Birds and the Bees (A Tail of Two Dogs)

**WARNING!!! GRAPHIC MATERIAL IN HERE!!! DO NO READ THIS TO YOUNG CHILDREN!!!**

My friend, Janie, called to ask me if we would like to adopt a puppy.

I fell to the floor hysterical with laughter, tears rolling down my cheeks at the very thought of ever potty training another living being. After being nonresponsive for a good eight or ten minutes, I picked myself back up off the floor and caught my breath.

“No,” I started, “I already have one.”

“Oh, okay,” Janie’s voice quivered, “I just thought I would ask.”

“Are you giving yours away?” I asked, wondering how she pulled that off with her kids, and getting out a notepad and a pen just in case she had any pointers I could use.

She heaved a big sigh. “I’m going to be a grandma.”

Her oldest is only 11, so I was a bit surprised by this news.

Luckily, she explained…

“Buster (I think he is a beagle, I don’t really know, he is bigger than a lap dog but smaller than a pony) was out in the back yard a few weeks ago. Our neighbor’s dog (a standard poodle, I asked) came in through a hole in the fence. I guess. I don’t know. I was doing laundry and didn’t even know it had happened until the phone rang. It was my neighbor calling from her back yard to tell me their dog was in our yard… and in heat. I didn’t even know their dog was a girl!”

I didn’t know Janie’s dog was a boy, so I didn’t pass judgment. Janie continued.

“I ran outside with the phone and found Buster on top of Paris (the big poodle), totally going at it.”

“How did he---“ I started, but Janie interrupted.

“I DON’T KNOW! He’s half her size!” she took another breath then went on, “So there I am, in the yard, pulling on Buster’s hips, trying to get him off of her, while the neighbor is yelling over the fence, ‘why haven’t you had him fixed yet?!’ I’m yelling back to her, ‘his appointment is in two weeks!’ And Buster is not budging. My son was on the computer, looking up how to dismount a dog having sex, screaming directions out the screen door while these two dogs are engaged in some pretty raw doggy porn, completely oblivious to everything.”

I pondered the thought of doggy porn taking place in their upscale suburban subdivision and wondered if this, in any way, was a violation of the homeowner’s association.

“How do you---“ I tried to ask, but again, Janie interrupted.

“YOU CAN’T!” she said. “Apparently, the male’s penis fans out and gets ‘stuck’ in the female’s canal.” (She never says the “V” word. Never. Not even when we were in high school.) “And just as Danny was yelling this information to me across the yard, in much more detail than an 11-year-old boy should know, much less announce to a family-friendly neighborhood, Buster tumbled off, his hind legs still in my hands, and we both fell to the ground.”

“And now you’re going to be a grandma?” I asked.

“Yes.” She sounded tired. “So, do you know anyone in the market for a new puppy?”

Still shaking the image of Janie cradling a post-coital canine, I tried to think of something to say to make her feel better.

“Well, I guess Sr. Mary Martin was right,” I laughed, (Sr. M&M was our 11th grade biology teacher who always gave her reproduction lecture the week before spring break) “counting on ‘pull-and-pray’ really can get you into ALL kinds of trouble.”

This week’s story is dedicated to “Janie” and her beautiful family, as they learn to laugh again.

The Royal and I

Dave and I attended an auction this weekend where we did not buy a dog.

But there was one item on the list that caught my eye, a baseball bat autographed by my very first love, former Kansas City Royals Third Baseman, George Brett.
“Remember, you gave up buying stuff for Lent,” Dave immediately whispered as the bat made its way around the room and the bidding began.
I didn’t realize I had been caressing my bidding paddle until that moment, so I put my hands in my lap. “Don’t worry,” I told him, “George and I are old news.”
And that is mostly true.
I have carried a monumental torch for George Brett since before I knew what a crush really was. Oh, yes, there were others who came and went, but George has been a constant. Mind you, he is not on “the list,” he is just a school-girl crush. A very big one.
(And before any of you locals skip to the bottom to comment, I will tell you right now that I have heard every rumor there is and, quite frankly, do not care. So save it.)
I watched every game, read every article, and even slept with his picture under my pillow the entire summer of 1980. I cried that fall when the Phillies beat the Royals in the World Series. And I cried five years later when the Royals beat the Cardinals in Game Seven to clinch the pennant.
My sister and I road-tripped to Kansas City from college to cheer on George as he played his last home game in 1993. And I dragged my one-year-old and newborn to the parade held in George’s honor when he was inducted into the Hall of Fame six years later. He waved at me.

