CuddlyChristmasHopefully by now you’re decorated for the holidays.  Hopefully for you, your neighbors have limited the amount of inflatable snowmen they’ve put on their front lawn.  I didn’t bode so well despite my pleas that nothing really says the holidays quite like no decorations on the outside and listening to Metallica at a reasonable volume.

Again, I didn’t bode well.

We put up a Christmas tree for the holidays, although I’m not sure why since we have approximately 2 square feet of extra space in our house and shoving a fake tree with lights and a sh*t ton of balls on it doesn’t seem like a good use of space.  But I digress.

Every year we put up our tree and I always wonder what our dogs think of it.  However, I’m pretty in tune with my dogs so I asked them what they saw when they looked at our tree and they gave me a pretty accurate description.

Here it is in a graphic, because you love graphics.  And Bentley, Max and Shady Jack say “Happy holidays” to all of you!

What your dog sees when he looks at the (3)




funny crap my husband says, August 2014I’m not even going to pretend this time that you guys are here to read my writing.  I’ve finally accepted that the real reason my blog stays in business (albiet making no money) is because of the funny crap my husband says.  I really need to trademark this $hit.

This month I have so many that I’ve actually had to hold some back for next month, which is just downright ridiculous.  It’s also a teaser for next month.

Let’s just get this party started.

Television Producer

Matt:  “That relationship is destined to end in a murder-suicide.  When it’s on Dateline it can be called “Murder-suey in St. Louie.”

Humble Servant

Lisa:  “You were right about this ONE thing.  Big deal.  A broken clock is right twice a day.”

Matt:  “Yeah.  And this broken clock was right today.”

This was the item he was right about.  Look at him.  Pure.  Joy.

This was the item he was right about. Look at him. Pure. Joy.

Butter Fingers

<sound of microwave turntable moving in the other room>

Matt:  “It’s ok.  I’m fine.  Don’t worry.”

Lisa:  “I knew what that sound was and I knew you were fine.”

Matt:  “Fortunately I was.  But I could have gotten a bruise that would have lasted for days.”

Employee of the Month

Matt:  “Isn’t that why we all have full time jobs?  So we can print stuff for free?”

Green Thumb

Matt:  “We should go sit outside for lunch and take Shady Jack.”

Lisa:  “That sounds good.  Where do you want to go?”

Matt:  “I don’t know.  I plant the seed of knowledge and you have to water it.”

Celebrating our birthdays that are three days apart.  We ate so much food.  So.  Much.  Food.

Celebrating our birthdays that are three days apart. We ate so much food. So. Much. Food.

Bladder of Steel

Matt:  “You go ahead and get in the pool.  I have to go to the bathroom.”

Lisa:  “Ok.”

Matt:  “Nah.  I’ll just pee in the pool.”

Reasonably Flexible

Lisa:  “Why don’t you just do it this way?  Your way doesn’t make any sense.”

Matt:  “This conversation doesn’t make any sense.”

Mechanical Engineer

Lisa:  “My seatbelt is stuck.  I can’t get it.”

Matt:  “Stop pulling on it and it will work.”

Lisa:  “Ok.  You do it.”

<Matt can’t get it unstuck>

Matt:  “I don’t know why you have to break things.”

Renaissance Man

<laying in bed and pointing to the window next to the bed>

Matt:  “Hey.  I opened up this window with my foot.  Are you impressed?”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my husband.  And yes, I married him because he could open a window with his foot.


Which one was your favorite?

Lisa and Matt at Hooers

Source:  Kobi Levi

Source: Kobi Levi

It’s no surprise I’m a dog lover.  The dog hair on my clothes and the faint smell of urine give that away fairly easily.

Yeah…the  urine smell is from the dogs…

Recently, one of my fellow dog-lovers shared a photo with me that I felt compelled to share with you.  Fortunately, my friend isn’t Anthony Weiner, so I can share the photo here instead of burying it in the back of my mind and seeking therapy immediately.

(Really Weiner?  You send dick pics and your name is Weiner?  If it wasn’t disgusting it could actually be kind of awesome.)

Okay, enough with the Weiner talk.  (That’s what she said.)

Seriously, guys.  Focus.

Here’s the non-perverted photo my friend shared with me.  Can you believe it? They’re shoes by designer Kobi Levi that look like a dog.

Sure, the dog is headless, but let’s not get too judgy about the accuracy of the shoes and why this is a headless hound.  I have way too many other things to be judgey about with these shoes.

Let’s get started.

How long can this one hold the downward dog position?

First thing’s first, where do I get these fine furry friends?  Do I have to adopt them from a shelter or will I have to go to a breeder for them?

