what a drag it is...

Once upon a time, I'd spend Saturday nights dancing in heels so high they'd threaten to make me tipsier than the frou-frou drinks I actually was getting tipsy on, and when the drinks were through, I'd be awake until Sunday doing scandalous things with a scandalous man. The kind of things that would make my cheeks blush as crimson as the grenadine that had been splashed in my drinks.

This Saturday night, I gave my dog a bath, then vacuum packaged 10 pounds of ground beef to store away in my freezer (after calling three people to tell them what a great deal I'd gotten on it at the grocery store earlier in the afternoon), all while test driving these bad boys to see if I'd be able to tolerate wearing them while being on my feet 20+ hours week:

Those are some very sexy size 10 wides 'You're This Close To Giving Up' sneakers from the Dr. Scholl Lunch Lady line. And, yes, friends, they most definitely have a comfort gel insole. Am I gellin', you ask? Oh, yes. I'm gellin' like a felon. Like a felon who was granted early release for good behavior. Like after an hour.

The only thing even slightly similar between my nights of then and now is the involvement of meat, where 'meat' isn't actually 'meat,' but more a metaphor meat. The latter me shouldn't even elude to that, though, because it's embarrassing. The former me wouldn't be embarrassed to say that, of course. The former me would have even giggled about it, tipsy on rum rollovers or not.

Once upon a time, I would have written about my past Saturday nights in a journal and relived them with a smile. This Saturday night, I'm posting a blog post, and in 10 minutes, I'll wake myself up when either my snoring gets so loud I scare myself or the book I started reading when I climbed into bed alone falls and smacks me in the nose.

I'd like to say that was the old me, but THIS is clearly the old me.

my entire history with the opposite sex as played out in a 10 second conversation with my 14-year-old son following his first day of high school

Me: Did you miss me today?

Him: No.

Me: What?! I missed you all day! I thought about you a lot today!

Him: Honestly? I didn't think about you at all.

Me: Not even once?

Him: Nope.

Me: Really?

Him: Yep.

Me: .......

Him: .......

Me: Did you miss the dog?

Him: Definitely.

And just like that, I was transported back to high school, where my tenuous relationship with males took root.

dog days, it turns out, are not actually over

This is Max.

Everyone say "Hi, Max!"

Max is my spirit animal. The universe, in whatever infinite wisdom goes into it, believes I should spend a large portion of my day asleep, posing in a fashion that results in getting belly rubs, and licking my privates. The more I think about it, the more I believe the universe is pretty spot on!

In addition to his spirit animal duties, Max is also our new family dog. Hooray!

We adopted Max last Tuesday, and he officially made himself at home here Wednesday evening by christening the corner of our living room steps like the Queen launching a ship. We've been told he's a terrier mix. Based on the way he jumped completely out of his collar and leash and sprinted half a block faster than I could blink my eyes when an unleashed dog aggressively greeted us on the last of our three hour-long walks Thursday (apparently the universe wants me to go on some type of quest), the mixed portion of him is Kobe Bryant or gazelle. I imagine we're going to have to look into the city's ordinances for exotic animals now.

When we chose Max, his name was Mason, which humane society volunteers had shortened to Mace. Look at him. Does he look like a Mason to you? Does he look like he'd tolerate being referred to as Mason Dixon or The Grand Poobah? Because that's what I'd undoubtedly have started calling him if we'd kept that name, and I've got to admit, I was pretty close to selling the kids on The Grand Poobah since, well, there's going to be a lot more pooh happening around here now.

In the end (unintentional pooh joke FTW!), we opted to rename our pet, and the boys quickly chose Max, which means instead of The Grand Poobah, I've referred to him as one of the following every day since:

• Maxwell
• Maxwell Smart
• Maxwell's Silver Hammer
• The Maxtrix
• Maximilian
• Maximum Overdrive
• Maxi Priest
• Maxi-Pad (I apologized)(it's been hard to stop, though)
  
• Mad Max
• IMAX
• Frankie Say Remax
• Tone Loc

That last one is a nod to Where The Wild Things Are, of course. Additionally, I've confused him by calling him Sir Sheds A Lot and I Know You REALLY Wanted Another Baby, Dear, But If We're Talking About Something That's Going To Need Us To Clean Up It's Poop Anyway, How About Something We Can All Enjoy?

Speaking of poop (again)(forever and always), in the five days we've now owned Max, I've yet to see him do his doody duty. My children assure me he's achieved maximum output (adding it to the list!), but like I told my pal Twobusy, I like to look at this function as if it was a ghost. I hear about ghosts from time to time, but I haven't personally seen one, and I'd like to keep it that way for as long as possible. Especially if it's a ghost and/or pooh that tries to kill me or steal my soul. I think the neighbor's giant barking dog is that kind of pooper.

My spirit animal is pretty rad. He's housebroken, curls up and sleeps through the night on the couch, rarely barks, kennels nicely when necessary, walks great on a leash, and, as we've ascertained earlier, doesn't poop in front of me. I couldn't take one of the many hairs he's shed all over my beautiful red narcolepsy chair (that's a pretty funny post so what are you doing here when you could be following that link and reading that one?), clone him and end up with a better dog. He's maximum pleasure with minimum effort. He's like everything I'd want in a husband if he were human!

