Happy Dog

Shameless Plug AND Proof I Keep My Word

2011-04-10T01:48:00.002-04:00

Recently (about 5 minutes ago) I posted a promise to post again soon. I think 5 minutes qualifies as "soon."

What I really want from you is to visit my other temporary blog:

http://SendRacheltoSouthAfrica.blogspot.com

Okay, that's not true. That's not what a really want from you. What I REALLY want from you is your money. So to be specific, what I really, REALLY want from you is to visit my other blog and then buy something. Or better yet, just give me money.

Why? Because I'm cute. Not enough? Okay. Because I'm going to volunteer my time working with orphans in South Africa who are WAY cuter than I am.

Oh, and for good karma. And because it's a nice thing to do and you are a nice person who does nice things. Now THAT should be good enough.

What? You didn't even notice?

2011-04-10T01:42:00.002-04:00

One thing I HATE about blogs is that posting that basically says, "Hey, sorry I haven't been writing but I've just been so busy but I promise I'm going to get back on the stick and start boring you again with my nearly daily updates about what I ate today and why I can't stand people who shop at Whole Foods or why I can't stand people who DO shop at Whole Foods blah blah blah." And then you scroll down and you can see that the blogger wrote pretty much the same thing 3.82 months earlier.

My point? Hey, sorry I haven't been writing much lately, but no one even noticed anyway, so, whatever. I'll probably be back at some point. No, really. I will. It's a money-back guarantee.

Valentine, Schmalentine

2011-02-14T00:18:00.004-05:00

So, today is Valentine's Day, and I am single. You probably are in a couple, but as the kids would say, "Hey, I ain't mad atchya." I've had plenty of Valentine's Days as part of a couple, and even more as a single broad. And frankly, I haven't noticed that much of a difference. Now, one could blame the men—or me for choosing men—who just didn't make as much of the day as I deserved. But I never really made a big deal out of it either. After 29 years of being single on this particular Hallmark holiday, I spent nine years where I DID have a significant other, and I must say it was a bit anti-climatic. That's because it's the build-up that gets you. It's all the commercials, and romantic comedies, and cardboard Cupids hanging around that get you to feeling like everyone is doing something brilliant and spectacular and sexy that night while you'll be home doing something, well...NOT. And that goes for most of us, doesn't it? Unless you're in the first few months or years of a relationship, Valentine's Day may pass with little fanfare, whether you're alone or coupled up.

Married, single, divorced, shacked up, broken up, dating, waiting...whatever your romantic situation, your true loves stay the same. And so, in an effort to make this day a more universally appreciable day, I say we make it about love in ALL its forms. And in an effort to employ the poetry writing skills I honed in elementary school (clearly I plateaued after third grade), here's one of those poemy things you usually write for mother's and father's days where you write a word down the left side and then try to find words and phrases that start with each letter—a truly organic and fluid writing experience, to be sure.

Things I Love Whether It's February 14th or Not

Very fattening foods
Anything chocolate
Listening to my puppy snore
Eating Ben & Jerry's out of the carton
Newport Beach, California
Trashy reality TV
Interesting conversation and witty banter
Needing a hug and getting it
Entering a raffle and winning
Sleeping in on a rainy Sunday
Discovering money I thought I'd lost
A great kissing session
You, whoever you are, for reading my blog

But seriously, folks, today is a day when I think it would be nice to think about all those we love and have loved. Today is a nice day to send a note to a parent, sibling, or friend you keep thinking of but never get around to calling. Today is a nice day to think about those who have broken your heart and be thankful for the lessons they taught you. Today is a nice day to think about those whose hearts you have broken and be thankful for the good times you shared. Today is a nice day to forgive someone you love, whether they've apologized or not. Today is a nice day to love and be loved, even if all you can do is send it out silently into the universe and hope it gets to the people who need it most.

Oh yeah. And if you just don't have it in you to do any of those things, today is also a nice day to love yourself. Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby comes to mind.

Why It's Okay to Look: The Illiterate Sports Fan

2011-02-04T22:02:00.003-05:00

I've lived in the Boston area for just over a decade now, and the number of men I have met who could be serious contenders for a relationship has not exceeded the number of fingers I have, excluding thumbs. It's getting to the point where I am thinking that maybe New England is not the place for a native southern California girl to find...well, love OR lust. It's time to start documenting my search for the "L" words (both of them) for the giggles and groans of not only my readers, but for posterity as well.

