy/girl as a hero/ine. Why would anyone want to read New Western books by a non-cowgirl? Wouldn’t that be like listening to my grandmother do a hockey play-by-play?

So it’s not that I want to be a Real Cowgirl (although I do). I need to be one.

So I’m Cowgirling Up. Fake it until I make it, baby!

It started with the hat.

It fills me with great shame to admit that this hat is, in fact, my father’s hat, purchased almost 20 years ago on a family vacation out west. (He also bought boots, but those didn’t fit me.) Yes. My head is the same size as my father’s head. I’m not sure why this strikes me as a personal failure of femininity, but it does. Bigtime.

Anyway, the hat fit, and he gave it to me. Phase one in Cowgirling Up: Complete.

But here’s the thing. I didn’t have anything else. And I’m pretty sure that, whilst a Cowgirl could wear boots without a hat (see any Miley Cyrus video for proof), a Real Cowgirl does not wear a hat without boots. Like it would match my Birkenstock sandals, anyway.

Finally, after combing the Internet, bugging our local western wear store incessantly, and wondering why cowgirls all have such narrow feet, I found a pair of cowboy boots that fit.

Yes, I said cowboy. Not cowgirl. A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. It’s still got cow in the title, right? And my Fashion Stylist (aka my sister Leah) said the stitching was ‘purty’ enough.

Making progress now! Phase two complete!

But I needed some more ‘purty.’ After all, I’ve got a man’s hat and men’s boots. Time for Phase Three: Accessories.

Phase Three, I love you. And our love affair will continue . . . Oops. I digress.

First, a hatband:


Christmas present from my Gram. Thanks, Gram!

Then, the belt.


Christmas present from my mom and dad. Thanks, guys!

Jeans? Check.


Christmas present from my dogs. I’d thank them if they would understand it.

Hell, I wear jeans all the time anyway. And these even had ‘bootcut’ in the description. Yes, I know. They aren’t Wrangler. They are a Mall Brand. But I got news for you. I’m, ahem, a whole lot of woman to love, being slightly taller and, um, wider than the average woman. I had to go with best fit, okay? These came in tall. And trust me, men’s jeans would NOT work in this situation.

Add in a nice top with some pin tucking (look it up!), and now we’re cooking.


Another gift from my folks. They’re wonderful folks.

I’ll admit, the top is plain. Some of the shirts I covet at my local western wear store are, um, bold. Flashy, even. It appears Real Cowgirls all have love affairs with Phase Three. I’m taking this one step at a time. All in due time, Rhinestones. All in due time.

And finally, necklaces.


Necklace picked out by my Fashion Stylist. Earrings, get this, Actually Picked Out By ME.

Real Cowgirl Transformation: Complete!

So, tune in next week, when I will have planned far enough ahead to actually put the whole outfit together AND have my husband take a picture of it for me BEFORE he leaves for work on blogging day.

After all, even a Real Cowgirl knows the value of a little tease.

Now. Anybody got a horse I can borrow?

The End and The Beginning

The End of 2009. To recap:

My baby took his first train ride to Chicago to the Children’s Museum.

He rode in the Bobcat with me while we dug up our yard to make room for a patio.

My baby turned four. He got a big boy bike and fell down a lot.

He lost two teeth and got a broccoli car.


Yeah, I think McQueen’s expression says it all, don’t you?

We dressed up as pirates for Halloween.

He got his very own dog.

And for Christmas, he got toys and snow to sled on.


Notice how he’s creating as much drag as possible? All the better to wrench his dear ol’ Dad’s back with. Also notice how Gater is thinking about biting him. He thought about it for a long time, too.

For me, 2009 began with getting an agent to request the full manuscript of my first western book. She didn’t sign me, but in May, Laurie did. On my birthday, which means I have no problem admitting I got another year older, since representation was my present this year. (I’m 33, say it loud and proud!)

I went to the Romance Writers of America National Conference in D.C. with my mom (Hi, MOM!). We did the Museum of the American Indian.

I won second place in the Chicago-North Fire and Ice contest for Warrior, Lawyer.

We did our own paver patio, and remodeled my office (since I’m a real writer now, with an agent and everything!)

