If Simon Cowell watched this, I’m pretty sure he’d say it was “indulgent” and “absolutely horrible.”
Don’t worry, I didn’t sing or anything. And I got cut off somehow right as I said the punchline of my story, but you’ll get the drift.
Try to have a good day anyway.
Today Natalie (age 3) referred to this movie:
as “Lady and the Cramp.” Does anyone else find this as funny as I do?
I’m thinking it would be a great rewrite/parody. Remember the song the hootchie girl dog sings in the dog pound prison? Maybe she could sing it like this: “It’s a Cramp, and I hate it …” And after Lady gets out of the clink, can you imagine the PMS-induced wrath that Mr. Street Dog would get? I don’t think it would be a spaghetti kiss, put it that way.
What would you write into the story if you were the screenwriter for Lady and the Cramp?
No, it has nothing to do with family services or anything like that. (Just in case that was your first guess.) I was a hero. Well kind of a bumbling, awkward, and maybe a teeny bit screaming hero, but a hero all the same.
I went to the zoo yesterday with my children, my mother-in-law and 3 nieces and nephews. There was supposed to be a shark feeding, so we headed to the aquarium wing. There’s a display part in the middle that has sharks (not the man-eating kind) and stingrays. To set the scene accurately, they’re all about the size of a standard bed pillow. The tank is open on the top, and probably about three or four feet deep or so, and maybe overall the size of a putting green. A fairly large display. Kids can stand on the side and put their hands in the water and if anything swims near to the top, you can stroke its back. But it’s quite deep and usually the creatures are all out of reach. Believe me, we’ve stood there for hours before because Grant just couldn’t go until he made contact.
Yesterday, I walked up behind my own children just in time to see a little girl to Grant’s right go up on her tip toes, bend over the glass and reach just far enough that she FELL IN THE SHARK TANK HEAD FIRST! Her feet were up in the air and over the edge of the glass so she was literally submerged upside down and couldn’t get her head back above water. After my tiny (but very brave) scream, I bent over, reached all the way down into the water grabbed under her shoulders and pulled her head up out of the water. Then I lifted her up and out of the tank.
I will try to refrain from social commentary when I say that some lady from the day care she was visiting with looked at me, came over from across the display, walked away with the girl and said NOTHING to me. My shirt and pants were wet, and I was a tad freaked out, but mostly unharmed.
This may not actually sound that heroic to anyone, but just about a month ago I had a slight panic attack while canoeing on the river because I have a phobia of contact with lake and/or river and/or ocean creatures. And I saw Jaws. So I think I deserve some kind of good citizen medal or something for flinging myself into a shark and stingray tank.
So in this whole we-might-be-moving mess, Natalie somehow got it into her mind that if we buy a new house, we’re getting a dog. We’re not. But she was telling Grandma all about it on the phone today, and when Grant overheard her, he began speaking over her loudly trying to remind her that we’re not getting a dog until he’s 13 (because I said that once, and I might play dumb in 6 years when he tries to remind me). This is how the rest of the conversation went, to the best of my memory:
Grant: “NO, Natalie. Not yet. When I’m 13 we’re gonna get a dog.”
Clark chimed in: “Kids don’t live until they’re 13.”
Grant: “Yes they do! How do you think kids turn into adults then?”
Clark: “We’ll, some kids fall down the stairs before they’re 13 and die.”
He has a point you, know. I’m thinking maybe I took the baby gates down a little too early.
Update: House goes on the market on Friday. Driving to my parents’ home on Saturday, Sunday and maybe a little bit of Monday. When I arrive, I may take a 36-hour nap. Sorry, mom. I promise I’ll take care of my children after that.
I love Dave Barry. Have you ever read any of his stuff? He is FUNNY. At Women’s Conference, Renata Forste gave a really, really good talk (click here to read it), wherein she quoted this Dave Barry column exploring the differences between the ways that men and women measure and value appearances. It was so funny that I may have laughed a little bit over-the-top irreverently.
If you’re a man, at some point a woman will ask you how she looks. “How do I look?” she’ll ask. You must be careful how you answer this question. The best technique is to form an honest yet sensitive opinion, then collapse on the floor with some kind of fatal seizure. Trust me, this is the easiest way out. Because you will never come up with the right answer.
The problem is that women generally do not think of their looks in the same way that men do. Most men form an opinion of how they look in seventh grade, and they stick to it for the rest of their lives. Some men form the opinion that they are irresistible stud muffins, and they do not change this opinion even when their faces sag and their noses bloat to the size of eggplants . . . . Continue reading