The picture above is real. Not doctored. Not Photoshopped. Not created by me for a laugh. Real. Real disturbing. Being a fan is one thing, and being a fanatical fan is pretty work-a-day around these parts. Trust me: this guy's friends probably think this tat is wicked cool. And they should know, because they (his friends Sully, Neil, and O'Douls) are the bosses of what is wicked cool because they are wicked smaht. They'll admit they're not Roads Scholars, but they didn't even know about scholarships for roads or they would've applied. Anyway, this dude is smart, too, and if you don't believe it, just check out his ad (copied and pasted without revision, I swear):

Hey ladies listen I am a loyal Guy trustworthy sweet Italian I have an edge tho LOL I'm not desperate just trying to change the scene I like live. Musick the Boston night live funny! Movies I'm not into drama or b.s so if u want to know more shoot me an email with pics I have pics to trade I just gave u a taste I'm 5.9 and 200 lbs green eyes well hmu if u Wana know more I don't open spam email s so title the email not spam hope to hear from u all

The number of things to make fun of here is so numerous that I think you'll have more fun finding them on your own than having me point them out one by one.

Thank you, "30 attractive italian northshore." Thank you for making the terrible student essays I grade seem suddenly unterrible. Thank you for helping me believe my mom who tells me that I'm just too cute and smart for the guys out there. Thank you for making me listen to my friends who always say that it's not me, it's you--the men, er, boys--and that I really AM attractive and funny and smart and that the supply of quality guys around here just can't keep up with the demand. I always think they are just being nice and that if I believe them it will be a surrender to the single girl Kool-Aid. Well, I surrender. Pour me another glass.

Match.com Is Right: Why It's Okay to Look (Even If You're Not Looking)

2011-01-30T02:29:00.007-05:00

Online dating is terrible. And great. And fun. And frustrating. But those same words describe dating in general. People complain about dating after divorce, or dating after 40, but from what I can tell, dating at any age is a test of one's endurance and sense of humor. Take a snapshot of a website's collection of profiles at any given moment, or trap everyone in a bar on a Saturday night, and you're going to see the same characters. Single people come in all flavors across all spectrums: they are hopeful and jaded, horny and uptight, desperate and cavalier, cocky and insecure, honest and deceptive. They're people. People who need people.

As one of those single people, I admit to being home alone on more weekend evenings than I want to be. Some of my married readers may be jealous, and I can understand why: a Friday night can be lonely, but also self-indulgent. Last night, for example, I did what I wanted: I watched “Sex In the City” and “What Not to Wear” and other chick stuff, flipping channels with the remote as often as I wanted; I ate a healthy salad and diet soda, followed by two bowls of ice cream, approximately (ahem!) number of cookies, and three glasses of wine; I wore my pajamas over comfortable cotton underwear and unshaved legs; I read online personal ads.

So, at this point, I have to admit that I read them all: m4m, w4w, m4w, w4m, and all kinds of other categories I am discovering with each visit to a new site (did you even know there is such a thing as mm4tw???). I should probably be embarrassed to admit that I read this crap. And make no mistake: it IS crap. But sometimes it is hilarious crap. And if I were too embarrassed to admit that I read it, I wouldn't be able to share it with my readers, who by now must know that I am all about sharing and caring, even if it makes me look a lot less cool than the persona I was hoping to establish.

Anyway, the point is that last night I saw a headline that gave me hope for all the single ladies, all the single ladies (whoa-oh-oh).

The headline said it all. It said This Man is Funny. Honest. Vulnerable. Sensual. Expressive. Enthusiastic. It said This Man Knows What He Wants. And surprisingly, What He Wants is NOT a teeny, tiny, prepubescent, stick-thin, wanna-be model-waif chick who is devoid of curves but compensates with a push-up bra. This Man? For many women, This Man is a beacon of hope. For others perhaps, This Man is a crude, sophomoric neanderthal. And for me?

For me, This Man represents a happy future, but not one related to sex or love. For me, This Man represents financial independence. Why? Because while he is trolling online for BBWs, I am going to take his headline, copyright it, trademark it, stylize it, and slap it on tee-shirts, sweatshirts, baseball caps, bumper stickers, and all manner of dollar store goodies. I will be rich because of This Man and his headline. I don't want to date him, but still I see a bright future because of him. And so, without further ado (and at the very real risk of having someone steal my great idea and make MY million dollars off it), I present to you the headline worthy of an entire blog post and the foundation for my future Fortune 500 company:

I Heart Big Giant Boobies!!!

(Yeah, he included all those exclamation points, too. Thank God for This Man and his unfettered exuberance. This Man is my muse. Hey, and if you see my merchandise in the future, mention this blog post and get 10% off your purchase. Such a deal.)