My husband and I celebrated our seven year anniversary. This fall, we got gussied up for a black-tie optional dinner.


Yes, I only own one really nice, fancy dress. So? He only owns one tux. We’re even.

I got a second (third?) job teaching English as a Second Language to this fun crowd:

We had our first ever fondue dinner.

Trust me, there’s a hot pot of chocolate in front of us. And then we inhaled it.

And my wonderful agent got my rodeo book in front of a whole lot of eyes.

2009 was crazy good around here. (Although, frankly, I could have done without large chunks of October. Otherwise, it was crazy good.) But now it’s over. Stick a fork in it, done and done.

What does 2010 hold? I don’t know for certain, but I can hazard a few guesses.

We’ll do at least one more insane remodeling project. The sunroom and the kitchen sink are currently duking it out to see what goes first.

My baby will turn five, and probably grow another five inches. He’ll lose more teeth, but probably won’t stop sucking his thumb or loving his Pooh Bear. Not yet, anyway. He might also learn to read, and he WILL be going to kindergarten.

My husband will work long hours, but he will remain gainfully employed, with benefits. He will continue to be an awesome dad and a hell of a cook.

And me? I’ll keep playing trains with my baby, walking my dogs, and doing laundry. I’ll keep working two jobs and trying to figure out how to squeeze in date nights and movies in the theater.

And, above all else, I’ll keep crossing all available body parts as I wait to hear back from editors.

2010 is going to be crazy good. This is just the beginning.

This entry was posted in Gater.

Commence Partying!

How was your Thanksgiving? Crazy? Join the club!

Thanksgiving morning, I got up, helped foil a turkey, and joined these crazy people:

That’s my sisters Leah and Hannah, Hannah’s husband Steve, and Steve’s cousin Adam. These ‘humorous’ people decided that–new family tradition!–they were going to do the Gobble Wobble Thanksgiving morn. 5K walk/run.

And sit. I sat in the church, drank tea, and then stood outside for ten minutes to start snapping pictures of beloved relatives crossing the finish line. (For the full story, see Fighting Brimley.)

The dogs had a great time, especially Gater, who can fit through the fence and enjoyed escape several times. Not so much post-turkey, however. But still.

Then we went to my in-laws. Who had recently bought themselves a ping pong table for Christmas.

Really.

The kid insisted the Pooh Bear play ping pong with me. Pooh Bear is no Forrest Gump. Heck, neither am I. We spent more time searching for the ball under boxes and behind tables than we did actually playing. Still, when the kid actually managed to connect paddle to ball, he hit a few hum-dingers.

Am I old enough to say Hum-Dingers? Don’t I have to be about 78?

The kid loves Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Maybe it’s because of the family farmland, the wide-open woods, the unconditional Grandparent love. But really, it’s because my mother-in-law has every Little People toy and accessory known to humankind.

It’s hard core. She even has the ill-fated ‘square’ Little People McDonald’s set. The kid and I moved all the furniture into Sesame Street this time. I even found the Bert and Ernie beds. Sure, the foam ‘mattresses’ have long since returned to dust, and Bert doesn’t have his pointy little head of hair anymore, but we did unearth Big Bird’s nest this time. God is good.

Thanksgiving is over. Now is the time to sit back, unbutton the pants, and just relax.

NOT.

Do you remember ‘Not’? Do you remember Wayne and Garth? How old are you, anyway?

No, there is no relaxing around here. It’s time to PAR-TAY!

Do you remember Par-tay? Said with a ‘hey, girl, hey’ kind of accent?

Sad that these are my pop-culture references.

Anyway, so we came home Sunday night from a whirlwind four-day, four-grandparent Thanksgiving smorgasbord. We got in after seven. And we immediately began to clean.

Monday, I was throwing a party. The Holiday/Farewell/Drink Wine During Class party. Tiya, you see, winters in Thailand, and Monday was her last day, so it was a Farewell Party. Which was, technically after Thanksgiving, so it’s a Christmas party, but not everyone in my class is Christian, so it’s a Holiday Party. And I had it at my house, which meant I didn’t have to drive, which meant I could drink wine during what was technically class.