Quite honestly, they look high end, which suggests a breeder was involved in these sweet kicks.

Either way, these sure give new meaning to the phrase “designer dogs.”

If I adopt them, what do I do when I don’t want them anymore because they pee on the floor and chew up my underwear furniture?  Is my only option to put them down…literally?

Are they up-to-date on shots or do I have to pay for that separately?

What kind of care do these puppy pumps require?  Is food and water needed or just a good brushing every now and then?

Do they shed?  I can’t take another shedding dog in my house, so this furry footwear needs to be shed-free.

Is this one napping?

Is this one napping?

I realize Kobi Levi designed these shoes, but do you think he sold the design to Hush Puppies?  Do you think that’s why the brand is called Hush Puppies?  Because these shoes don’t know how to keep the barking down to a minimum?

Perhaps these dogs literally bark when you wear them.  If so, that would give new meaning to the phrase “My dogs are barking.”

How will they react to the doorbell? Will they cower in a corner and pee on the floor, or will they howl until the intruder leaves the premises?

How will they react to other dogs?  Will they immediately sniff a dog’s crotch and then begin humping him or her?

Where exactly are the genitals located on these shoes?  How do I know if they’re male or female?  Are they spayed or neutered?

Judging by this photo, I’d say these shoes are girls, as I see no sagging fur balls hanging low.  Are the male version loafers for men?

Do these shoes make you randomly start humping people whenever the need arises?  If so, that could be an explanation for Kim Kardashian’s hoe-bag behavior.  The shoes did it!

Nah, she’s still a slut-bag.

Can you wear these shoes around cats or will they immediately get into a scuffle with any feline?

Will they randomly start chasing their tail? This is important information I need to know, as I already have enough challenges just walking normally without having my shoes break out into play.

Are they like most dogs and go crazy for bones?  If so, what kind?  Will they go crazy for the bones in my feet or are they looking for something more of the Nylabone variety?

Do they like to dig and bury bones?  If so, I’m in trouble, as they’re already in the position to start digging to retrieve my metatarsals.  Will they try to hide those or will they just gnaw on them until my feet are numb?

I guess if that’s the case, I can definitely say “These puppies are hurting my feet.”

Do these shoes know how to heel or do they also come in flats?  (Yes, this was a bad pun. I know.)

How do I protect them from wear and tear?  Do I give them a monthly flea dip?

Are these shoes trained to fetch the paper and my slippers on a Sunday morning, or will they stay in bed and hog the covers?

What do I do with them when I want to leave the house?  Do I have to put them in a kennel or will they be good and not tear up the house?

I have so many questions about these shoes, none of which are answered.  I guess I will never know unless I purchase a pair myself.  Either way, I suspect they all have perfect soles…just like most dogs do.

Puppy pumps

MH900401128We don’t have kids, so bath time at our house is pretty uneventful.  Matt simply takes his rubber duckies and does his thing.  I just have to make sure he gets out before he prunes.

The other night there was a funky odor in our house, and since we had Mexican food for dinner, we assumed it was our digestion.  We assumed wrong.

After the side effects of the nacho bar subsided, the stench lingered.  So did the indigestion.

As the dogs gathered around us on the couch, looking for guidance on their activities for the evening, we realized the putrid smell wasn’t our bodies’ aversion to avocados.  It was our dogs.  Our smelly, smelly dogs.

Before we could think it through, we agreed to give two of the three dogs a bath.  All three dogs would be suicide, and since Meatloaf says two out of three ain’t bad, we figured that was good enough for us.

If it’s good enough for a C-level “musician” (term used loosely) named after a meal made entirely of beef, then it’s definitely good enough for the Newlins.

dog in sudsBath time it was!

Matt decided to bathe Shady Jack and I took Bentley.  We left Max to fend for himself, mostly because we figured he licks himself so much that he’s probably cleaner than most of us, or at least his genitals are, as that seems to be the focus of the licking.

He’s also a good brother and keeps Shady Jack and Bentley’s manly parts clean as well.  He’s a stickler for hygiene (except when he eats poop.)

I can’t speak for how the bath went with Shady Jack, but I saw the bathroom afterwards and it looked like a massacre of small animals in there.  It was like Dexter’s work room, only instead of blood it was hair; lots and lots of black hair.  And instead of killing, it was bathing.

Okay, so it wasn’t like Dexter’s work room at all.

This isn't good enough for Bentley.  He demands better.

This isn’t good enough for Bentley. He demands better.

Bentley, on the other hand, didn’t so much shed as he did shake and whine the entire time as if he was being assaulted.

He’s a drama queen, and not a fan of baths (or other dogs, or anything that suggests he’s an animal or inferior to anything).  If he could talk, he would have screamed obscenities and most likely called the authorities to report the obvious abuse.