Nearly 25 years had flown by before I finally had the opportunity to meet my hero-crush. We were living in a city at the time that was hosting a major pro golf tournament, and George Brett, being an avid golfer (legend has it he was once out golfing when the foursome behind him teed off before he had left the fairway; he swung his golf club at the oncoming ball – baseball style – and the ball sailed right back to the intruding foursome), was invited to put on a clinic for kids that week.
I weighed the possibility of dressing like a 10-year-old boy and attending the clinic, but I was afraid of being recognized by my friends. Luckily, I happened to be volunteering at the tournament on George Brett day and had the foresight to bring my camera with me, just in case I would run into George and he would want to document the occasion with a photo.
The morning went by without a sighting. By lunch time, I had all but given up. Hopeless and hungry, I went to the golf course clubhouse to eat before resuming my volunteer post. As I started to walk out of the club, though, I saw George walk in.
Right towards me.
We made eye contact. Actually, he probably looked in my direction when he heard my jaw hit the floor.
And then…
he put…
his arm…
around…
ME!
Yes, he threw his arm around me without breaking stride, and pulled me back into the clubhouse with him.
WITH HIM!
I had rehearsed my next line ever since I heard he was coming to the tournament, and executed flawlessly:
“I have waited 25 years to take a picture with you!”
I smiled, I was charming, and I was totally unprepared for his response, “well, what took so long?”
I had nothing.
“Uh, (giggle, giggle), um…” was all that came out. And then, even worse, I squeaked out the lamest line ever, “I was only five.”
At night, before I fall asleep, I still pray that George Brett did not hear me say that.
He so kindly obliged, though, smiled big for the photo op, and then he asked me what I did for a living. I considered telling him I really had not pictured our conversation going this far and that I was out of things to say, but instead told him I was a mother of three (this was pre-diva) and high-tailed it out of there before he could say anything else to me.
(Clearly, I am not meant to ever meet Bono. I couldn’t keep it together for George, I couldn’t keep it together for Oprah[‘s assistant producer], I am pretty sure I would pass out in front of the Irish rocker.)
So as the price of the autographed bat rose higher than our current mortgage payment, I looked down at my bidding paddle, content to leave it on the table, as I knew I had already had all the George Brett I could handle.

Sean Penn Wears Reading Glasses?!?!

I would like to thank the Academy, for keeping the dream alive.

Once again, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts proved to us that winning the world’s highest honors are within reach of us all (yes, I realize the Nobel Prizes are pretty important too, but can you name the last three winners or tell me who they were wearing when they accepted the award?) (I didn’t think so.)

Last night reaffirmed the beauty of these awards, proving that the Oscars are there for the taking for anyone who dares to dream, even for those who have been married to Madonna before.

(Psst. Guy Ritchie, remember that and keep your chin up.)

We heard from past winners, as they bestowed the gentle judgment of affirmations reminiscent of a Boy Scout Banquet or women’s retreat upon this year’s nominees. And we passed judgment of our own, though maybe not quite so gentle, on every stitch and gem that floated down the red carpet and every word and tear that fell into the microphone.

And, speaking of Angelina’s raiding of the Emerald City Jewelers…

We also witnessed a small miracle last night, when Brangelina and Jennifer sat in the SAME BUILDING for FOUR HOURS and the Kodak Theatre did NOT burst into flames, as many tabloids had predicted would happen should those stars align. In fact, I don’t think very many people even noticed.

They may have, however, noticed Mickey Rourke’s silver tooth. It seems he may need to direct some of that money he’s saving by not buying any hair product into a better dental plan.

We are a far cry from the very first Oscars, held in 1929 over an intimate dinner for 250 guests (none of them named “Miley”) at the Roosevelt Hotel. That first year honored films from 1927 and 1928. “Wings” won Best Picture, the only silent film to do so. “The Jazz Singer” was honored for its ground-breaking special effect – sound. And the ceremony lasted only 15 minutes.

Can you imagine an Academy Awards Ceremony that takes less time than putting on a pair of Spanx?

Of course, the 12 straight hours Kate Winslet and the like spend in their Spanx on Oscar day is a bit beyond my comprehension as well. Personally, I could not wait to peel mine off after just a few hours at an Oscars Party of my own last night at Carrie’s Wine Cellar, which was very similar to the Vanity Fair party, complete with paparazzi, champagne, and a bunch of people who didn’t actually “win” awards but refuse to rule it out as a possibility someday. (Except that at Carrie’s, we could re-adjust our push-ups, girdles, and inserts free from the public eye.)