This is Sami and Julie.

Julie brought cheesecake, for which I am eternally grateful. Sami brought root beer, for which the kid is eternally grateful.

This is Ting Ron (standing) and Goi. This is the only picture of Goi I can put up here, because it’s the nice one. That’s what she said.

That’s Ting Ron and Sylvia, his wife.

They brought their son, who’s seven. My kid tried mightily to entertain their son, but seven year olds don’t really want to hang out with four year olds. Really.

This is G. She has a name that only sounds pretty when you say it in Portuguese, which I can’t, so we just call her G.

She brought me a necklace made from seeds. It’s lovely. Very ‘cowgirl,’ if I do say so myself.

That’s my class. I spend two nights a week with them, teaching them all sorts of great English words. No, I won’t tell you which ones. You aren’t in my class!

That was only the beginning. This Friday, my nighttime boss is having an intimate gathering at her house. Then Saturday is a home party at a dear friend’s house (Yes, Melissa, I’m coming!) Next Friday is the college-wide party; the week after that is the Community Education party. There will be neighborhood parties, work parties, family parties, and, just when I will be totally partied out, New Year’s will be here.

Let’s Par-tay!

Thankful

This is Jake, the Three-Legged Wonder Wiener.

Jake is a very thankful dog. As detailed in his story, he’s survived abandonment, a car accident, the mean streets, amputation, a kill shelter, and major back surgery. He never really forgets any of this, as evidenced by his behavior when he thinks we’re going to leave him.

Jake is thankful for things like this:

‘His’ chair, which he graciously deigns to share with me and Gater, as long as Jake has dibs on the lap. Also, his blankie, which, despite his best efforts, still somewhat exists after six years.

His food bowl, and its regular employment.

This is Gater, the four-legged whatever he is.

Gater has had an easier life, compared to Jake. He spent his first year chained outdoors, but he got regular food. He was surrendered to the Humane Society, so he was never faced with making the long walk. As a result of this, he’s not quite as thankful.

He does appreciate the chair, though.

He recently graduated to spending the night snuggled in the chair with Jake, instead of having to sleep in the crate. He still has to stay in the crate during the day, though.

He’s also thankful for food bowls, and the food in them.

And the toys. He’s a big fan.

However, that’s all about to change. You see, today is Thursday. Thanksgiving. Jake is more thankful for this day than any other day of the year. That’s because he knows what’s coming.

Oh, yeah. Thanksgiving is the Most Wonderful Wiener Dog Day of the Year. Jake waits 364 days for this one day and all of its turkey goodness. It doesn’t hurt that Thanksgiving is at my folks’ house, where it’s rumored that my mother is a soft touch when it comes to dogs and table scraps.

Gater has no idea. He’s never seen one of those huge roasted birds before. He’s never nibbled at dark meat so delectable, it fell off the bone. He’s never known the joy of the full-bore capacity of my dad’s cooking skills.

Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.

But he will.

And I’d bet all the tea in China that he will be thankful.

As am I.

The Tailgate.

So, we went to the tailgate.

My wonderful sister Hannah and her fan-atic husband Steve have season tickets to the Mizzou Tigers football game. We get one game.

And we want to make the most of it. This year’s tailgate was Nov. 7th, a 1 p.m. game against Baylor. 1 p.m. game. In other words, we were officially tailgating by 8:45.

How do you make the most of tailgating before most people (certainly all college students) are normally out of bed on a Saturday?

First, you make omelets:

Really.

Of course, you need someone to make the omelets. Ladies, this is up to you: Marry a man who enjoys combining the art of cooking, the love of American sporting events, and the challenges of cooking on a portable campstove while a 4-year-old-boy keeps threatening to accidentally tip the whole contraption over.

In other words, a man like this:

The results?

Happy tailgaters. That’s my brother-in-law, Steve–giver of football tickets. We felt omelets were the least we could do, so that’s all we did.

What else do you need to tailgate in the early hours?

Mimosas.

We spared no expense. That’s Andre champagne.

I love this:

I don’t think baseball players read this label.