He would also most likely complain about his horrendous living quarters, as he only has 2 pillows to sleep on.  What is he?  An animal?  Pft!

I bathed Diva Bentley in the kitchen sink, as he’s five pounds, and the sink is the perfect size to accommodate what he most certainly would refer to as torture.

He strongly disagreed with my plan, and let his position be known through his whining and shaking.  I could see his mind working as he tried to plan his escape, all the while screaming out for rescue.

When the torture bath was done, I attempted to dry him off, which only further infuriated him.  The look on his face told me he was wondering “How dare she use a regular towel to dry me off when a velveteen blanket would be more proper? I’m British, after all.”


small_3950008I put him down and he ran around the house at lightening speed, making sure to roll around on every surface to ensure the horrid water dried off quickly.

After the two dogs were clean, their dirt and hair dirtying up our bathroom and kitchen, Matt and I decided to sit down and enjoy the fruits of our labor (and the chocolate fruits from our Edible Arrangement).

As we sat there stuffing our faces with chocolate covered strawberries, we noticed the smell was still there.  How could that be, as we bathed Shady Jack and Bentley.  Could we be imagining it?

We further investigated and discovered it was Max.  Our sweet, sweet Max.

Unfortunately, we bathed the wrong dog.  So we did what good parents would do: decided not to give him a bath, but sprayed him down with dog cologne instead.

We’re really good parents like that.


Bentley bath

Pure. Torture.

Getty Images

Yeah, like I need to give reasons for why Ryan should dump Eva.  It’s a no-brainer.  But don’t worry, I’ll spell out the reasons for you.

Maybe Ry-Ry will read this blog post and come to his senses and realize Eva isn’t the one for him.  I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s an avid reader of my blog.  Granted, he’s never reached out to me, but that’s just because he’s intimidated.  He’s also never filed a restraining order against me, which clearly means Ry-Ry hasn’t given up hope on us.


Dear Ryan,

Please break up with Eva.  Here are a few reasons why.

1. Patriotism  

I’m not saying she’s a communist, but there’s no proof she isn’t.   Remember the red scare? Don’t put our nation in danger. Ry-Ry.

Don’t you love America?  I know you do, even though you’re Canadian.  Don’t all Canadians love America?  Of course they do.  So break up with her for America.

Do you want to make this girl cry?  Don’t make this girl cry, Ryan.  She loves red, white and blue.  She’s also deaf…and dying of cancer…and she has one arm.

Girl Pledging Allegiance to the Flag

<cut to shot of flag blowing in the breeze and “America the Beautiful” playing in the background>

2. Does Eva really love animals?

She’s beautiful, sure.  Her make-up is always impeccable, but do we know for sure if it’s tested on animals?  There’s no way to know that for sure, but she’s been a spokesperson for Revlon.  As a PETA supporter, you know what Revlon does to animals.

You love your dog, George, right?   Basically, she’s spitting in his face and rubbing lotion in his eyes every time she uses eyeliner.

True Story.

photo credit: poldberg via photopin cc

photo credit: poldberg via photopin cc

3. You guys met on the set of a movie.

Is that really the foundation of a long lasting relationship? I don’t know, maybe you should ask your former co-star and ex lover Rachel McAdams.   How did that turn out?

And what about Sandra Bullock?  Don’t you know that mixing business and pleasure isn’t a good idea?  (That is, unless “business” and “pleasure” are alternate words for our naughty parts…then yes…they totally mix.)

One word: Gili

4. She kicks George when you’re not around.

It’s true.  It’s why she gets so mad when the paparazzi follow her.  She doesn’t want proof of her dirty deeds.

Okay, so I don’t technically have anything to support this claim, but if it were true, wouldn’t it be a really bad thing?  And aren’t we taught to assume the worst?  Yeah, it’s called preparation, Ryan.

5.  She’s a really bad driver.

Don’t you remember in 2007 when she had four accidents in one day?   You read that right…four.

You were the star of a film called Drive.  It’s practically a slap in the face to your career to be with someone who isn’t a good driver.  I mean,  you don’t want someone who can’t operate machinery …ahem…operating your machinery.

No.  Instead, you need someone with an impeccable driving record and a reduction in insurance premiums due to limited claim filings.  You know, hypothetically…

self portrait right side up

I could go on and on about this Ryan, but I’m sure I’ve already convinced you.  I mean, sure, Eva seems really nice and charitable.  Sure, she’s also beautiful, and she’s never been accused of assaulting anyone, but is that the standard?   Is not assaulting someone the standard you’re using?  If so, then I’m your girl.

