HaiCuckoo - My Blood They Drew

Vile infiltrator
Lyme disease-ridden deer tick
I so despise you

HaiCuckoo - Uh Oh, More Poo!

My Bichon Frisé
Why do you come IN the house
To poop on the floor?

That of Which Nightmares are Made

OK, I'm afraid. I'm *very* afraid.

Hubby just called me from the LongLocks studio to tell me about his, ummm... "situation." Apparently we have an infestation of flies (probably came in through the vented window to get out of the INCESSANT rain) and he is convinced the "fly collective" is conspiring against him. I am told they lay in wait until he has enameling brush in hand and starts finishing a design. Then, while both his hands are busy, several flies will distract him while another one will attack his bald spot, using its proboscis to "implant alien beings into his noggin."

You do realize it's not the *flies* that are scarin' me here, right?

HaiCuckoo - Good For You!

Gnats fly above glass
They land, float and slowly drown
Red wine goes with meat

HaiCuckoo - Doggy Chew

Dog on hubby's lap
Oh look, a new squeaky toy!
Next time he'll dress first

HaiCuckoo - Intrusive Crew

Puppies on my bed
Sixteen additional legs
Why not hubby's side?

HaiCuckoo - They Say It's Like Flu

Rain, rain go away
The mosquitoes are on wing
I might get West Nile

HaiCuckoo - Ewwww

Fuzzy white puppy
Must the hair you shed become
A food condiment?

Total, Unadulterated BS. What Fantasies Are Made Of.

So, I am faced with an excruciating dilemma of dire proportions. As many of you know, I lust wholeheartedly after country-music-most-gorgeous-man-who-walks-the-earth-heart-throb Blake Shelton. Not the "real" Blake Shelton mind you, the "for-public-consumption-fantasy" Blake Shelton. The one who looks so finger-lickin' good (that was a country food reference, get it?) in the "Goodbye Time" video. The one who sings "Underneath the Same Moon" while I allow my over-active imagination to wallow, wholeheartedly, in the idea he recorded that one "just for me." Essentially, I want Blake Shelton to be my houseboy. Never mind he's sixteen years younger than I am. I can do the cougar thing, not an issue.

Those who know me know how much an anomaly this is. Blake is not my type by any stretch of the imagination, not even in the fantasy world. Of course, neither is my husband, but that's another story (I love my cute geek anyway, and besides, he takes my incessant Blake Shelton teasing with good humor... usually). Until I married him, I tended to date "sophisticated" men. Architects. Commodities brokers. Heads of international sales. Engineers. Men who would take me to the theatre (see how I spelled "theatre?" That's the "sophisticated" way to spell it), and the Silk Purse for dinner, and would buy me precious gems for no reason whatsoever, and could intelligently discuss current events, politics and recent scientific breakthroughs, and were almost *always* older than me... sometimes *much* older. Ann-Marie, a bud since college who knows my taste in men better than anybody, cannot for the life of her figure out my attraction to Blake and tells me so... often. Oddly enuf, she has never mentioned my choice of husband. Smart gurl.

I digress.

My fantasy attractions, though rare, were never about down home, country boy personas. Antonio Banderas. Cary Grant. Bogey. Robert Redford. Rod Stewart (especially in his hard rock 'n rollin' Faces days). Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. Axl Rose (I'm guessin' because he's a clone of the first great love in my life... but not nearly as maladjusted). OK, I do have to admit I have a huge crush on Lyle Lovett and his lyric-writing capabilities (and never could understand why HE married HER), but none of these have ever qualified as true take-your-breath-away-ohmigod-you-are-friggin'-gorgeous crushes, with the exception of Rod Stewart... a crush that was in full swing a good 30 years ago. Blake, on the other hand, is yumminess personified in my fully adult awareness.

Now, I understand that the fun of infatuation, especially with a "celebrity," is the image that is projected rather than the reality of the person behind the image. My husband suggested I might enter the "Be Blake's Roadie for a Day" contest (even though he knows I would have entered *him* into the contest and just tagged along for the ride if he won... I don't actually "lift" things, I point at the things I want lifted). I said I had no intention of actually meeting Blake and ruining the illusion. I'm no idiot. I know Blake doesn't stand out in a field singing his heart out about how "if it's too late for love to change your mind, then it's goodbye time." I know he doesn't practically come to tears standing in the middle of the street because he is reminded of a lost love. I know he doesn't sit in an empty farmhouse kitchen crying into a TV dinner. I know he cut off all that gorgeous hair (and frankly, if that wasn't a deal-breaker, nothing is). However, the fact that I know these things consciously does not affect my ability to effectively fantasize Blake into being the perfect object of my dellusionary affection. No, my fantasy world is willingly self-induced with full disclosure and no mental instability, at least no more than a good daily dose of Prozac can handle. Hence, the dilemma.