Anyway, Mimosas. The perfect tailgating beverage, and at the top of the list of kinds of alcohol you can drink for breakfast.

Note I’m not pointing that at anyone. I follow directions.

Success!

That’s my sister, Hannah. She’s so nice, I’m actually going to remember to buy her a Christmas present this year!

So now, we’re really partying.

Hard Core.

Oh, did I mention my mother was there? Yeah, that’s one hell of a tailgate.

This was her normal pose for most of it. She took all the pictures of my kid, and then, when the game started, took him home for us. A wonderful woman, my mother. All the more so because of all the jackasses screaming such choice words as “Horse SHIT!” at the top of their jerky little lungs, like that would help the coach make better play calls. In other words, God bless the woman for taking my son home BEFORE it got ugly.

Moving on. So, as you can see, we are a perfectly normal group of people, sipping our mimosas and dining on our custom-made omelets at 9 in the morning in a parking lot. How do I know we’re normal?

At least we weren’t dressed like Waldo.

Seriously. Waldo showed up next to our area and played a little catch with his buddy, Nanook of the North over there. This outfit was a joy to begin with, but the hat was made all the more special that it was about 70 degrees outside by this point. (Yes, November. We got lucky). So this hat, much like this poor sap’s pants, was something he chose to put on. Willingly.

So we drank our Mimosas, ate our omelets, and basked in the late fall sun. Then we went to the game with jackasses and watched the home team lose (which only made the jackasses jackier, really). Afterward, we went home, watched Wall*E, and crashed hard.

The next morning, we were all dragging, so I let my kid dress himself. Oh, who am I kidding? I always let him dress himself.

Note that it’s the accessories that make this outfit. A Pooh-Bear fleece pull-over matched with camo fleece pants is one thing. But throw in his favorite pink bag, the one he uses to carry his toy cars around? Now that’s an outfit!

Somewhere, Waldo is laughing.

A Black-Tie Optional Event

Now, if you were going to a black-tie optional event, what would that mean to you?

Black tie, right? At the very least, a dark suit? Fancy dress?

Tuxedo, check. Fancy dress–plus fancy hair (styled by a professional), check. I married a man who bought his tux for the wedding–and seven and a half years later, he still fits in it. (Disgusting, I know. But I love him anyway.) See?

We were good to go.

What? What black-tie optional event did we go to?

My adoring husband managed to snag up us two (corporate-purchased) tickets to a “Signature Chef’s Auction and Culinary Sampling,” which turned out to be a fundraiser for the March of Dimes.

Okay, sure. We had to scramble for a sitter (also known as my friend Leah H., her patient husband, and two entertaining young children), but the March of Dimes. We could go and support the March of Dimes and consume Culinary Samples prepared by Signature Chefs. Not a problem.

We live in a Midwest town of 45,000. We were a little unsure who would be the ‘chefs’ in this case. But hey–a free, black-tie optional date. Ready to go.

Because I love you, I will include the picture our son took:

Oy. But I take comfort in the other picture he took that night:

See? He took better pictures of me and my husband than he did of Gater. Cold comfort.

Anyway, so we go. And immediately, there was a problem. A problem in the form of polo/golf shirts.

Yes. We were at a black-tie optional event, and there were men (plural) wearing polo shirts. Anyone want to hazard a guess about the number of men who were wearing black ties?

Yup. Just my man. We could see polo shirts from the car. “Wear it like you own it,” I said. And he did.

I did better. The women took ‘black-tie’ much more seriously. I was good. Even in those shoes.

So we go in, where one of Jason’s coworkers immediately said, “Waiter? Waiter!” Yeah, that was the crowd we were in.

Okay! Not a problem! We own it! Bring on the Culinary Samples by Signature Chefs!

Ooh, problem number two. Just as ‘black-tie optional’ turned out to be open to interpretation, so did the word ‘chef.’ ‘Chef,’ in this case, applied to the following establishments:

1. Panera Bread Co. (also known as St. Louis Bread Co for those of you in MO.)
2. Pop’s Pizza
3. Terrible’s Mark Twain Casino (although, to be fair, these people were ACTUAL CHEFS–but the shock of the local casino set me back)
and my favorite: 4. County Market Catering (a regional grocery store chain)

Other ‘chefs’ included a Greek restaurant, a Thai restaurant, and a fudge shop. Not that I minded the fudge. Bring on the fudge!