Just don’t pull up those recent charges when I encountered some Girl Scouts and they were out of Somoas and Thin Mints.  Those allegations are erroneous!

****NOTE:  I didn’t really assault any Girl Scouts.  (They had it coming.)

stinky hands

I realize the title of this post could be talking about many different things.  Based upon the amount of dairy and carbs I ingest on a daily basis, you would be entirely accurate to guess the answer to the question posed in this title is “That smell is your disgusting ass, Lisa.  It smells like someone ate dog $hit, vomited it up, ate it again, and then $hit it out.”

I realize that was a graphic explanation, but for all of you who have had the pleasure of being with me after I’ve inhaled Mexican food, you can attest it isn’t far off.

Anyway, on with the story.  Yesterday my husband and I were picking up around the house, preparing for the cleaning people to come.  No, we don’t have a cleaning lady, although I wish we did.  I would name her Marta and she would be wonderful.  She would smell of Lemon Pledge and Pine Sol and I would pay her in cash, gift certificates and coupons for cleaning supplies.

Since I haven’t been able to find a Marta to clean our house (or someone willing to answer to that name), we are stuck cleaning ourselves, which is not as fun as it sounds.  It’s a marriage tester for sure, as there’s nothing more romantic than asking your husband to bring the bleach up from the basement because “that creepy stain in the bathroom isn’t coming up with Soft Scrub.”

However, my brilliant husband recently purchased a Living Social deal for a cleaning service, so we decided to cash in on that bad boy for the new year.  Those poor suckers!  We were preparing for their arrival and as we did so, we both kept coming back to the same question: “What’s that smell?!”

NOTE:  Other questions we kept coming back to included “How many months after the expiration date is cheese still good?,” and “Why do we have so many pairs of fuzzy handcuffs and why are they in the kitchen?”  The answer to the cheese question is one month.  Any longer and you will have penicillin, which can save you quite a bit in pharmacy charges if you hold onto it.  So grab yourself some cheddar and save it for cold and flu season!  You’re welcome.


It wasn’t as if our house smelled horribly raunchy, or at least not to us it didn’t.  We were used to the smell of dog and the constant stench of rotting cheese.  But it was the smell of actual $hit that was permeating the air, and in the kitchen no less.  I realize I could make some comment about how food I make tastes like $hit so that’s why the kitchen smells that way.

But I wouldn’t do that because I’m a kick ass cook, so I know that couldn’t be the cause of the funk.

As the day progressed, we found the smell of poo more and more pungent and we began to think we were losing our minds.  We checked the regular spots in the house that our dogs have deemed toxic waste disposal units.  If any of you have dogs, you probably know that in every house, a dog will find their favorite spot to crap and leave it for you to find later…sometimes when you are barefoot.

It’s not a regular thing they do each day, as most dogs are potty trained and do their business outdoors.  (Meaning they poop outside, they don’t conduct business transactions and sign contracts out there.)

After checking the regular dumping sites and coming up empty handed, we were stumped as to the cause of the smell.  “It literally smells like someone $hit in the kitchen,” I said, opening the fridge and grabbing cheese to make myself some nachos.  (Hey, even amidst crisis, a girl has to eat.)

“You’re right,” Matt responded.  This is a phrase he has to say a lot, as I’m always right.

Just then I looked over and saw something on one of our white cabinet doors.  I  knew it wasn’t there before as I scrubbed the cabinets just before we left for vacations.  Those things were pristine!  As I approached the spot, the smell strengthened and I soon realized this cabinet was the cause of the stench.  I looked closely and saw a large piece of dog poop clinging to the cabinet.  Seriously?!

I don’t have to tell you which dog was responsible for this amazing feat.  You already know.  It could only be a special dog.  I don’t mean special in the sense of “He’s our perfect angel who is priceless and flawless.”  I mean special in the sense of “He smells other dogs’ wieners constantly, rubs up against things like a cat, and licks the wall randomly.”   You guessed it.  The dog responsible for the fecal matter on the cabinets was none other than this guy.  Max.

How did he do it?  I have no idea.  How did he get caught in the curtains and need assistance getting out?  How did he get himself stuck laying in the grass on top of the small dusting of snow we had last week?  Who knows?  Max definitely doesn’t know.  I’m not sure he knew he pooped at all, let alone that he defied gravity by doing so on a vertical surface.

Instead of confronting him with his action and getting the blank stare he gives every time he looks at anyone, I simply cleaned it up with paper towels and immediately took them out to the trash so the stench would no longer haunt our house.  Max went on with his life unaffected, and returned to licking his crotch and trying to bite at the sounds coming from the TV.