It just so happens that Blake has a Twitter account. And Blake does all his tweeting himself. So, alas, I find myself torn. Do I follow Blake and risk exposing myself to the real thing? Will it ruin the illusion? I've seen Blake "as Blake' on TV and he's a pretty hilarious guy, which gains tremendous points in my book. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure at this point that Blake is not going to be tweeting about unrest in Iran, who deserves the Tony this year, nor his fondness of the Democratic party (an assumption on my part due to the usual affiliation of musicians in his genre with that "other" party). So, do I *really* want to know what Blake thinks, does, and eats?

Uhhhh... eyup. Apparently I do.

:::click "Follow":::

Apparently, Blake drinks a lot. A whole lot. Though I've personally never had alcohol with my corn flakes, I can relate. He drinks beer (though he apparently likes mixed drinks too), I drink wine. No big disclosure here, every other song he cuts has him practically laying in a gutter somewhere. Pass.

Blake also apparently chews tobacco. I think chewing tobacco is disgusting. On the other hand, I smoke. Many people think smoking is disgusting. All that being said, the next time I am fortunate enuf to dream about kissing Blake's luscious lips, my unconscious mind will hopefully omit the whole chew thing. I hereby give Blake permission not to consider my bad habit next time he dreams about me. All's fair. Pass.

Blake had to paint his own house, which he feels "his people" should have done for him because he's famous. My level of LongLocks celebrity is comparably infinitesimally low and about as niche as it gets, but that doesn't keep me from feeling I should have my own "people." Come to think of it, I'd feel that way regardless of the lack of any celebrity whatsoever. Pass.

Blake hates PETA. Now, I know Blake is either an animal lover or loves his girlfriend (singer Miranda Lambert) enuf to at least donate time to her animal welfare causes. And I have to agree that animal lover that I am, the PETA fanatics have given the whole organization a really horrendous image, and is not among the animal welfare charities worthy of even my support. On the other hand, Blake hunts. I cannot for the life of me wrap my mind around the whole "I enjoy killing things" mindset (I have trouble killing insects). By complete contrast, I wear fur. I can definitely get my mind around the whole "I love my full-length lavender mink coat" mindset. I happen to be one of those twisted animal lovers who enjoys being at the top of the food (and apparel) chain who would become a vegetarian in a heartbeat if I had to kill my own meat (or fashion trend). Pass. And btw, the whole Miranda thing isn't an issue. She's cute, talented, and much more his type than I'd ever be. Besides, fantasies are customizable. Though if I had my druthers, I'd hook him up with LeAnn Rimes. She's on a more even sexual-tension level with Blake, methinks. Now *that* would be watchable. I'm just sayin'.

Blake loves dogs. PASS *plus* extra credit. Though I'm guessin' he doesn't have bichons. His loss.

Blake is perceived as a pervert by many of his followers. I think those followers are clueless and have no sense of humor. Besides, when he posed the question "Were Tinker Bell and Peter Pan dating? If so, how did they mess around?" my response was "I imagine Bell tinkered with Pan's peter." He did not respond to me. I bet he thinks I'm a pervert, which is *definitely* worth a pass.

Blake likes to drive his truck fast. When it comes to driving fast, Blake is an amateur. When it comes to driving fast *everyone* is an amateur, get the fuck out of my way. NOW. Pass. Pass on the left, right, whatever is convenient and not currently occupied by a patrol car.

Blake has never experienced the magic of matzoh ball soup and apparently thinks chicken fried steak is an appropriate meal to request in NY. Blake is obviously uninitiated to the magic of good food made by the hands of Jewish NYers. I reserve judgment until Blake has been fed a proper salt bagel with smoked lox and whipped chive cream cheese and *then* states his preference. I may not be Jewish, but I'm a native NYer and an extravagant cook. I KNOW good food. Luckily for Blake, I'm willing to share.

Blake is friends with Reba. Reba is the personification of "Republican scum" and trashed the Dixie Chicks when they dared to use their constitutional right to voice what the majority of this country felt, thus helping to fuel the downright terrifying fallout the Chicks suffered from right-wing fanatics. Guilt by the inability to recognize the effect of the association. At this point Blake earns his first tentative "Fail." Conversely, I am dying to know the back story behind Blake's "Reba's a robot, a totally wasted robot" tweet. She may even gain some points. Well, mebbe not, but anything trashin' Reba is dirt worth sharin' in my book, even if it's only a suggestion that something may be untoward. OK, I'll give... half a pass for the effort.

Blake is not afraid to suggest liberal use of the "Unfollow" button and has no intention of kowtowing to make himself more popular among his minions. Neither do I. Feel free, you'll find it at the top right in the side bar. Pass.

Blake has mastered a supreme level of sarcasm. Pass. DUH.

Blake can't spell for shit. I am an English language anal-retentive. But on him it's cute. Pass, though admittedly this one pains me.