The universe wishes for me to go squeak a toy now, so you'll have to excuse me. How cool is that? I imagine it must really suck if your spirit animal is an otter.

regret what i've done (regret you) i couldn't go on...

From time to time, you'll hear someone talk about having a bucket list, a checklist of daring or exciting things they hope to do before it's their time to kick said bucket. I don't have one of those. Oh, sure, I, too, would like to one day don a jaunty beret and see Paris at night from atop the Eiffel Tower while also eating a baguette and French kissing a Parisian god, but I don't need to jot that down on a Post-it and hope it might happen. Honestly, years of scratching notes as a journalist has murdered my penmanship, so if I did write that goal down somewhere and then came across it years later, I'd think it was actually a grocery list and I'd wonder why I thought I wanted to buy parsnips. "Try parsnips" has a better shot of coming to fruition on any bucket list I'd create before a trip to Paris. I ate - and loved - brussel sprouts for the first time this year, so to say I'm capable of dreaming big is obviously an understatement!

I, do, however, keep two other type of lists, and while they aren't exactly bucket lists, I do refer to them using words that rhyme with 'bucket' and 'list.' Perhaps you can guess what I call them.

Take your time.

Do I really have to spell them out for you using the two letters and two symbols I'm going to because I want you to think I'd never actually deign to spell let alone say this word?

OK.

They are my F&$k It! and my F&$k That! lists.

(I know I said I used a word that rhymes with 'list,' too, but I can only think of one word right now that does and that word is 'piss,' or 'p&$s,' if you will, and I care not to put those two words together and then send them out into the ether, so in the interest of purity, I choose to stick with 'list.' Please accept my apologies.)

Confess. You have these sort of lists, too.

On my F&$k It! list, I have things like 'learn to belly dance,' 'go ahead and take a nap,' and 'start playing Angry Birds.' Nothing earth shattering, and truly nothing I'm going to excel at, as evidenced by how long I've been stuck on level 5 of Angry Birds, thank you very much. I am getting better at naps; however, closing my eyes for a few minutes a 3 pm and not opening them again until after 7 perhaps means I should change this entry to 'go to bed earlier,' but life's a marathon, not a race, am I right?

On my F&$k That! list, I've listed things like 'never climb anything that can be described as 'a mountain',' 'avoid falling on purpose out of an open plane door,' ''do not (again) style your hair in a manner that could confuse people into thinking you're a male,' refrain from killing your spouse,' 'never sing karaoke while drunk and/or sober,' 'eat all things from the sea in a fashion best described as 'cooked,'' and, most importantly, 'don't feel it necessary to attend any additional high school reunions.'

Well, guess what I did last week to screw this list up? No, I'm not writing this from a jail cell, so all's well on the 'refrain from killing your spouse' entry (for now)(oh, hahahahahahaha! ha.)

(ha.)

I f&$kin' went to my 25th high school reunion!!! It deserves two additional exclamation marks because I can't believe I went!!! I swore after my 10th I'd never go to another, and have spent the last 9 months avoiding any and all mention of the latest as plans were hatched and then swirled around my classmates on Facebook like so much cheap vodka in a red plastic cup (which, btw, is pretty much how the event went).

I blame Facebook for making me go. While Mark Zuckerberg was busy being a brainy two year old, I was grabbing my high school diploma, sneering "See you later, suckas," as I stormed out the building doors, and never planned to look back...at least after my 10 year reunion. But that dang Zuckerberg grew up, invented Facebook, and suddenly, every classmate who never spoke is sending me friend requests and commenting all over my Facebook page, telling me how awesome and funny I am. I was funny in high school, too, but nope, I didn't know about Senior Skip Day until coming across your photos from it on Facebook, Prom Queen, so I wasn't there to regale you with my sarcastic banter and witty bon mots. Sorry!

It was Facebook that uncovered me. "Where are you?!" "Come up here!" "We want to see you!!!" "UR SEW FNNNEEE!!!" Yes, the first night of our reunion was at a bar, and by the time I'd received that final message, it had been going on for about three hours, so I hope the spelling was so poor because of that rather than a testament to our education. Because I live the closest of any of my classmates to the reunion site - as in across the damn street - I couldn't go underground. I went, and I drank with my classmates for the very first time, which resulted in blowing another entry on my F&$k That! list.

I f&$kin' sang karaoke!! "Like a Virgin," of course, because I was quite possibly the only virgin in our graduating class...which was a little fact I used to introduce my selection. ME SEW FNNNEEE!!! Ah, like so much cheap vodka swirling around in a red plastic cup, indeed. Seriously, stop me if I bump into you somewhere and pull out maps and introduce you to my Sherpa, Mike, because I do not want to climb any damn mountains!!

By the time I ended the evening, all I could think was "F&$k me!" Screw the F&$k It! and F&$k That! lists. I'm thinking of tossing them out and referring to my new life plan as my Dammit! list I've already got a new entry for it. Last weekend, I cut my hair super, super short. I look like this now. So much for not looking like a dude.