I was rescued from my Spanx when I had to cut out early to perform a musical number of my own, “Put the Kids To Bed Because We Have No Babysitter Tonight,” a piece I try very hard to keep from looking like a “Mommy Dearest” tribute. My part ended just in time for me to see my friend, Stuart, perform in the Academy’s musical number, lifting up Beyonce for her grand entrance. Watching his left hand disappear into Beyonce’s back side gave a whole new meaning to “Put a Ring on It.”

And right now, he is the luckiest person I personally know, fulfilling a longtime dream of mine that has much less to do with copping a feel of Beyonce and much more to do with sharing a stage with Sophia Loren, Hugh Jackman (who, by the way, I have decided will take the spot on my list previously held by the late Paul Newman) and Zac Efron. Only in my dream, Zac is not sporting slicked-down helmet hair.

Maybe another year went by where my dream of winning an Oscar for something (not sure what, I have few dramatic skills) was out of my reach and I did not get hired on as one of those seat-fillers or statuette-hander-outers. But I did learn something very important last night from Penelope, Sean, Kate, and the fabulous cast and crew of “Slumdog Millionaire,” and it is that the Oscars are not for the complacent. They are for the dreamers.

And so begins another year of dreaming up a short film (my best chance, I figure, at getting nominated for something, but I have got to branch out beyond piano recitals and soccer games), planning that Red Carpet outfit, and rehearsing that speech. Because deep down in me, and I know in you too, is that little voice inside that just can’t help but imagine what it would be like to utter those seven little words:

“I would like to thank the Academy…”


PS For more Oscar fun, hop over to my BFF, Rox, for an eye-witness recap of the night's festivities... Things That Go Pop!

And THANK YOU to Sassy Britches for my FABULOUS award!!!

Mack's Daddy

This past weekend my husband and I not only celebrated Hallmark’s Valentine’s Day, but also the 15th anniversary of our engagement (we were both 14 when he gave me the ring) (obviously, because we are not very old).

Dave opened his card from me, in which I had written something to the effect of, “This wonderful life we have together is exactly what I had hoped for 15 years ago.”

Sweet, huh?

After reading silently, Dave looked up at me and said, “exactly?”

“Yes,” I replied. Four kids? A great life in the best college town ever? What’s not to be happy about?

“Exactly???” he asked again, this time pointing to our dog.

“Well,” I hesitated…

Growing up, I had always wanted a dog. But my (very wise) mother had insisted that there was a city ordinance prohibiting pet ownership for families of six or more, so instead of training a dog, my sister and I grew up teaching our twin brothers how to sit, stay, and roll over. Eventually they got pretty darn good at it too.

As I became an adult, a wife, and then a mother with people to raise and carpets to clean, my desire for a dog waned to nearly nothing. “Owning a dog” ranked somewhere on my to-do list between “learning how to change my own oil” and “amputation.”

Dave, however, did not share that philosophy. Growing up with cats, Dave had always longed for a dog. His fraternity had a house dog, a giant, drooling, mess-making Lab named Boss. What Dave failed to comprehend was that owning a 75-pound Labrador in a family home was far different than sharing a frat house with 80 dudes and dog. A dog he, himself, had never once washed, fed, or cleaned up after.

I thought I was in the clear a few years ago when new neighbors moved in with a giant Lab that Dave could play with anytime he wanted and that I would never have to care for. But his need was deeply rooted and beginning to spread to our children until finally, after many years of being shot down by his wife, Dave made one last heart-wrenching plea.

I had given him the book, Chasing Daylight, by Eugene “Gene” O’Kelly. Gene, the late CEO of KPMG, wrote this book in the last 100 days of his life, from the time he was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer until he died. In his writings, Gene illustrates beautifully the importance of spending each day on earth living out your dreams.

After reading the book, Dave came to me with tears in his eyes. Expecting him to tell me how much he had always longed to vacation in Fiji or take the family to Italy, I started mentally packing my bags for the trip of a lifetime. He was ready to start in on his bucket list, and I couldn’t wait to see where we would go.

“This book really hit home with me,” he started, holding back tears, “and the one thing I really want to experience before I die…" a month in Hawaii? cruising the Mediterranean? buying a beach house? “… is owning a dog.”

WHAT? I don’t remember the part about “go buy a dog” in that book! What about attending the Oscars? Going on tour with Cher? Volunteering in an African village with Oprah and Brangelina?

Clearly our bucket lists were very different.

