A different kind of rodeo...

A friend of mine took this picture in Ft. Worth on Sunday.
Is it just me or does the cat seems a mite irritated?

PajamaJeans...FAN-tastic

Sweatpants that look like jeans, but feel like PJs? Count me in! Life is too short not to be comfortable.

Click HERE for the full article.

Because I heard it again today, and felt like it was time for a little bit of a PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT...

To the FIVE people on radio and TV that I heard refer to yesterday's holiday as "Groundhogs' Day", I find you all very annoying. Mainly, because it caused me to temporarily question whether or not it was Groundhogs' Day instead of a day where we honor a singular groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil. Because only Punxsutawney Phil is capable of seeing or not seeing his shadow. All the rest of the world’s groundhogs could care less.

So for next year, get it right. Or I will personally demand that you fly to Pennsylvania and figure out how in the heck a groundhog learned to speak enough English to make the following proclamation on his website:

Phil Says Six More Weeks!
Phil's official forecast as read February 2nd, 2010 at sunrise at Gobbler's Knob:

Hear Ye Hear Ye Hear Ye

On Gobbler's Knob on this glorious Groundhog Day, February 2nd, 2010, Punxsutawney Phil, Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of all Prognosticators awoke to the call of President Bill Deeley and greeted his handlers, John Griffiths and Ben Hughes.

After casting a joyful eye towards thousands of his faithful followers, Phil proclaimed, "If you want to know next, you must read my text. As the sky shines bright above me, my shadow I see beside me. So six more weeks of winter it will be."

If you give a mouse a cookie and then lock him outside; he will never ever forgive you...

Bad Daddy...

Last night, while getting ready for bed, I noticed that Gypsy was acting nervous and pacing back and forth around the bedroom. Trevor, who was trying to sleep, was intermittently roused by Gypsy staring intensely at him or attempting to lick his face.

Thinking that she must need to go outside, I opened the French doors off the master bedroom and let her out. And that is when I first heard it:

Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!

At first, I assumed that it was Haskell trying to figure out why the alarm had beeped (as it always does when a door is opened in the house), and dismissed it.

Squeak! Squeak! Sqeeeeeeeeeak!

Then, I notice that Gypsy was acting strangely in the backyard. She was wagging her whole body and running to and from the side of the house where the dog run is located. It was a total Lassie moment.

Squeak! Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak!

Haskell?

And that is when I finally realized that poor Haskell had been left outside when Trevor was locking up for the evening.

I immediately woke up Trevor:

Me: “You left Haskell outside!”

Trevor: “Huh? Did not!”

Me: “Did, too. I can hear him squeaking in the dog run.”

Trevor: “No, he is in his bed.”

Me: “Wanna bet?”

Trevor, eager to prove me wrong, made a beeline to the study and turned on the light – fully expecting to see Haskell curled up in a tight little ball. Except Haskell's bed was empty.

Trevor: “Haskell?”

Me: “I told you! He is outside! You left him outside!”

Trevor: “Well, I guess that explains why the motion sensor in the dog run is still on.”

I opened the kitchen door, and Haskell appeared quickly through the doggie door opening in the storm door. With a snort in our direction, he ran past us to his doggie bed and curled up with a somewhat dramatic sigh.

I tried to apologize for Trevor, but Haskell would barely even look at me. This is much worse than the time he was accidentally locked in the garage for forty five minutes a month or two ago.

This will probably take years of therapy to correct. I know Haskell will never forget, but I hope one day he will be able to forgive.

Poor Haskell.

Disconcerting...

Text message received from my sister this morning at 6:05 AM:

"i can't sleep bc i know your wedding cake is in mom's freezer
and i want to eat it."

Hollywood...

Last weekend, I flew to Los Angeles for a girls' weekend with two of my college girlfriends, Peaches and Sarah C. It was a fun whirlwind of a trip that included (among other things): wine, margaritas-in-a-box with lime flavored ice, Swedish fish, gummy bears, hummus, Mexican food, Ke$ha, cranes at crosswalks, an inflatable mattress, 4 AM, Twilight, almost driving to see to the store "Dash", traffic, stalking Conan O'Brien (sort of), two broken toilets, many hours in the car and a whole lot of indecision.


The highlight for me, though, was hiking to the Hollywood sign last Saturday night. There is something uniquely special about walking on dirt roads in danger of collapse and/or mud slides at dusk with two of your best friends from college. And just WHERE did that cop car go?!

If you look closely, you can see the "H-O-L-L" of the Hollywood sign...

Another trip highlight was getting to see Susie and Aaron completely out of context in a different city. Although I am sad that Susie will be leaving Dallas soon to move to LA, it is good to know that she will only be a short plane ride away. And, if you play your cards right, that plane ticket may only cost $7.50 (thank goodness for free Southwest flight coupons and the wonderful Grammy Pammy!).

Peaches, Sarah C, Susie, Aaron...

Quote of the weekend:

Aaron: "I once spoke Harrison Ford once. He was flying around with two men in his Beaver."

Haskell's favorite thing about movie night...

Popcorn...

It might have been the margaritas, but...

...this Review Highlights completely cracked me up:


In case you can't read it, the sign says:

"Pleasing to the eye" as well as "the tummy", this "traditional Mexican restaurant in Santa Monica" offers an "amazing selection of tequilas" and "authentic" pitchers of margarita that "will knock you out"...If your just starting you night, you might find a new clubbing buddy at the "community tables"

Whatever happened to paraphrasing? Because I can only read something with so many quotations sarcastically.

That said, I did enjoy the "authentic" margaritas.