Are There Two P's in Stripper?

God, I love my nephews. Mac, "W" (as he unfortunately has asked to be called) and Henry are three of the smartest, sweetest little boys I know. And of course, I'm completely impartial.

Last week, Mac and W went to work with me for a couple of hours since Mac had a day off from school and W had an eye infection (oh, to be in kindergarten!). As we were driving back to my house, Mac said, "Look! There's the Waffle House we go to."

"Yep, that's it."

"Isn't there a Tiffanys next to it?"

"Um, not the kind of Tiffany's that your mother shops at." (Tiffany's next to the Waffle House is a cut-rate stripper bar.)

"Oh, well what kind is it then?"

"It's a yucky, nasty bar."

"What makes it yucky and nasty?"

Quick glance in the backseat to see how much the 6-year old W is paying attention. I lean closer to Mac and whisper, "Naked ladies dance around there."

"Sick!" Pause, pause, pause. "What about the hair? I mean, do they, like, shave their parts?"

Almost have a wreck. "What do you know about that? Do you and your friends talk about this?"

"No, no, of course not. I was just wondering."

Another glance in the backseat. W still working on the short story he's writing.

Another 3 minutes pass and W says from the backseat, "I'm never going to a bar like that!"

"Oh yes you will, William," his 9-year old brother says, "when you grow up you're going to want to go to a place like that."

When I was telling the story to a co-worker the next day, she tells me that something similar happened to her the week before. She's a workout queen and has recently begun using the "Pole Dancer's Workout" and had ordered a pole for installation in her house. She was volunteering in her son's classroom (at his Christian school) and had stepped out when her phone rang. Her 8-year old son was putting the phone down just as his teacher returned to the classroom.

"D, what are you doing?," she asked.

"My mom's phone rang and I didn't want her to miss a call and now I need to write this message down for her."

"Okay, go ahead." Pause as "D" begins writing the message.

"Miss Smith? Are there two P's in "Stripper"?"

The Coupon Mom Doesn't Live Here Anymore

I just saw a story on the news about a woman who bought $167 of groceries for 46 cents. What the hell? She was not "The Coupon Mom," but some woman who's saving her family so much money that her husband was able to "take the teaching job he always wanted." The story also said that she only spends 45 minutes a week getting organized and clipping coupons. I'm sorry, but that is total bullshit.

I used to clip coupons. Really. But as a single woman, I always wanted things that never showed up in coupon circulars (like wine) or forgot to use the coupons at the checkout or never used the giant tub of "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" that sat, creepily, not getting old in my fridge.

And let me tell you, it takes time to clip coupons, sort them, keep them organized (ok, mine were either shoved in a pocket of my purse or stuffed in an envelope that I would eventually forget about only to find them a year later in my file cabinet) and remember to use them.

Just surfing the coupon sites alone has to take more than 45 minutes a week. Plus, the reporter said that she focuses on finding coupons for the "organic" food items that she feeds her family. This has to take way more than 45 minutes and she also tries to hit "double coupon day" at her local stores. It just sounds exhausting.

I guess I could save a buttload on the overpriced organic food that I like to feed my children (the dogs. the cats prefer poison.), but if I have that much time I'd prefer a well-mixed martini and George Clooney. Hell, I'd even watch Solaris rather than clip coupons.

Let me know when they start putting out coupons for Vodka. Until then, I'll be the idiot spending more on dog food than I do on human food.

6 Inches Isn't Long Enough. Call the Fire Department.

Unfortunately, the title of this entry doesn't have anything to do with the 6 inches you might be thinking of!

While I was cleaning my house in preparation for family dinner, I discovered that there was a little unwanted visitor in my house. Very unwanted. And not so little, either.

After moving my little blue ottoman from one side of the living room to the other, I went back to start vacuuming when something not quite right caught my eye. It was black, it was coiled up in a little circle, it was, it was, it was a SNAKE!!!

Screams of horror, shrieks of fear and shooing of all dogs out to the deck quickly followed. I called the only person I know who is aware of my great, gut wrenching fear of snakes and who would also give me level-headed, practical advice during a time of great duress: my mother.

"Hello." "Aaarrrggghhhhh . . . SNAAAAAAAAAAKE!!!!!" "Kiki, do you have another snake in your house?" Laughter on the other end of the phone. "Yes I do and I'm about to vomit blood." "Hahahahahaha, that's so funny. Where is it this time and how are you going to get it out of the house. If you open the front door it will probably just go out." "Oh right, mom. I'm sure it will simply bypass the dark recesses of the cypress bookshelf and just hot foot it right out into the blazing sun."

It wasn't moving. In fact, it was coiled up very neatly with it's little head practically tucked under it's body. I say little, but by my count it was about 18 inches long. Pretty big, as far as I'm concerned. "I think I can grab it with some tongs and fling it out the front door." "How long are the tongs?" "About six inches long." "Six inches isn't long enough. Call the Fire Department."

As if. That's all my neighbors need - to see the spectacle that is me calling up Atlanta's finest (!) to help her out with what was surely just a little garden snake. The last time this happened (yes, 13 years ago there was a snake on my bed and I got it out the front door but not before my robe practically fell off and the neighbors were all treated to a sighting of my naked body. "I'm going to put a towel over it and push the whole thing to the door with the broom. But first, I'm going to put you on speaker phone so you can hear me if it bites me and I need first aid."

I gently laid a folded up towel over the beast. Nothing moved. I started pushing it rapidly towards the front door. Nothing moved. "I think it's dead," I shouted in the general direction of the phone, as I gave it a mighty push and flip to get it over the threshold. The snake snapped out of that towel straight in the air, whipped around and hissed at me. That nasty snake tongue was flicking for all it was worth as I screamed and slammed the door.