So, it turns out that words that we thought had ‘meaning’ were open to ‘interpretation.’ ‘Black-tie optional’ means you shouldn’t focus on the black-tie part, but the optional part. ‘Chef’ means not Cordon Bleu trained, but person who cooks food.

Whatever. We had a damn fun time. We sampled everything. (Well, I sampled everything. The vegetarian I married sampled a much smaller selection.) The food was great, especially the pizza. We sat with three other couples from work, including Diana, who took the good picture of us (HI DIANA!) and made a variety of snarky comments. At least everyone at our table had on a tie.

And we brought home a souvenir! We didn’t win the dog basket for Gater in the silent auction. But in the live auction, we bought this.

Yup. We bought a printer. A big printer. Some might even call it whomping huge. A four color laser printer that fills up a significant corner of my newly enlarged office with its “stylish details, including a soft curve design and two-tone gray coloring that complements the modern look of today’s PCs.” Really. I didn’t make that up. Someone else did, poor sap. Thank goodness I scored a filing cabinet capable of holding it up at a yard sale last weekend, because otherwise, it’d be on the floor.

So the evening was a success. The kid had fun playing with friends, we got out of our normal routine while looking fabulous, and office equipment was purchased.

Anything for a good cause!

Glamorous

I did something this weekend that I’ve never done before.

I hosted a make-up party.

No, I’m not thirteen. At the age of thirteen, I believed, deep in my heart, that the height of make-up glamor was blue eyeshadow up to my eyelids. Memorialized in my seventh grade picture with a wicked mullet and a bright purple polo top.

No, I don’t have a copy to show you. My mother, in one of her more kind and magnanimous moments, actually let me burn the damn things. Really. So you have to take me at my word. It was hideous.

It was so bad that I didn’t even attempt make-up for another three years, and when I did, my sisters had to beat it in to me. The result has been a love-hate relationship with the feminine art of beauty products. Mostly hate.

But I covet. I covet the pretty shades and I covet the promises for beautiful, clear skin–or at least the illusion of beautiful, clear skin.

So I started using Bare Escentuals, willfully overlooking the gross abuse of the English language for marketing purposes. And I like it. Not enough to put it on every day. I only wear make-up three days a week, when I teach and go to work. But still, it’s not bad. And I don’t look like I’m so clueless that the negatives must be burned. So it’s a win-win.

So the last time I was in St. Louis, shopping for the perfect win-a-writing-award-reception-outfit with my personal stylist, aka my sister Leah, I stopped by the Bare Escentuals store to stock up. And I put my business card in the bin for a free make-up party.

And I ‘won.’ Really.

I won in August. I could bring up to twelve friends. Now, here is the sad fact of the matter. I do not have twelve friends (facebook statuses notwithstanding). The fact of the matter is that I have about four women I count as close, personal friends (relatives not included) who I try to talk to at least once a month. Only two of them live in my town. And you know what? That’s all I need. I’m that kind of woman.

But I could bring twelve. So I started emailing. I cast a wide net. Sisters, mother, in-laws, friends of my sisters who I know, friends of my sisters I don’t know. Really. I’m not above borrowing friends on special occasions.

This is why Napoleon lost at Waterloo. Have you ever tried to round up more than two other grown women with children? Good Lord, it’s IMPOSSIBLE. Throw in football season and a sister with season tickets? Infinity is easier to define than set a date. I negotiated with the various factions of possible attendees for two months.

Last Sunday, it all came together. My sister Leah, my friend Leah H. (not to be confused with each other, although for the first time ever, I was able to yell “LEAHS” across a crowded room and get results), my friend/coworker/Grammar Goddess Mary, Lucy (who is technically my sister’s Hannah’s best friend, but they’ve been best friends for so long that Lucy has, in fact, attended family reunions and been mistaken for a relative, so I get to count her as one of my own) and me. That’s five. That’s all I could get.

