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Celebrity Cross

First off, let me just say that you must tune in here on Friday for some exciting news!

Okay, no, I'm not pregnant with Daniel Craig's baby.  Despite all his pressure to have a child, because he's "not getting any younger," blah, blah, blah.  And no, I wasn't chosen to be one of the Real Housewives of Denver because a) I'm not a housewife, as much as I try and try to be, and b) Denver is way too cool to participate in a superficial show that the Zadge is addicted to like that!  No, it is so much more exciting than any of that!  So tune in!

Anyhoo, back to our regularly scheduled posting.  The Zadge has a game she likes to play with drunks in bars her friends called "Celebrity Cross."  Your friends pick two celebrities who, if combined, would look like you.

When she was younger, the Zadge always used to get Sharon Stone and that actress from Crocodile Dundee:





Young Zadge was happy with that Celebrity Cross.

Well, time does march its aging ass on, doesn't it?  So now, this is the Celebrity Cross that the Zadge gets:


Frankly, I think a more accurate cross would be this:

 A good, aged wine and an aged Sharon Stone!

Who is your Celebrity Cross?

Monday Musings

1.     The Zadge was at the dog park yesterday and a guy was petting Harry.  He turned to the Zadge and asked, "What kind of dog is he?"  What kind of dog is he?  

Dude, have you been living under a freakin' rock?  It's not like he's some exotic, rarely seen breed - for chrissakes, he's a Lab!  Only the most ubiquitous dog in the entire country.  So The Zadge told him he was a Pomeranian. And he bought it.

2.     You know those iPad commercials?  The ones with that tune?  Doont doont doont, doont doont a doonta doont.  OMG, it's like crack cocaine or something: once you hear it, you just can't stop doonting it!

3.     Someone, please, please explain Kristen Stewart.

4.     Is the Zadge the only one who can't tell the difference between Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro and Dustin Hoffman?

5.     Breaking news: Charlie "I make Robert Downey Jr. in his worst days look sober" Sheen has entered three months of rehab.....in his own home.  The alleged rehab-ers are going to come to his mega-mansion in his gated community to try and help Charlie get better.  The same home where he entertains his really smart porn stars and smokes his briefcase full of dope.   I wonder if the porn stars and drug dealers just go into the guest room and nap while the re-hab-ers do their thing?

6.     I know you all have just been sitting on the edge of your seats, waiting for more tales about the Zadge taking The Buuuussssss to work!  But those tales would require the Zadge to have actually ridden the bus since that first day in January.  Which she has not.  But she has brought her lunch for three straight weeks, so she hopes that counts for something toward her fiscal sobriety.

7.    You are also probably just waiting with bated breath (what the hell does that mean, anyway?) to hear about the Zadge's latest dating adventures.  But that would require the Zadge to actually go on a date, which she had not done the entire freakin' year. Okay, so that's only 30 days so far.  Still.  Anybody know any good available men in Colorado?

8.    Just who authors all the Wikipedia definitions?

9.     The Zadge does not understand those dumbshits people who get a personalized license plate that spells out the type of car they drive.  Like "BMW5" or "PRIUS" or " 'STANG."  Like you can't read the manufacturer's insignia above the plate?  Or maybe you just keep forgetting what kind of car you drive, so at the stop light, you run around back to check out what your license plate says?

10.    Stay tuned for some Blue Skies and Yellow Dogs news!!  A revamped blog is in progress and will be launching soon!  More details to follow!

Another excerpt from The Cleaning Lady Chronicles

Yes, Lorenza has struck again.  For my new readers, Lorenza is the Zadge's bossy, opinionated, spelling-challenged cleaning lady.  The Zadge pays Lorenza to come once a week, suck up all the dog and cat hair, make everything shiny and clean, and then toss out vague insults at the Zadge.

Like when she implied that the Zadge was a high-maintenance narcissist with spoiled dogs.

Or when she implied that the Zadge really needed to find a husband.

Ok, so maybe she has a point.

Anyhoo, here's today's "Lorenza Lecture":

Let's discuss, shall we?  You gotta love the first sentence and its obvious sympathy for the Zadge's grief.  And the Zadge just loves the second sentence prescribing weeks of booze and pills to ease the Zadge's pain!  Who knew my cleaning lady was also a physician?!

