The wind beneath her heavy-boned wings

A man called 911 to complain that some guys said his wife was "fat." And now he's being flayed in the press as, you know, overreacting.

No one has suggested my first guess -- that his wife came home, sobbing about the incident, and he said something along the lines of, "Oh, Honey! You're not that fat!"
(and she recently had a baby and so probably then killed him with her eyes)

And it went downhill from there.

I was curious and looked up other odd 911 calls - wow. Apparently there are a number of people who take their fast food really seriously. There's the guy who called 911 to complain he didn't get his Burger King orange juice, the lady who was denied chicken nuggets, and someone who really wanted her shrimp.

I see that others have suggested taking it up a notch, and I'm proposing this: We need a national emergency number just for fast food order issues. I will hire a cadre of state-by-state supervisors to take the calls and follow up, with tool belts stocked with fries, dipping sauce and Thorazine, hopefully while said supervisors are clad in superhero costume.
(I am going to whip up some smart capes, because every project goes better with capes.)

This could be, in fact, the thing that turns our economy around. If we can get federal funding, this is The New Deal for 2009, only we'll call it The New Meal.

This is Mabel.

This is just one more reason why I am not blogging more often.

I wish you could see how gorgeous she is, how healthy and sweet, and how the combination of Black Lab and German Shepard and Something With Huge Paws have all mixed into A Pound Puppy of Complete Fuzzy Fabulousness. She is going to be one very large dog.

I hope she can nudge someone to get their next pet from a rescue person, or an animal shelter. Your local shelter probably lists new animals on Craigslist as they come in. Mine does. That includes puppies, if you are so inclined. I would prefer to not go through the sleepless nights and poopy days again; an older dog would suit me fine, but we went that route last time and had an undersocialized dog with anxiety who was neither safe nor happy around children. So, yeah, I caved to Teh Cute.

Mabel is a rescue puppy; she was slated to be euthanized in the shelter, along with the rest of her litter, due to horrendous overcrowding. She should be dead right now. Instead, she will spend the rest of her days being terrorized by me as I find more reasons to sniff her toes.

Off da hook!

I just voted, online, on the better celebrity hairdo.

That tells you everything about my weekend you need to know.

Now with electric nipple action!

Oh, science dudes. We still have too much cancer and not enough sanitation and galumphy golden retrievers who don't live past their fifteenth year, but you're spending your time and efforts on this? A breast-enhancing bra for more better much extra swelling taataas? Really?

Because, duh, all women want men to look at their boobies even more! Especially when it's hot and humid out and kids are hanging on us with their sticky Popsicle fingers and ohmygod I am so stabby!

Not only are they pushing the "get! bigger! boobs!" thing, but I resent the whole smart bra conceit that my boobs must perform EVEN MORE. They made actual food for babies, have an active and fulfilling sex life, hold up my swimsuit, lead the way into every room and fight a losing battle against gravity each damn minute -- now they have to hop up to get attention when I am overheated? Dude. My boobs are EXHAUSTED.

And call me drastically out-of-touch, but I do not know even one single woman -- anywhere -- who wants a breast-rection.

Where I Went

My excuses are neither far nor far-between: I fostered six kittens and one of them flipped his intestines inside out like rolling a sock (temporarily), and the vet sent him back to us stitched up, with a helper kit of gloves and KY jelly in case he decided to once again show us his internal bits. And this is how I discovered my breaking point. And also the way I discovered how fast I can pack an overnight bag and inform my husband I will be down the road at the cheesy motel in order to avoid seeing that again. Good luck with that kitten sphincter project, Honey!

And a run of extremely bad luck made me think I was having a two-day-long panic attack, so I went to my doctor's office, only they heard me on the phone say "manic," (which I am not) instead of "panic," which who knows? because they acted like "Whoohoo! You may blow any second with your mania!" and I was all "What? Did I have an extra cup of coffee because teh! chest! pressure!" and then while being lectured by notmy doc on my "self-diagnosing" myself as "manic" -- someone get these people an ear candle -STAT! -- I walked out.

And then I discovered that, in fact, fewer cups of coffee was just as good as the meds they suspected I was jonesing for in my oddly calm/"but in the receptionist's notes, it says 'manic,' and notes never lie" state.

What else? I am soon to be writing an ongoing blog about celebrities and babies for MSN's Superfan site, which is teh! awesome! as they go together like chocolate and even more chocolate! My goal is to discover how many celebs have baby-made stretch marks as bad as mine (in my EAR, even!), and then we will commiserate and then Salma Hayek will be my BFF.

And, I have been writing about the best way to defend yourself from the deadly attacks of a grumpy chimpanzee.

May: It's the month for learning!

Where have YOU been?

Aside from being bombarded by small furry creatures (which has, admittedly, taken up a lot of time, as there are legion), I have also been busy writing down words in several particular orders.

To wit:

• Sexy In Scrubs for MSN TV
  
  I was limited to a certain number, and yes, I know Hugh Laurie and Alan Alda are both MIA. It hurts me more than it hurts you.
  
  
• International Beauties for MSN, also.
  
  

I also am working on a writing project and I don't want to give much away, but, basically, if you are worried about wild boar attacking you in your cul de sac (totally could happen) and you wish you knew how to run your own plastic surgery outpatient clinic in your garage/laundry room? I will have the book for you. I haven't actually written it yet, but I am happy to take preorders so you don't miss out.

It's not easy, by the way, to convince people you are not a Cat Person when you are fostering SIX kittens and also have two adult cats. I now wear sunglasses in the grocery store and as they bag the manymanytinytiny cans of food, I purse my lips like I am thinking Deep Thoughts unrelated to my house packed full of cats.

I am thinking of buying forty lb. bags of bird food, too, just to throw them off.

Putting the "eww" in Tuesday.

I have not been updating because one of the (notmy) kittens had a rectal prolapse

DONOTLOOKITUP

and I have since been in a fetal position.

Also, it rained for days and days and my delicate flower brain went NACHOS!* NOM! NOM! NOM! And then I punished myself with teh zumba AND ARMS! AND ARMS! and the end.

*Also? I want to always put an "e" in NACHOS aka NACHOES because I am the Dan Quayle of bloggers.

And then we were in May

I have welcomed in May thusly:

• Agreed, in a moment of utter madness, to foster six kittens for two (or more) weeks. Six. Kittens. SIX.
  
  
• Started doing Zumba, which I am refraining from using as a verb ("Oh, I totes zumbaed this weekend, Dawg!"), but you should see my Bollywood-style moves. No, really, it's that bad. I could charge admission. And arms! And arms!
  
  
• Discovered this: Some people believe that contrails, those white lines in the sky from passing aircraft, are actually "chemtrails," hazardous chemical spray intentionally released by secret government agencies for mind control purposes. Yes, way. Prince believes it. Of course, Prince is a crazy!genius! and is therefore excused. We cannot expect him to be rational, nor should we ask him to be. There are enough weirdo things that have happened by enough people that some paranoia actually makes a kind of sense. Tuskegee, anyone?
  
  
• Volunteered to bartend at a fundraiser and let me tell you, suburbanites can get their drank on. The evening ended just one of those TJ's rabbit wine boxes shy of a scene from The Ice Storm.
  
  
• Celebrated (in my mind) with bun hair and light saber noises Star Wars Day -- today!

(With a slight lisp)
May the 4th be with you!

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
- Douglas Adams