Shady Jack is an awesome dog.  He’s loving, adorable, and looks great in Matt’s t-shirts.  In addition to being a fashionista, he’s also a super hero.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s not a creepy super hero that wears a unitard and saves a city from crime.

(Seriously Batman, you can call it a Bat suit if you want, but we all know it’s a unitard…and I can see your junk in it.)  Shady Jack isn’t one of those cape wearing dogs.  Rather, he’s a dog with a nose for safety.  Or maybe a penis for safety…  Let me explain…

My amazing friend Top Chef, (not her real name), was playing in a local presentation of Avenue Q.  She played the sexy puppet (duh) and a big group of us were excited to see her in action.  (I was doubly excited because it was a dinner theater and mama likes to eat while she’s entertained.)

The show was out of town so we planned a caravan to get the party started early.  We were super pumped.  And then Jack’s penis happened.

A few hours before the party van was set to depart, (and as my vodka was chilling in the icebox) I noticed that Shady Jack’s junk was bleeding and when he peed, there was blood.  No, I don’t regularly make a habit of looking at his junk, but when it’s bright red, one stops to take notice.

I did what anyone would do in this situation:  I stared at his junk to find the cause of the bleeding and then called the vet.  We made an appointment and brought him in for further evaluation of his junk.

We subsequently discovered that he wasn’t dying of kidney failure, diabetes or cancer, (as I had suspected.)  Rather, he had a gash on his penis.

I have no idea how it happened and I would prefer not to know.  We were given ointment for his junk, told to apply it regularly, and sent home amidst some very uncomfortable jokes about penis cream and masturbation (most of the jokes were made by yours truly).

In all of the penis drama, we had to cancel our trip with our friends.  We didn’t want to, but Shady Jack’s junk came first and we had to make sure he was okay.  We were devastated to miss our fun day, but happy to know Jack’s junk would live another day (where it would lay around on our furniture and creep us out regularly).

We arrived home and began doing chores around the house, pouting that we weren’t en route to something fun.  Then I saw it.  Out the window, in our backyard, I saw a wire that was almost downed.

Since we live in an old neighborhood, the electrical wires are attached to the outside of our house where they connect to other wires.  The other wires go to a mysterious place where something magical is done and electricity is born.  It’s super complicated and although I understand all of it in detail, it’s probably above your heads so I will spare you the confusion of further explanation.

The wire appeared to be hanging to the house by nothing more than a breath and a prayer (much like Christina Aguilera’s singing career).  Naturally, I freaked out and made Matt call the electric company immediately to advise of our impending electrocution.

They said they would be out as soon as possible, which I knew meant I would see them later in the week.  We watched and waited, going back and forth between Shady Jack’s junk, and the dangling wire.  It was a fun Saturday.  Whenever the dogs had to go outside, I made sure the wire hadn’t fallen to the ground, where it would create a hotbed of electricity and electrocute us all. (Those are technical terms.)

The next morning the electric company arrived to evaluate the problem.  Finally!  I was so tired of wearing rubber soled shoes to avoid electrocution and the dogs were sick of going out the front door to do their business to avoid electric shock.

sleepy jackThe company employee arrived and moved at a slow pace, obviously not understanding the pertinence of the situation.  He walked around to the backyard, took one look at the wire and gave his assessment.

I prepared myself mentally.  I figured it was a problem that would be pricey to fix, and one that could be dangerous and send volts of electricity through the house.  I held my breath.  And then he said it.

“Um, that’s a cable wire.  You should call your cable company and they will reattach it.”

Oops.  So maybe Jack’s junk didn’t save us from electrocution, but it saved us from missing an episode of The Bachelor Pad, which is just as important.

I’m not a huge hockey fan, but what I am a fan of is dimples and a sexy butt. (This is one of the primary reasons I married my husband. That, and he’s a really good dancer.) I don’t follow hockey regularly, (if I want to watch two people beat each other up, I’ll just watch my neighbors get into it across the street…and the hot dogs and beer are cheaper at my house).

However, I feel like as a St. Louis resident, I should at least be able to identify the regular players on the St. Louis Blues hockey team. Not so much to talk to them about hockey, but to reserve judgment if they talk to me and (1) sound hoosier and (2) are missing teeth.

One of the most dreamy of the St. Louis Blues is the assistant captain, Alex Steen. Yummy. I feel like I should insert some lame joke here about how I wouldn’t mind melting the ice with that hottie, or make some inappropriate comment about a word that rhymes with puck.

But I’m classy, and you expect more from me out of a blog post, so I won’t stoop to that level. You’re welcome.

steen.pngLast week I went on a date with Alex Steen. Okay, well maybe he didn’t see it as a date, but I did. I talked to my husband about it, so don’t think you need to keep this dirty little secret for me (although that would be a great way to find out if he reads my blog).