But here's the kicker:  after all the sweet words of encouragement and sympathy, Lorenza drops her own little footnote, basically telling me that I maintain a pigsty of a home, that the stench is so great that she was forced to fumigate the house and remove the dog bed to the outdoors, and thereby implying that I forced my sweet Jackson to spend his last days on earth on a bed of filth!

Dr. Lorenza, I have one question for you:  if I was not such a sloth, what in Baby Jesus of Bethlehem's name would I need you for?!

Oh right, the prescription for the pills.

When the A Team came to the Zadge's rescue

When you are in the deepest pain you have felt in your life, and your heart feels like it has a hole that will never heal, and your house seems horribly quiet and empty in spite of Harry and Tulip, what is the only thing that can make you smile?

A surprise visit from Moomskers!!!!

Yes, my unbelievable, rockstar mother secretly booked a flight Friday, after she learned of the awfulness her daughter was going to have to go through the next morning, and flew 2000 miles west to surprise and comfort her grieving daughter.  And swore the Zadge's Sista into complicity and silence.

So the Zadge came home from the awfulness on Saturday morning and immediately called Moomskers.  No answer.  Which the Zadge thought was a little odd, because she knew that Moomskers knew when the awfulness was happening.

The Zadge then called the Sista, and proceeded to cry and talk about the Shone for almost two hours.  After running out of tears, the Zadge told the Sista that she was going to take Harry for a long walk, then try and call Moomskers again.

There was a long pause.

Then the Sista said, "I don't think you are going to be able to reach her."

"What, is she in some all day bridge tournament or something?"  By the way, is there anyone under the age of 60 who plays bridge? Anyone? Hello?

Another long pause.  "She's on a plane," said the secret agent Sista.

This time the pause came from the Zadge, as she slowly processed this.  "Holy shit! Is she coming here?"  "Oh shit, I wasn't supposed to say anything," said the Sista and failed secret agent.

Moomskers' daughters like to drop the "shit" bomb.

The Zadge then waterboarded the Sista over the phone and got the details: Moomskers decided that she just had to be there for her daughter, so she bought a ticket, reserved the Super Shuttle to take her from the Denver airport to Old Vicky and then she planned to appear on the front porch to surprise her grieving daughter.

The Zadge was elated and felt a break in her grief.  But the Zadge is not that easy to get over on.  Especially when there is a double agent in the mix. So the Zadge had the Sista make a covert call or two to Moomskers to get some pertinent info, and the Zadge canceled the Super Shuttle reservation, figured out when Moomskers' flight was landing, and drove herself and Harry to the airport to surprise Moomskers!

As Moomskers saw the Zadge and Harry walking through the airport, she was shocked.  "How did you know?!"  It was then that I had to disclose that the Sista was a double agent.  We laughed and hugged each other and headed home to toast the Shone.

So how great is my Moomskers?!! Seriously, is she The Bomb Mom or what???

And how about a shout out to my friends from The Top Secret Day Job, who came over on Sunday to help distract the Zadge from the awfulness of the day before.  Moomskers made a big ole' pot of soup (Sausage, White Bean and Kale, in case you are a foodie) and we all ate and drank (duh, it's the Zadge's house) and toasted the Shone:

Plus, all of her friends brought their own critters to the party!  PugMama and the Karaoke Slut brought their dogs (that's Buster the Super Pug with Moomskers in the first photo).  The Hazz brought her own adorable critters:

Child Protective Services, please ignore that open wine bottle in front of the six-year old.

So thanks to a fierce, loving mother, a double agent sister, a bunch of good friends and happy critters - not to mention the soup and wine -- the Zadge closed out her weekend of grief with a smile on her face and a superpug on her lap:

I now have a real Angel in Heaven

My sweet boy Jackson passed away on Saturday morning, one week after his 13th birthday.

He laid in my arms and his tail didn't stop wagging until his very last breath.  Although I am suffering greatly without him, he did not suffer at all.  I chose to put him down before the Evil Tumor could cause him any pain.  I hope I have honored him, as he honored my life with the greatest gift I could ever have received.

If you could channel pure love and put it in a furry, wiggly, tail-wagging container, you would have the Shone.

