Dear Ridiculous Woman Walking Her Ugly Dog,

Please don't give me dirty looks when I walk by you. My dog and I were simply trying to enjoy the sunshine on our little walk. You saw us a half a mile away. You stopped walking, turned around, and watched us coming toward you and that tangled rat you call a dog.

You refused to move. For absolutely no reason, you chose to discontinue your walk, stand right there in the middle of the trail and wait the ten minutes it took us to catch up to you. You had a horrified look in your eye. You saw my beast walking toward you and you were petrified but you did not move. I could tell five hundred feet away that you were convinced he was going to attack you. You saw his razor sharp teeth, and you waited for them!

You glared at me as we approached. You pulled your dogs leash, called him closer, and never broke eye contact with my ferocious killer. The closer you got, the more your hands trembled, the bigger the sweat drops on your forehead.

As we passed you, you mumbled something in a shaky voice and glared at me with lasers shooting out your eyes. My dog eyeing yours. Your dog smelling his own ass.

I completely understand if you are afraid of large dogs, sharp teeth, being eaten alive. I understand that not everyone will find my dog cute and cuddly. I also understand that if you had half a brain, you would not stand and wait for the creature of your nightmares to approach you. You chose to stand there and wait TEN MINUTES for us to catch up to you and then you had the nerve to give ME dirty looks!?!? My dog is fairly well behaved and honestly couldn't have cared less about you. He was slightly intrigued by your dog, but he also finds piles of shit quite entertaining, so I wouldn't be too proud of your pooch. He didn't, however, try to eat your face. So get over it. You have every right to dislike my dog's breed, or hair length, or drool. But if you are not fond of him, please don't stand there and wait for us, only to give me the death stare....just keep walkin!

Sincerely,
The lady who's dog is much much more handsome

Disclaimer.... None of the photographs used in this blog actually depict my dog, or the other dog in said situation. After many failed attempts to get Rosco to make a "fierce" face to the camera, I decided it was best to use stunt doubles for dramatic effect. He does not really look like a bear or a monster. In the future, I will leave the "fierceness" to Tyra.

Rosco wants you all to know that he is in fact a very sweet, very mellow young man who has never once in his life shown his teeth to anyone but the dentist. He's also wishing that his mom would quit blogging. Right now.

Dr. 80260

Yesterday, Shawn and I went to the Salvation Army for 50% off day. (which is the best day ever, by the way) We were pretty disappointed in the selection though. In the past, this particular store has been quite promising when it comes to amazing deals. If you don't believe me, ask the $3000 armoir holding my television...that cost me $108. Yesterday, however, was not as impressive. There were no designer clothes, no high end night stands, no diamonds in coat pockets. Very sad. There were however some interesting shirts. Now, let me just preface by saying, I absolutely loath people who wear those cheesy hats and leather jackets that display which outrageous gas guzzling sports car they drive. The girls that stroll through the airport with their pastel pink Ferrari caps make me want to puke. But, I understand that they feel their car is a status symbol, and they are trying to let everyone, who may not be lucky enough to see them pull into valet, know that they are rich. Tacky, yes, but I suppose it serves their purpose.

I don't, however, understand these declarations...

I don't know if you can tell by the low quality photos here, but these shirts were quite worn. I'm so confused.

While I was photographing ridiculous bedazzling, Shawn was off making a discovery of his own.

He now lives in our home. Shawn couldn't be happier.

Deo for his BO

So, my dog is kinda stinky. Not like over the top, smellin like poop, nasty ass dog smell. Just like a slight hint of dry mud. I suppose dry mud is actually just dirt. But if I said he smelled like dirt, you might think he smells like potting soil or something, and I don't want you to be confused and think my dog smells like he's been sprayed with fertilizer....because he doesn't. He just smells like he went for a stroll through a field that was comprised mostly of a substance that was once mud.

Now, I know what you are thinking. "Give him a bath!" But its not that easy. My little puppy weighs a hundred pounds. He knows this. He also knows that he is stronger, and sometimes smarter than myself. Further more, he knows that in order for me to give him a bath, I need his cooperation. And this dog is not a fan of taking a bath. Its nearly impossible for me to pick him up and put him in the tub. When I try, he wiggles and squirms his way out of my arms. If I get a good grip and he can't break free, he begins to scream. "A dog screaming?", you say?? Yes, screaming. A full on, high pitched, someone just hit this woman in the face with a pot of boiling water, screaming. I try to block it out and continue the battle. I try to hurry and get his big ass into the tub before the neighbors call the police in an attempt to save the poor woman being slaughtered in the bathroom. On the rare occasion that I actually win the fight and get him in the bathtub, he completely submits. We will have the fight of all fights inches away from the edge of the tub, but once he's in the tub, he totally chills out and says "Shit this ain't so bad! Bring on the bubbles." (I apologize for my dog's poor grammar. He does it to rebel.) After his bath, he parades around the house, showing everyone just how amazingly beautiful he is and how wonderful he smells.

Now, as hard and stressful and ridiculous and tear inducing the entire bathing process is...it is much worse when Rosco decides to be an obnoxious smart ass. The day after I went through the awfully painful process of giving this man a bath, he decides to remind me that the pain was all his doing. He reminded me that bathing him would be simple as pie if it weren't for him and his immense strength and power. He likes to rub it in my face that he controls the show. "How does he possibly do this?", you ask? By entering the bathroom while I put on my makeup, walking right past me, and calmly climbing into the tub. He turns around to face me, stares me down for a few moments while wagging his tail, and then hops out of the tub and exits the room. Like "Bitch please, I take baths when I want to take baths. Period."

So, if you come over, and pet my dog, and a small dust cloud floats off his back, please don't judge. Sympathise. Understand. Appreciate the pain I go through. And if you still think he smells, please, please take that ass hole to your house and give him a bath. Please.

I fought the law...and the beer won.

So if you know me at all, you probably know that I have a ghetto entrepreneurial urge living inside me. More often than not, this leaves me broke and disappointed. Today, it leaves me drunk at a bar.

So I did a little research and discovered that Colorado, as a state, has no scalping laws. Within about four minutes of this discovery, I owed ticketmaster around a thousand dollars. I bought the maximum allowed tickets to the shows I was sure would sell out. My first venture was for a band I'd never heard, but after a little research I discovered are quite popular with the tweens. Little did I know that grown men would sell a testicle to get their daughters a ticket to see these Jonas boys. I still have my doubts about their supposed sibling..ry. Crazy marketing if you ask me. So anyway, those boys bought me a tank of gas which I was very grateful for. And they also convinced me that I could make more than just gas money in this business.

However, I quickly learned that there is a reason the guys selling tickets on the corner always have holes in their shirts. Being a professional ticket scalper ain't no easy task. Long story short, if a show doesn't sell out, and instead decides to drop ticket prices by ten dollars, you end up alone, broke, and drunk at CB&Potts. It's a sad life. Thank god my iPhone has typing correction. If it weren't for that, this blog would look more like this...

Jffokxwnbshducnsbgajbvsumxnjao.

That's right bitches, be grateful.



Update...

I just logged in to see what sort of mess I'd typed up yesterday, and its a bit of a doozy. I arrived at the concert three hours before my boyfriend, and (after selling my extra tickets for a painfully low price) instead of waiting outside in the heat, I chose to go to a bar. Seemed like a good idea at the time...

Also, thank you to the 14 year old boys who bought my tickets, you saved me some tears.

And for anyone that may be curious...Both the Flobots and Offspring rocked the fuckin house. Go see them. Twice. (Just don't ask me for tickets, cause I won't be buying extras)