We had a darned good time anyway.

Being that there were five of us, someone had to be the odd-woman-out. And, to quote my sister Leah, “Girl, I’m single. I’m used to it.”

The final result? Loveliness. (No, I’m not just sucking up.)

I was informed that, to post any picture of Lucy, I needed express written consent from a baseball commissioner. Or was it basketball? Either way, I think this is a nice shot of her.

Lucy was sitting with Mary. I took a lot of pictures, but this is the best picture I have of both of them. I don’t think the baseball commissioner would approve of any others.

This is my friend (not sister) Leah. I have more shots of her, but they involve this weird store-provided ‘headband’ that was closer to a garter belt, and since I’d prefer not to alienate her, we’ll leave it at this.

This is the only picture of me on my camera. Lucy took lots of pictures, but I don’t have them yet. Actually, I kind of like it. I look ‘thoughtful.’ Without looking overtly ‘dumb.’ A rare trick.

And you know what? I got a hostess gift! FREE STUFF! Mascara and three eyeshadows and all sorts of free goodness. Mary and the Leahs and I spent the rest of the day shopping. It was a complete and total Girls Day Out. I had a blast.

And while I was gone?

Yeah. Jake hasn’t played with that toy in two years. Now Gater has it. And Jake wants it back. Jake has a lower center of gravity–but Gater has all those legs for more traction. It’s a toss up.

Gater

So, you know, we don’t have enough going on. Remodels, newish jobs, fall garden harvests, kids, new books. Not enough going on.

Yup. That’s right. The perfect time to get a new dog!

This is Gater. Or Gates. But not Obama.

Really. Not Obama. The Quincy Humane Society said he was named Obama when he was surrendered, but they didn’t think that would help get him adopted, so they started calling him Gates. I didn’t know that wasn’t his name, so I decided he looked like a Gater.

This is a problem. My husband does not want to call him Gater. He calls him Gates. Why? Oh, you’ll love this. Because he thinks the name Gater makes it sound like we are supporting a Florida college football team. Really.

Anyway, remember this guy? Jake, the Three Legged Wonder Wiener?

Not a huge fan.

So, Gater.

Is he adorable or what? He’s part Beagle, part something-terrier. Maybe rat terrier? Don’t know. He’s probably a year and a half old, so not a puppy. Only weighs about twelve pounds–and half of that is leg. He was an outdoor dog, the Humane Society says, so we went out and bought a crate.

I don’t want to make Jake sound bad or anything, but I think Gater’s smarter. He’s already figured out that Jake does not have a crate. And he does. Only took three days. I’ve tried explaining to Gater that as soon as he stops pooping in the house and eating stuffed animals and puzzle pieces, he won’t have to stay in the crate. So far, we’ve made progress on the pooping part. Not the stuffed animal parts. One day at a time is a good motto right now.

I don’t want to make Jake feel bad or anything, but wow. The new puppy (even though he’s technically fully grown and all that) is either going to tone him up until he’s buff or kill him. Poor Jake can’t keep up with all those legs on walks. Gater lets him win at most of their play fights, but when he gets fed up, he literally just sits on Jake. They play fight for hours, and when Jake gets tired, he gets mean and goes for the tendons. He keeps looking at me like, “Okay, this was great, when does he leave?” Sorry, boy. Not happening.

And the kid? Loves Gater. LOVES HIM. This is really his dog. I love Jake, lots and lots, but a 7 1/2 year old wiener dog with three legs who had major back surgery is not really the best pet for a four-year-old boy. Gater? Bounces–and bounces back. They run together, play fetch, and roll around in the grass. Gater even comes to the kid when he calls. Jake doesn’t do that. Jake is best first thing in the morning, when the kid is just waking up. Gater is good the rest of the day. And, judging by his energy level, well into the evening.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: If you are looking for a puppy, please go check out your local Humane Society or shelter or even the pound. Puppies are cute and all, but there are thousands of dogs (and cats, but we aren’t cat people) out there that need a home and have a lot to offer. Plus, they are usually easier to potty train and believe me when I say that they will LOVE you for giving them a home.

Just like these guys.

Our dogs.