The date occurred last Monday night. Okay, I realize Monday night isn’t a typical date night, but I’m no typical girl. It started out as a meeting for an animal rescue group I work with.

It was at a restaurant/bar and we had our meeting initially, and then a handful of people (the dedicated ones), stayed to drink more. Hey, we wanted to support the establishment for supporting our cause.

Later in the evening is when my date, Alex Steen, stopped by. And although I was a few drinks in, I can assure you it was him. Other people saw us together and they can corroborate.

I promise. Granted, we were sitting around with a group of about five of us, but I’m pretty sure this evening counted as a date with Alex Steen. Here’s why:

1. He paid for my dinner and drinks

Okay, so he paid for everyone’s dinner and drinks, but whatever. That’s just the kind of guy he is. I secretly think he paid the tab because he heard about the kind of girl I used to be, and was hoping to get some over-the-shirt boob action. (He totally could have).

How many dates do you go on where the guy pays for the meal and drinks? If you’re a smart dater, (and I am), those are the only dates you go on. If a guy doesn’t pay on the first date, then I didn’t return his call for the second. Any guy I went out with needed to learn early that this girl likes to eat, and he was going to have to support that habit.

Picking up the tab on a first date is customary when the guy is interested in the woman and wants to see more of her. This is obviously what happened here.

steen and dog

2. He touched my leg more than once

Yeah, that’s right. He touched my leg. I shall never wash those pants again…if only they were my Pajama Jeans! Several times throughout the night his hand and arm brushed upon my leg.

I’m sure he will say it was an accident, and we were sitting so close that it was inevitable that he would brush up against me from time to time. But we all know the truth. He wanted a piece of this sassy body comprised of Chipotle, vodka, and rocky road ice cream.

He sooo wanted me.

3. We talked about our common interests

Here he is rescuing a puppy with the rescue I work with.

Here he is rescuing a puppy with the rescue I work with.

I love dogs. Shocking, right? Guess who else loves dogs? Alex Steen! We are a perfect match! I mean, how many people on this planet share a love of dogs?

Wait…um…that might be a lot…but he shares my love of this particular rescue I volunteer with, which rescues abandoned, abused, and stray animals. Doesn’t that equal a love connection?

I mean, many of my friends also love this organization and I’m not planning our weekend getaway together (it would be at a Four Seasons resort and spa), but Alex and I share a true bond.

Just ask him.

4. He laughed at my jokes

Isn’t that another sign of a good first date? He regularly laughed at my jokes and even engaged in discussion with me.

Okay, maybe they weren’t so much jokes, as just sentences I made; and maybe they weren’t so much sentences as incoherent comments with a string of conjunctions strewn in between.

Whatever the reason, he was laughing at the same time I was, which is fine with me. Whomever said “as long as they are laughing with you and not at you” is an idiot and has clearly never laid eyes on Alex Steen.

5. He looked longingly into my eyes

Yes, he looked longingly. Okay, maybe it wasn’t longingly so much as he was looking in my eyes to see if I was sober enough to drive home, but either way, he looked into my eyes. Can you say that about the dreamy Steenster? (That’s my new nickname for him. We totally hit it off.)

He obviously cares about me as he didn’t want me to drive home if I wasn’t sober enough to do so. He really has my back and obviously wanted me to be safe so he can see me again soon. I’m sure it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that he is in the middle of playoffs for the Stanley Cup and he didn’t want to be associated with scandal that would result in his “girlfriend” getting in a car accident.

He probably just didn’t want the stress of worrying about me when he needs to focus on the game. He’s such a caring guy.

So there you have it; all the reasons why last Monday I had a date with Alex Steen. Don’t be too jealous, as you can watch him on TV as you root for The St. Louis Blues in the playoffs.

But hands off the Steenster. He’s mine.

I recently busted out of the joint.  The pen.  The big house.  I got sprung out by some of my friends (or should I call them “people from the outside?”).  Fortunately, I escaped and lived to tell about it.  My story wasn’t an easy one, but it’s one I’m willing to tell.

I lived a good life on the outside.  I paid my taxes, donated to charity, and even told the neighborhood girl down the street that pigtails are soooo over.  (I’m pretty sure this comment saved her from endless ridicule at school.  I’m such a giver.)

Despite my pattern of amazing behavior, I was singled out and sent to lock up without much warning.  Isn’t that always the way it goes?  My crime?   I’m not sure, although I tell myself it was an overabundance of awesome.

My story began easily enough, with an email from the local animal rescue where I volunteer.  The email said they were doing a fundraiser where they would lock up a volunteer and then ask people to pay money to get the volunteer out of confinement.