But as the kids circled around me begging and pleading, it slowly sank in that I was severely outnumbered.

As fate would have it, our kids’ school had an auction two weeks later, and a breeder had donated a Labradoodle to the cause. We walked into that auction a family of humans, and (after downing a significant number of chocolate martinis, which made the little white furball suddenly appealing) (kind of like the beer goggles from days gone by, I suppose), we walked out of that auction a family of six humans plus one dog.

Dave’s dream had become my reality.

But I am still standing. In fact, we recently celebrated Mack's second birthday (or what I called, "2 down, 12 to go") (I don’t think I have a heart). And, for those next 12 years, if any child or husband of mine questions whether or not I love them, I will need only to point to the dog living in our home for proof that indeed, I do.

An Olympian, A Televangelist, And A Senator Walk Into A Bar...

This has been a big week for people in the spotlight, a week that has left me perplexed, and I welcome any input you might have on the matter...

Let’s just say for a moment, you are famous. Maybe you are not as big as Ryan Seacrest, but you are still important. And almost everyone knows your name.

Own that one for a moment, and then answer me this: How hard can it possibly be to follow a few basic rules in public?

Maybe you’ve won some gold medals. Eight of them, hypothetically, in a sport like swimming. And, as a result of your careful attention to health and fitness, you’ve been offered a number of spokesperson contracts that turn out to be worth a truckload more than swimming typically pays.

And then a couple months later, you’re out with some buddies, and one of them pulls out a water bong the size of a small child and offers it to you.

And at that same moment, another buddy pulls out his phone camera with the number to the Associated Press on speed dial and says, “Hey, look over here! Hold up the bong, dude! Wait, I can’t see your face… hang on… hand me that bag of Cheetos (your buddy eats Cheetos for the next 15 minutes)… okay… dude, I’m ready now… hold it up… dude, quit laughing and look at me… tilt your head down so I can see your eyes… say ‘Rosetta Stoned!’… no, in English, dude... “

Do you look the camera in the eye while taking a hit or do you hide the monster pipe behind your massive delts and flash that wholesome Frosted Flake’s smile?

Or perhaps you are a Baptist minister. On TV. Who has made a living and won the hearts of many a God-fearing American with your unbending stance against one of the 'N Sync kids, the Purple Teletubbie, and every other homosexual on the planet, most of whom have nothing to with you.

And then, one day, you find yourself alone in a hotel room you drove to and paid for, with a few extra Benjamins burning a hole in your pocket and a gay hooker at your door waiting to help you spend them.

Does it not occur to you that there is a high probability that answering the door would likely land you on a couch next to Oprah two years later, outing your story to the entire world, a world that, quite frankly, would have left you alone had you not chatted it up with Oprah… or maybe not been such a closeted hypocrite in the first place?

Or maybe you are a politician. Charming enough to be a U.S. Senator, bright enough to serve on a Presidential Cabinet.

And you kick off the interview like this, “why, yes, I would be honored to serve on your Cabinet, Mr. President… my records? Absolutely, they are all up-to-date and squeaky-clean… surprises? Nope, I have never even inhaled… No, sir, I have never spent time toe-tapping in an airport restroom... Huh-uh, never cheated on my wife either, what kind of jacka-… Oh… you mean on my taxes… well, there was this one time… “

Seriously?

Have these people learned nothing from the fallen celebs who have tumbled before them?

Gone are the days when a celebrity can confidently hire a prostitute for a little recreational S&M, knowing it will stay private. And the days of being able to drive your car into the river on a Massachusetts resort island and still keep your job in Congress the next 40 years are far in the past.

This is a whole new world we live in. Thanks to YouTube, athletes can no longer party like Matthew McConaughey. Thanks to Karma, homophobic pastors will eventually be caught with their pants down. And, thanks to Facebook (I assume), EVERYONE now has access to your tax records.

Oh, you can try to explain it away if you get caught, but, let’s face it…

“I made a mistake” works fine for people who went to see “Four Christmases” after reading the reviews.

“I used poor judgment” is a perfectly acceptable excuse for someone caught wearing linen pants in November.

“I’m only human” explains well the second glance at the neighbor mowing her lawn in a push-up and stilettos.

… those excuses are not going to cut it for these guys. I know plenty of “humans” who aren’t being photographed smoking an Olympic-sized bong, who have never hired a hooker, and who are fully paid on all their taxes.

So I hope you all will remember this piece of advice from Weekly Jules if you ever spend enough time in the spotlight to earn your own Wikipedia page, and watch yourself. Because you never know who else is.