Some of you may wonder where his nickname "Shone" came from.  Well, in the beginning, he was just Jackson.  Then a couple of people started referring to him as "Action Jackson," based on some god-knows-what-guy-movie at the time.  Who knows why, but I then started calling him the Latin version of that, "Actshonius Jacksonius."  The Zadge's then-boyfriend, The Gush, picked up on it and started calling him "Shonius."  That morphed into "Shone" (and, for a bit, after the whole rapper-war, "Shone Loc" and sometimes just "'Nius").  Other nicknames came along too, like Bob Barker, Wiggle Butt, Poop Eater, Charlie Chaplin (because of his walk) and Bubba Boy.

This is the very first photo I ever took of the baby Shone, in March 1998:

He was 7 weeks old, still in his crate at the breeder's on the Eastern Shore.  A family in Seattle had originally put dibs on him, then changed their mind - THANK GOD!

He was a fat little ball of furry fun and love:

He loved to chew sticks:

and his mommy's socks:

Baby Shone wasn't quite sure what to make of his almost-feral older sister, Charlie:

He liked to chillax under the bed - until he was about 7 months and couldn't fit anymore:

He was the happiest little puppy:

The poor little guy had to have a hip replacement when he was only ten months old, suffering from extreme hip dysplasia.  But he spread love throughout the vet hospital - the staff said they had never seen a dog wag his tail so much!

He had to go back in the hospital a year later to have his elbows fixed, and once again, the staff said they had never seen such a happy dog:

Doesn't he kind of look like he is wearing leg warmers a la Jennifer Beals?!

Even though he wasn't blessed with the strongest skeleton, Jackson was blessed with an uncanny ability to spread love everywhere he went.  Even when he got super wet and dirty at the dog park, his aura of love prevented his mom from getting angry:

The only time I ever saw him not so happy was when I dressed him up on Halloween in a prisoner's costume, complete with ball and chain, called "Bad Dog:"

Perhaps because he knew he could never, ever be a bad dog.

He loved, loved his frisbees.  He carried them everywhere he went:

..in the ocean:

and in the snow:

He and I spent 10 straight summers at the Outer Banks in North Carolina, in Duck:

I think it was his favorite place in the world and I plan to spread his ashes in the ocean there:

Jackson traveled all over the United States with his mom.  He marked all the trees in the Grand Canyon:

He was Walkin' in Memphis:

He celebrated his 9th birthday running with birds on the shores of the Pacific Ocean in Santa Cruz:

Even with his compromised joints, he hiked the Marin Headlands:

He jumped in fountains at wineries in Sonoma, California:

He loved his mommy:

...and made her happier than anything has in her life:

This is the last photo I ever took of the Shone, a few hours before I took him to the vet this past Saturday morning:

I've always felt like Jackson was brought into my life to be my angel and protector.  I don't think I would have had the nerve to do many of my travels and adventures without my angel sitting at my side.  And I think he must have felt that now, in January 2011, I was ready to continue on my journey without him right at my side.

But I know he is still with me, just higher up in the air.  And for that, I am grateful beyond words.

There is a story I've heard before: a family has to put down an old dog and they ask the vet to allow their six-year old son to be present, so he can learn about life and dying.  As the vet is about to put the dog to sleep, the mother cried, "Why can't dogs live longer?"

Her six-year old son turned and said, "People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life -- like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?  Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long."

Enjoy Jackson on his last walk:

Why you do not want the Zadge to be one of your bridesmaids

One of the Zadge's oldest friends, Heidi, is in town tonight.  Not like Heidi's a nonagenarian or anything.  I mean I have known her since back in my grad school days in Boston, you know, before the invention of electricity the interwebs. 

The Zadge is meeting Heidi for dinner tonight and is looking forward to the distraction, what with the utterly devastating and depressing return of the Shone's Super Evil Supersized Tumor and all.

Heidi and the Zadge ran around Boston for years, studying boys more than we did books.  Eventually, one of us -- guess who it wasn't -- landed a husband.  And Heidi asked the Zadge to be one of her bridesmaids.  The Zadge said yes, not knowing then that the phrase "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride" was apparently coined for her spinster ass.