Naturally, we thought you would be perfect for this,” the email said.

Um…what?  Naturally?  What part of locking me up for hours on end was natural?  And out of all the people they could have asked to do this, why me?  And why was I such an obvious choice? The email sounded as if locking me up was the only logical conclusion one could come to when faced with this proposal.

I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or honored that I was chosen.  I decided to be flattered, and figured the shelter knew I was one of only a few people who looks good in orange, and that jumpsuit would make my eyes shine.  (I’m such an autumn!)

I responded back and said I would do it.  I would like to tell you I was intoxicated when I agreed to this plan.  I would also like to tell you I weigh 100 pounds and find nachos and processed cheese disgusting.

metal lockHowever, both statements are lies, and I’m far more embarrassed about one of them than the other.  (And seriously, what do they do to stadium cheese to make it so delicious on nachos?)

The day of my captivity I packed a few things and said goodbye to the things I loved most; my Grey Goose (she never looked so beautiful as she did that day glistening in the sunlight); my Chipotle (I waved a solemn goodbye as I drove by); and the entire first season of The League (whether you love football or not, that show is just hilarious).

I arrived at the clink, otherwise known as Brentwood Petco, and was advised of my parameters.  I would be confined in a (puppy) pen where I was required to sit on the floor for three hours.  Sheesh.

The warden, also known as the Petco manager, was a real hard ass and I knew this was going to be a rough sentence.  I asked if it would be possible for me to be in isolation, as I didn’t want to be put with a cellmate convicted of an obscure crime.

More importantly, I didn’t want to be forced to share my square meals with a cellmate.  I also wanted to find out if the meals they served in the pen were actually square in shape.

The warden couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t have a cellmate, but he said I could have some bedding for my cell.  I immediately located the plushest dog bed I could find and deemed it mine.  The warden followed me back to the pen, opened the gate and threw me in.

Okay, so he didn’t so much “throw” me in as he did tell me in a nice voice that it was time to start, but whatever.

The metal doors slammed shut (they really just kind of hooked together nicely) and I realized I was all alone, with nothing but my thoughts (and the package of Starbust I snuck in…those suckers didn’t check me for contraband).

I began thinking about my life and where it had gone.  Had I really accomplished anything in my life (aside from high score on my Super Mario Brothers 3 Nintendo game)?

What did I really have to show for my years on Earth other than a huge amount of student loans and a DVR filled with reality TV and infomercials?

Don’t judge.  I enjoy infomercials more than I should.  Maybe I could use this time in the clink to better myself….and then I smelled food.

I looked up and saw someone walking toward my cell.  He was handsome and carrying a bag of food.  At first I thought it was a mirage, but realized quickly that it was my husband.

I was allowed a visitor!  And even better, he had food!  He approached my cell and handed me my bag of food (which was a burrito bowl from Chipotle…duh).  I was so excited to see someone from the outside that I almost didn’t molest the food.

*I said almost.  Prison didn’t change my love of Chipotle.

As I scarfed down my food, the warden came by and advised I would have a new cellmate.  I immediately asked what my new ‘mate was in for and he said it was a pretty harsh crime; peeing on the floor.

He pointed to an area just outside my cell where I saw a pool of pee.  Then I saw my new cellmate, and one look at her told me this wasn’t her first offense.  She was a repeat offender who had no problem being locked up.

Her name was Donatella and she lived a rough life.  She grew up on the streets and then lived in a foster home with other foster kids.  It was the typical story, really.

Girl is born on the streets to a litter; girl gets kicked out of the home for chewing on furniture; girl gets rescued by a local rescue group; girl goes to a foster home; girl pees on the floor and gets sent to the pen.

Donatella arrived at the pen and immediately jumped me, licking my face to see if I was friendly.  I let her lick me, but advised it was a one time thing, as I wasn’t that kind of girl.  I told her if she was looking for that, she should look to the inmate down the way who had several litters and teets that practically brushed the floor.

I quickly learned this wasn’t Donatella’s first time in the pen, as she had previously been jailed for chewing a shoe, peeing on the floor, and humping a cat.  (The last one was a bit disturbing, but I let it go because Donatella had nails that could definitely cut a bitch…literally…they could cut a female dog.)

Just as I got to know Donatella, she was snatched away from me.  Apparently someone paid her bail and she was going home with a family. I was happy for her, but sad for me, as I knew that meant I would have to live out the rest of my sentence alone.

lock and keyI stared outside the bars and wondered what the rest of my sentence held for me.  Would I be allowed yard time?   Would someone at least throw a Kong into my pen?

