Wednesday, April 28, 2010


   "Fetch" is about as simple as a game could be.
   I throw the ball into the backyard. Dog runs to the ball. Dog picks it up with his mouth and returns the ball to me. Repeat.
   Dog gets all hot and panting, I do not.
   Dog wags his tail, scampering about in nature, I sit under the shade of our pergola and maintain a resting heart rate.
   Easy, right?
   Not yesterday...
   I throw the ball into the backyard. Dog runs to the ball. Dog picks it up with his mouth and puts it back down. Dog pees on it. Dog runs away.
   And I abandon my resting heart rate in favor of wagging my tail, scampering about the neighborhood looking for Dog, who appears on our driveway only after I resort to driving a two-mile loop at a child-predator pace in search of him.
   At this rate he will never learn to play chess.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Unexpected Love Story

Christmas finally arrived for our two oldest daughters when we took them to the Taylor Swift concert last weekend.

My husband (a metalhead) and I (anything but country) knew Taylor was a talented singer and songwriter with fabulous hair and a tremendous following.

But we did not know that at 20 years old, Taylor Swift can not only take command of a stage, but of an entire arena. And not just the pre-teen to sorority girl demographic. She had their parents too, many of whom I recognized from the Bon Jovi concert three weeks earlier.

The show opened with the curtain rising to reveal a multi-leveled set constructed entirely of LCD screen that spanned the stage, depicting a high school hallway with bright blue lockers with the cheer captain and her squad practicing their routine in front.

Taylor rose from a platform on the highest set piece dressed as a drum majorette, her mane tucked up high in her hat while singing “You Belong with Me,” standing perfectly still, to balance her massive hat full of hair, I imagine. She whipped off the hat after the first verse, revealing her signature golden locks, and made her way down from alone in the bleachers to the cheerleaders.

Not to be outdone by the girls in short skirts, Taylor ripped off the marching band uniform and finished the number in a glittery mini-dress.

At this point, my Metallica-loving husband, who is pushing 40 years old, was ready to hop in a time machine and take this country girl to prom.

I watched the rest of the show trying to decide if I would rather *be* her or *adopt* her.

She sang, strutted and swung her hair for over two hours, rotating through sets and costumes like a Broadway show, from a school library to a Renaissance castle to a Bellagio-style waterfall. One song, featuring Taylor playing a baby grand, ended with a backbend over her piano bench.

(I offered my fifth-grader $100 to end her recital piece the same way. We’ll see if she takes me up on it.)

But while she inspired young girls to dream big - and me to grow out my hair - her most-illustrated lesson of the night was the liberating effect of singing about old flames. We would probably all be better balanced if we could record songs about the Drews and Stephens in our lives too.

With every number, she more than redeemed herself after her shaky Grammy performance, proving beyond doubt that Kanye West had behaved like an absolute donkey at the VMA’s.

And by the end of the show I realized Taylor Swift set the bar so high, she had effectively ruined every concert my daughters (and their love-story-stricken dad) will ever attend for a very long time.

Or, as Taylor would put it, the night “was a fairytale.” And I have no idea how to top that when Christmas rolls around again.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010


I got nothing.

Children have behaved appropriately, husband has not planted any Japanese maples of note, and I have gone an entire week or so without embarrassing myself.

But I've got friends... funny ones.

So please enjoy riding out the rest of the week with a visit to a few of my favorite places to drop in for a chuckle. Tell them Weekly Jules sent you.

And come back next week for some fresh, new fun...

Chris at KnuckleheadHumor (featuring a Q&A with yours truly)
Kim at Yellow Trash Diaries (I always feel more culturally enriched after a visit)
Chrissy at I Should a Been a Stripper (love the blog renovation)
Ron at Be. Differently. (#1 stop for all things pop culture)

(I tried and tried to create an award featuring sangrias, but alas, I am not smart enough to post it. I will continue my work on it!)

Thursday, April 8, 2010

How to Handle a Telemarketer

Our friend, Stan, was enjoying a family dinner with his wife and two children when the phone rang.

"Hello, sir," the voice on the other line began, "I'm calling to talk to you about an exciting opportunity for term life insurance."

"Oh yeah?" Stan said, stealthily moving out of earshot of his wife and kids. "Well I want to talk about pu$$y."

Clearly this was not in the telemarketer's script.

"Um, I'm sorry?" she stammered.

"You heard me," Stan continued with gusto, "I want to talk about pu$$y!"

"Let me get my manager," she said, probably right before bursting into tears and resigning.

Stan, who could have simply hung up and resumed eating meatloaf with his family at this point, decided to wait for the manager and see this to the end.

"Sir, is there a problem here?" the manager asked over the phone.

"Nope," Stan assured him, "no problem here, I just want to talk about pu$$y."

"Sir!" the manager exclaimed, "You cannot talk like that to us!"

"Listen, you called me," Stan replied calmly. "If you don't want to talk about pu$$y, then don't call!"

And Stan enjoyed the rest of his meal, and every meal thereafter, without interruption.