OK, so Blake is exactly who he *should* be and not exactly who I would build-my-perfect-guy-from-the-ground-up guy would be. But he's pretty damn funny, has more than half a brain, isn't too offensive (in my admittedly-offensive opinion), and is a smokin' hot guy with a drop-dead-sexier-ohmigod-hold-me-back-look than any other human organism. Pretty much what fantasies are made of.

Pass.

You can follow Blake and find yerself blessed with his BS on Twitter by going to https://twitter.com/blakeshelton or searching for blakeshelton using the Find People function. Just remember, he's MINE. Don't make me come over there.

My New Pet. I Call Her Penelope. She Bites.

Oh How I Love to Nibbles on Dem Mousie Feets!

So, lately I've been seeing ads for "indoor cat food." Supposed to supply all the nutrition your "indoor cat" needs. As opposed to what? An outdoor cat, obviously. An outdoor cat that apparently has a very different diet from an indoor cat. All that being said, can you imagine how the ingredient list of the "indoor cat" food must read?

Ingredients: Bacon suet, sunflower oil, motor oil, bunny entrails, mouse by products, cheese, your neighbor's chicken, dead racoon liver, easily digestible garbage can protein, baby bird eggs, hospital waste kidney meat, BHA (butylated hydroxyanisol), BHT (butylated hydroxytoluene), folic acid, menadione sodium bisulfite complex, rock salt, propylene glycol (from antifreeze), corn cob, calcium carbonate (from expired Rolaids), ferrous sulfate (from licking rusted iron), manganese sulfate, roadkill bone meal, zinc oxide, Vitamins A, B, D#, supplements, sewer water sufficient for processing

Yeah. Whoever paid for this marketing campaign needs to be fired yesterday.

Better. Better Bring a Bucket List.... with apologies to Monty Python

Plinky asks what the top five items are on my bucket list... soooooo easy.

Go to Venice
It's sinking and I want to eat up some of that yummy food and sock away several bottles of fine Italian wine to help them lighten up the place. Buoyancy is good.

Have hair to my knees
I was "Twiggified" as a child. This can have serious and lasting detrimental effects on a gurl,* which resulted in such a complex that I ended up making my fortune designing hair jewelry specifically for long hair; however, even *I* have my length limits. I say I want hair to my knees but every time it reaches the bottom of my butt (what is known as "Classic Length" in the hair biz... can you believe we have our own terms for this stuff?), I wuss and get several inches cut off. Why? Because hair to your butt is a pain in the ass (pun intended). It involves such lovely consequences as snapping your head back when you go through a screen door and your hair does not; suffering the embarrassment of people running up to you at stoplights to let you know your hair is hanging out the car door; becoming a way-fun chew toy for the dogs at any opportunity; and actually getting in the way when you have to do anything that involves said butt (yup, went there). My tolerance level is not that high.

*You can read all about my deep-rooted (pun intended), hair obsession here.

Own all the Bichons
I have four. I want them ALL. Gimme.

"Look what followed me home Sweetie! Can I keep all eight million of 'em???"

Have George Perrier come to my house and cook a gourmet meal just for us
He'd have to clean up his mess, tho. I'm just sayin'.

Ride the Batman rollercoaster
I took my Sweetie to Great Adventure for his birthday several years ago. Little did I know I was married to a "Coaster Wuss." I had this great plan to start out on the little coasters and work our way up to what was my own personal goal, "Batman." By the time we got to "Rolling Thunder," third on our list of oh, about 472 coasters, I could tell by the strange whimpering sounds emanating from my husband that I wasn't going to get too far. When the train on the neighboring track got stuck at the top of the hill and we were stopped a hundred yards or so from the station, I decided now would be a good time to torture hubby and tell him that we would have to go around again to get the other train down. You might say he was less than thrilled with the idea (mothers hurriedly slapped hands over children's ears and gave my husband menacing looks). Needless to say I got to stand on the ground and look longingly at the terrified faces of those lucky enough to get their sweeties on Batman.

White Shows Dirt

I actually posted this in my forum on LongLocks a couplefew years ago, but since my puppies were groomed today and they will actually look like the top pic for five minutes or so, I was reminded of it and inspired to share it with Reality Check readers as well.
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Bichon Frise. Small fluffy dogs that are commonly referred to as "walking stuffed animals," almost unbearably cute. Perennial favorites at national dog shows and fabulous pets that shed hardly at all. A French breed, they are recognized by their pristine white coat, manicured appearance, and are even known to take pride in their "do" when freshly groomed.

This is what a bichon is SUPPOSED to look like:

But does my angel, my tiny Petunia, my sweet little baby, look like this?

Of course not. Or as the French would say, au contraire.

[sigh]

THIS is MY bichon:

Mud? What mud? There's mud?

Yup. Soooooooo mine.

[additional sighing]