Eventually, I heard the warden’s keys clank and he came to my cell.  He told me my sentence was complete and I was free to go.  He unlatched my cell and immediately I smelled sweet freedom.  (It smelled a lot like Donatella’s urine puddle, but it was freedom nonetheless.)  I stood up and walked outside, taking my first gulp of fresh air (and another gulp of the Quik Trip Diet Coke my husband brought me.)

I  headed to booking (also known as the front register) and talked to the officer (cashier) about how much money was raised for my bail.  She said I raised $177.50, which would be donated to the animal rescue where I volunteer.  Not too shabby for some time in the pen.  Now I just need to find a good lawyer so I can file my wrongful imprisonment charge.  If only I knew one…

***Please remember to support your local animal rescues.  There are lots of amazing animals needing homes at local shelters.  Adopt, don’t shop.  For more information on amazing animals in the St. Louis area, check out***

I’ve recently had some struggles with my contacts.  Now I realize I struggle with just about anything that a normal person can handle with ease, but my contacts seem to be out to get me lately.

From tearing into pieces in my eyes to drying out my eyes, these tiny lenses have really started to annoy me.  (That, and anything that comes out of Carrot Top’s mouth.  How did that guy become popular?)

Yesterday I woke up and my eyes were especially tired and dry.  I definitely wasn’t up late catching up on episodes of America’s Next Top Model and then watching naughty infomercials.  Nope, definitely not.

I rubbed my eyes and noticed my vision was a bit blurry.  Since I didn’t drink the night before, I was puzzled by my vision difficulties, and proud of myself for abstaining.  I’m such a rock of strength.

I figured it was just because my eyes were dry from my contacts, and the blurriness would pass.

It didn’t, and when I saw two of my double chins in the mirror (which for you math geniuses makes a total of four chins), I decided I would wear my glasses for the day and give my eyes a rest from the contacts.

They probably needed it, and I look sassy in my glasses.

using magnifying glassI sported my glasses all day, but noticed my vision still wasn’t good.  Was I getting old?  I recently went to the eye doctor and my prescription changed.

Could it have changed again so rapidly?  Almost as if it was overnight?  Was I losing it?  Was this a symptom of a worse ailment, like a stroke?  Naturally, I began thinking of all the horrible conditions I could have that would cause my vision to be blurry.

I tend to overreact when it comes to medical issues.  It’s not because I want to have a medical condition. Well, except for a tapeworm. I’d like to have a tapeworm for a while so I could lose some weight, and then have it removed…you know, before it kills me.

I just figure if there is someone who will have a strange diagnosis that will lead to even weirder side affects, it’s this girl.  (What other 5th grader did you know who had bifocals?)  And since I seem to have bad luck with other things in my life, I just assume the worst.

As the day went on, my vision failed to improve and I contemplated my fate as a blind person. The more I thought about it, I realized my rapidly declining eyesight wasn’t really that bad.

woman with magnifying glassI could have someone drive me wherever I needed to go, so my road rage would diminish, and maybe I would be allowed back in the City of Normandy.

I would also definitely get one of those seeing eye dogs and take him everywhere.  I would name him Monocle.  And since I had a cute dog (Monocle would be adorable and great with people), no one would notice my horrible fashion sense.

I could also blame my lack of fashion sense on my poor vision.  You know, this wasn’t turning out to be too bad.

That night I drove to the gym, thinking about how I would need to rearrange my furniture to accommodate for my developing disability, when my glasses slipped down on my nose.

Before I could push them up again I realized something.  Wait a minute….I could see better without my glasses on.  How was that possible?

At first I contemplated if I had super powers and if I was morphing into a super hero like my husband suspected I would earlier this summer.

But then I thought about it and realized that I didn’t have the ability to fly (or even to do a slight jog) and I figured that would be one of the first powers I would attain if I was a super hero.

That, and the ability to say the word “kumquat” without giggling like a school girl.  Seriously, that’s a funny word.

I pushed my glasses back up and it became blurry again, and then pulled them down and my vision improved.

What?! Before I began to panic, I reached up and placed my finger in my right eye…and felt a contact.  I did the same with my left eye and found a contact there as well.

Apparently I slept in my contacts and didn’t know it, and put my glasses on as soon as I woke up.  No wonder my eyes were so dry.  There were contacts stuck to them!

I quickly removed my glasses, folded them up, and placed them in the console of my car, hoping no one saw me. I  also quietly vowed not to tell my husband about this, as he would ruthlessly make fun of me.

I also took a moment to say goodbye to Monocle.  Although our time together was short, it was great, and he was loyal, even to the end.

Tonight I will be sure to remove my contacts before I go to bed to avoid this issue in the future.  Next time my vision improves without glasses, I will  know I’m gaining super powers.