My weekend was taken over by dogs and birthday parties. And not in a good way.
The birthday party was for one of Sam’s little friends. Sam spent the morning bouncing around, asking when the party was starting and was it time now? Now? NOW? And then once we finally got to the party, Sam – now thoroughly exhausted – immediately developed a serious case of stage fright, and refused to leave my side.
The dog part is my mom’s fault. She’s been looking for a dog for months – why this is taking her so long, I have no idea – but I’ve gotten into the habit of scanning the websites of local pet shelters from time to time to see if a there’s a good candidate for her there. So of course the inevitable happened, and I fell in love with a dog I saw on one of the websites, which is how I found myself sitting outside the West Palm Beach Humane Society for several hours on Sunday, waiting with all of the other lunatics for the shelter to open its doors to us. And then once the doors did open, the people waiting outside stampeded in, ready to come to blows over who was going to get which puppy. It was all very reminiscent of Wal-Mart on Black Friday morn.
Unfortunately, my dog was not yet ready for adoption, so after weathering this mob scene, I had to go home empty handed. But it did give me a brilliant idea that came to me a in a blinding flash:
A puppy would make the perfect birthday gift for a little kid.
Genius, no? Think about it. What better way to buy a child’s love than by showing up with a cute, squirming, be-ribboned puppy just for them? Okay, sure, it might tick off the parents, who will now have to deal with a peeing, pooping, whining present. But that’s practically irrelevant when you think of how insanely popular you will become among the under-ten set.

Me: (excitedly) I’ve had the most amazing idea!
George: What’s that?
Me: I’m going to go pick strawberries and make homemade jam!
George: Because you don’t have enough to do?
Me: Just think: from now on, we’ll have homemade jam! No more store bought! Won’t that be fabulous? We’ll be just like the early settlers!
George: Making jam on an electric stove in an air conditioned house is just like the early settlers?
Me: Oh, be quiet. You won’t be making wise cracks once you taste my delicious homemade jam. You know, I think this could actually change our lives. Maybe we can even move out to the country and start living off the land! We could keep chickens for eggs and a goat!
George: A goat? Why do we need a goat?
Me: To make homemade goat cheese. Duh.
A little later . . .
George: Why are you lying down? What happened to your jam plan?
Me: Hmph.
George: What’s wrong?
Me: Do you have any idea how much equipment you have to accumulate in order to make jam? It’s not just berries and sugar. You have to have jars, and special caps, and sterilizers, and tongs to get the caps out of the boiling water, and something called Pectin, which I have no idea where you’d even go to buy such a thing, and it just seemed like . . . well, a lot of trouble. So I thought about it, and decided that it would really be easier to just, you know, continue to buy our jam at the grocery store.
George:
Me: What? Why are you laughing?

I just realized that it’s January 21st, and I still haven’t written my Christmas thank you notes.
Whoops.
Is there a point where you’re so late with a thank you note, that it’s actually in bad taste to send them (i.e., a point where you might as well just shrug and resolve to do better next year)? And if so, have I reached that point yet?

I had a terrible red wine hangover that began last night and continued through to this morning, so spent the rest of the day attempting to live virtuously to make up for last night’s gluttony.
To wit, I:
(a) Woke up at 6:15 and immediately headed out for a brisk 4-mile run (during which I nearly collapsed from dehydration);
(b) Took the Blond Tornado to the Zoo, where we saw an albino alligator, two cavorting bears and a hedgehog before we were rained out;
(c) Met George for lunch (where I fell a bit short of saintliness when I gorged myself on hangover-easing Tex-Mex); and
(d) Updated my Recommended Page, as per the request of numerous readers, and which I’ve been promising to do for months.
Interestingly enough, guilt seems to make me more productive and a more attentive wife and mother. Maybe I should break open another bottle of wine? It is cocktail hour, after all . . .

I’m seriously considering buying this alarm clock for my hard-to-wake husband:

The description:

Time flies! No, seriously, part of this alarm clock actually flies. It’s true, the Flying Alarm Clock wakes you up with a loud shrieking alarm that’s coupled with a little propeller-driven key that leaps off your nightstand. To turn off the horrible racket, you have to get out of bed and retrieve the key. The propeller flies the key high into the air and off into some dusty corner. You have to force your sleep-addled brain into wakefulness, move your stiff legs and retrieve the key before the alarm goes off. By the time you’ve done so, you’re awake enough at least to go make a pot of coffee. Enjoy!

Love. It’s just so evil genius. And I mean that in the best possible way. Mwa-ha-ha . . .

I just returned from a New Year’s trip to Memphis, Tennessee. Here’s a brief synopsis of what I learned during my travels:
1. The Official Graceland Tour does not mention any of the following:

1. a. underage girls

2. b. drug abuse
3. c. shooting out television sets
4. d. the Madonna-Whore Complex
5. e. Scientology

2. I’m oddly fond of processed meat products. Particularly when first dipped in barbecue sauce.
3. Sam has a very specific type of motion sickness: he only begins to projectile vomit when the car slows down. So highway driving isn’t a problem; however, stopping is. And, on a related note, you can check vomit-covered clothing through airport security without being charged with domestic terrorism. Which is good to know.
4. Both my sister and my husband are freakishly good Guitar Hero III players.
5. Northwest Airlines sucks. I know what you’re going to say — all airlines suck — but trust me, Northwest really sucks. You seriously want me to fork over $15 to change my seat online? And pay $2 for a bag of pretzels? Really? How about this: No and Hell No. And next time I’ll fly the airline that gives me the free freaking peanuts, you cheap bastards.