Anyhoo, Heidi's wedding was in beautiful, historic Faneuil Hall in Boston.  And for some reason that only early 1990s fashion knows, the Zadge and her fellow 'maids wore a black velvet, really short, off-the-shoulder dress from Victoria's Secret and gold glitter hose.  After the ceremony, all of the guests were moved into the reception hall, while the bride and groom stood behind big, folding, wooden doors, waiting to make their official entrance as Man and Wife.

To this day, I blame it on the shoddy construction circa 1776.

See, the bridesmaids were lined up next to the doors in order of descending height.  Which meant Miss Amazon was standing right next to the doors.  Someone on the other side of the doors opened them to let Mr. and Mrs. Heidi walk through and greet their happy guests.

Except that Mrs. Heidi's wedding dress was huge and the Zadge could see that she wasn't going to fit through the little opening between the two big folding wooden doors.  In an effort to ably perform her 'maid duties, the Zadge pushed the door nearest her to open up a wider path for her bride-friend.  The Zadge assumed that back in 1776 they attached their goddamn doors to hinges.

But apparently the patriots had more on their minds than attaching their goddamn doors to anything.  Because right then and there, in front of the 200 guests, and the horrified bride-friend, the big ole wooden door fell straight down on top of the freakin' five-tier wedding cake.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

After a hundred gasps filled the air, the caterers ran over and airlifted the carnage to Mass General.  Miraculously, about an hour later, the cake re-emerged looking almost like its pre-door-assault self!  Of course, the Zadge was the butt of a lot of jokes that night (Wow, this cake is great - it comes with its own toothpicks!)

 
And as Heidi told the Zadge years later as she was going through her divorce, she should have recognized the Door in the Cake as an omen!

Wherein our heroine becomes a catty Beotch

Could the Zadge's Sunday have been more perfect? All day on the couch, in front of a roaring fire, with her two yellow bookends, watching football and fashion on the tube.

Well, it could have been better had her husband Tom Brady won - remember, I look like Giselle according to a 5 year old with impaired vision.  And yes, I know I changed from a third person narrative to a first person in the same sentence. It's my blog, I can be grammatically incorrect if I want to.

On to the Golden Globes!  I had a notebook by my side, so I could remember the highlights and lowlights.  One side was labeled "Good/Best Dresses" and the other was labeled "Ugh/Bad Dresses."  I tried not to be critical. (Yeah, right).  But the Ugh column ended up much longer than the Good column.

But let's start on a positive note:

This woman is the hottest thing on the planet.  'nuff said.

I'm not a big fan of Anne Hathaway because her face makes me think of a neighing horse.  But I loved her Armani dress, even with the Krystal Carrington shoulders:

Olivia Wilde looked like a beautiful, if somewhat ginormous, chocolate confection:

Having gotten rid of her basketball playing boob, Eva showed off her natural little boobs:

I'm starting to sound a wee bit like a lesbian, aren't I?  Six months on Match.com will do that to you. 

Now, not everyone agrees with me on this one, but I actually loved JLo's dress with the sheer, sparkly capelet:

Ok, now for the fun stuff.  Helena Bonham Carter, I know you have that wacky persona to keep going, but seriously woman, the mismatched Christmas shoes are ree-dick-u-lus:

Christian Bale, the L.A. homeless shelter called and said you are out past your curfew:

Oh, Heidi, this would get you kicked off Project Runway:

Now, we all love our Sandy Bullock and her little Louie and the way she drop-kicked that tatted-up skank of a husband to the curb.  But Sandy, your high school called and wants their hairdo back.

So I'm overusing the "so-and-so called" joke.  Again, my blog.

I trust that immediately after not winning her Globe, Julieanne Moore rushed to the emergency room to have the dress that was growing out of her neck removed:

I know Warren Beatty is practically senile, but do you think Annette forgot to wash and comb her hair when she got out of bed Sunday morning:

Why is she orange and do you think it is rubbing off all over that white dress:

This matronly dress and fugly hairdo explain why Ryan left:

Is it just me, or does January Jones look like she is about to pull out an ice-pick and stick it in some guy who wronged her:

I don't know who Leighton Meister is, or why she has so many vowels in her name, but I do know that her grandmother on the prairie called and wants her dress back:

But the winner of the Freakshow of the Night had to be nutty Tilda Swinton:

Tilda, the Pope called, he wants his vestment back.