The dogs were going nuts on the deck, trying to get through the french doors to aid their poor mama. "What happened? What happened?" my mother yelled from the phone. Out of breath and about to wet my pants, I picked up the phone to inform her that the snake was now outside, but also wasn't leaving my front porch.

I peeked through a crack in the door and there it was, staring up at me malevolently. I guess I don't blame him. If some giant had first lifted the rock under which I was hiding and then threw a blanket over me and shoved me out the door, I would probably be giving him a piece of my mind, too.

I opened the door again. Snake still there, now being pawed by George the cat. "No!" I shrieked at George. I managed to skirt around the snake and flatten George in the yard, shoving him under one arm as I prepared to run the snake gauntlet again.

Back inside, I continued cleaning (and drinking vodka. medicinally, of course.)and getting dinner ready for my father, brother and nephew. Every few minutes, I would crack the door open and do a snake check. 45 minutes later, it was still there. "Seriously, go away," I hissed at it. Clearly I am a Parseltongue because the next time I checked, it was finally gone.

Now I just have to be on the lookout for it when I step off the porch, water the yard, cut the grass, do any gardening, bring in the dogs and cats or in general leave the confines of my house.

I hate snakes. Period.

Bad Shoe Daze

I will admit to throwing lots of money around when it comes to certain things like travel and dog food (but not with coupons [stabs self in eye]), but I've always prided myself on being a bargain shopper. Shoes, furniture, cars, you name it and I can usually tell you where to get it for less.

However, when the Women of Atlanta (en masse, it seemed) began wearing Tory Burch shoes (and everything else), I will admit to feeling a little envious of that circular gilt emblem gracing everyones toes. Except mine. I'm more of a flip flop girl, but those colors! The ballet flats!

My envy reached fever pitch when I spotted a pair of wooden wedges that were a bright, patent metallic silver. I had to have them. I waited almost a full year and then, one day on eBay, I found a pair of size 10's. Before you can say, "Bob's Your Uncle," the deal was done and they were on their way to me.

About the same time, I received an invite from my Sis-in-Law to her birthday party that was to be held at the Tory Burch Boutique! Everyone attending would receive 20% off! Champagne would be served! How could I resist?

When I signed the sales receipt, I proclaimed, "Well, that's not bad at all!" "That's not bad" a friend of Sis-in-Law said, "are you kidding?" I stumbled towards my car, clutching my fancy Tory bag that held two pairs of ballet flats (lavender suede and silver leather!), slightly deflated. A bit of buyer's remorse and a bit more champagne made for a slightly subdued drive home.

But then I began wearing my precious shoes and my remorse was forgotten.

Until last week. When I came home from a quick trip to the grocery store and discovered both silver flats laying side by side on my entryway rug. One had the entire insole ripped out and the other was sporting a half-dollar sized hole in the heel. And the dog that did it picked one up in her evil mouth and threw it up in the air, like a performing seal. She even barked at me.

Complete and total cardiac arrest. I dropped to one knee, dropping the groceries all over the floor while I cradled my poor, broken beauties. "How could you?" I shouted at the puppies, who immediately retreated to safety positions. "How could you?" I cried as I examined my ruined labels of Atlanta feminine chic.

I spent the rest of the night drinking wine and cussing at the dogs. I knew it was really my fault, but what had my hard earned $180 gotten me? Nothing. The expensive shoes met the same fate as the cheap flats that the damn dogs had destroyed a few weeks earlier. Except that the cheap shoes didn't have cardboard in the insole. Swear to god. My Tory's were partially made of cardboard. F*ck me.

That was a bitter pill to swallow, believe me.

You're all invited to my Holiday party next December. I'll have a fabulous new tree topper. It's silver, looks like a shoe and has the cutest round silver emblem on the toe.

Cougar Love

I'm sure you had a little fright as you read the title of this post. Alas, it is not me who's a cougar. Rather, it's my little corgi girl, Lily. A Corgi Cougar? Can it possibly exist? Yes, indeed and we have several witnesses to verify her sluttish behavior.

As Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote: "In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love." So, apparently, did the thoughts of my canine nephew, "Lucky Louie" when he realized that my beautiful corgi girl was "in season."

It's true that Lily should have been spayed long ago, but every time it enters my mind to schedule the operation, I begin to think about Motherhood and how taking Lily's chances at having babies away seems sort of cruel, especially since she's the only creature in the house (human or otherwise) who is capable of such a feat. Everyone else is either fixed (animals) or too old (me - at least, I haven't had my eggs checked recently and assume this to be the case).

Hence, Lily is a Cougar.

And so we found ourselves on Easter Sunday, that symbolic day of re-birth, trying to keep Louie and Lily separated at The Swamp House. In fact, Louie took such an interest in Lily that he practically fell off the dock. And every time poor Louie would approach, my boy puppy Murphy would rush at him, thinking he was defending poor Lily.

And Lily! That hussy, that dirty girl would position herself in front of poor Louie and well, well, assume the position!

After numerous reprimands and being separated by closed doors, Louie finally made his move, apparently. His poor mother, my sis-in-law came to the breakfast table aghast that her poor poodle was foaming at the mouth. Lily sauntered in shortly thereafter with said foam all over her back. Hmmm . . . Then Dear Mother came in to report that the cream colored love seat was not only aptly named, but also in need of a trip to the dry cleaners. Oh dear.

And so our Easter weekend concluded w/ Lily perhaps in a state of (dis)grace and Louie, with a big doggie smile on his face.

Even the dogs in my house are seeing more action these days than I do. Sigh.