Pillow Talk

2011-01-28T03:04:00.005-05:00

I can't sleep.
Mmm?
I said I can't sleep.
Sorry, baby.
Don't be sorry. Just keep me company.
I am. I'm right here.
Yeah, but you're sleeping. Wake up and keep me company.
I am awake.
No, you're not awake.
I'm talking, aren't I?
Yes. But you could be sleep-talking.
I'm not sleep-talking.
Okay. I just can't stop thinking about today and how—hey, are you listening?
Mmm-hmm.
Really? Then what did I just say?
You think I'm sleep-talking.
After that.
After what?
Never mind.
Okay.
Okay? Okay? I said I can't sleep and that I wanted you to keep me company and you said you would and now you're sleeping and when I said never mind you said okay. You're so mean.
Alright, baby, I'm up, I'm up. What's on your mind? I'm ready to listen.
Forget it. I'm too tired to talk now. And besides, now I feel guilty for waking you up.
But now I really AM up. Look, I'm sitting up, my eyes are open, I turned on the lamp. I'm listening.
It's just that earlier today those kids at the mall were looking at me and laughing. I know I'm not as young as I used to be, but am I that hideous? I mean, I've put on a few pounds, sure, but...
Baby, don't you worry about that.
...and we're not having sex as much as we used to.
That happens with kids.
I know. Still, I worry that maybe you just don't find me attractive anymore.
Oh stop. Of course I find you attractive.
Really?
Yes, really. And I love you. Even though you worry too much. And even though you're too sensitive.
You're right. I am too sensitive.
It's okay. It's kind of endearing. Even cute sometimes.
Thanks. That's exactly what I needed to hear. Can we cuddle? I think I can fall asleep now.
Of course we can cuddle, baby. Anything for my husband. Good night.

Geesh. Ain't that JUST like a man?

After the First Date: Text for Success

2011-01-16T01:11:00.003-05:00

So, guys, you finally got that girl to go out with you. Mazel tov. And the dinner went great. And you were on your game. And she seemed into you. And there was a hug, or kiss on the cheek, or even on the lips. All in all, a great first date. You want a second one? Well, there's a lot of advice out there about how to make sure you make that happen. If you were smart, you lined it up before you let her go, but that's still no guarantee. You need to nurture this tender, new relationship...and let's be honest: if it was a good date, there's nowhere to go from here but down. So you don't want to screw this up.

What To Do and When

Make a lasting impression. Make sure she thinks about you all week. Set yourself apart as an original. Be sincere. Be unique. Be bold.

Text her before you even start driving home. In fact, text her WHILE you're driving home (Who cares if it's against the law? What's a moving violation in the face of love?). And text her a LOT. Not just one message. Aim for at least half a dozen that first night. And keep it going all week.

What NOT to Text

You don't want to be trite. Or weak. Or mealy-mouthed. So, don't use lines that she's heard over and over again from all the other guys. Avoid standard lines like these:

* Text me when you get home so I know you made it there safely!
* The food was good but the company was better. Thanks for a great evening.
* I'm still laughing about that funny story you told. Can't wait to hear more soon.
* That was the best first date ever. I say we go for the best SECOND date ever.
* I can't stop thinking about that kiss. You are so great. I'll call you soon.

YAAAWWWN! No, no, no. Do NOT say any of those things. She's heard all these lines before and she didn't end up with any of the pea-brains who said them. Here's your chance to pull away from the pack.

What You SHOULD Text

Think bold, original, specific. Something that lets her know you were paying attention to the details of the evening. Something that tells her you are a man with your own mind. Something along these lines:

* I paid for dinner and didn't get any action. You can make it up to me though. Let's say on Friday you pay AND put out.
* Sorry I was such a klutz tonight, but I only dropped my napkin so often so I could look down your blouse when you bent over to get it. I totally saw your bra.
* I just realized that you said it “supposably” which makes you sound ignorant. Good thing you're so smokin' hot.
* Hey, I wanted to tell you this in person but was too scared: you've had a piece of spinach stuck in your teeth all night.
* Your face and body are burned in my mind...and I will use them to pleasure myself when I get home.
* I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight. I love you. If you don't text me back and say you love me too, I have a bottle of sleeping pills and a bottle of Jack and I'm not afraid to use them.

Get the gist? Leave her wanting more. Leave her wondering if you'll still be alive next Friday. Leave her knowing that you definitely want to hit that if you ARE still around next Friday. Leave her knowing that you'll be thinking of her a LOT, especially in bed and in the shower. Leave her knowing that you'll probably never leave her alone and that she will one day have to file a restraining order. After being disappointed by so many other men who wouldn't commit, didn't stay interested, couldn't say the “L” word (let alone the “M” word), and let their eyes wander to everything in a skirt during dates, women will find your relentless obsessiveness refreshing and comforting. In no time, you two little lovebirds will be on your way to a mutually satisfying codependent relationship. You're welcome.

Overheard on The People's Court

2011-01-14T00:44:00.005-05:00

I'm practically a lawyer. I didn't go to law school, but I think I have experience that is equivalent to a law degree. Why? Well, over the past few years, I have logged probably a hundred hours watching court TV shows—and if it isn't really a hundred, it just FEELS like that many. I tend to focus on Judge Judy and Marilyn Milian who are, at this point, not only my models but my mentors. These chicks get it DONE with a gavel. Surly old broad and hot-blooded Latina. Both awesome.

Recently, I watched a case where Tyrone was accusing his friend Lashawn of stealing his gun. They'd been friends for fifteen years, and even though they were close, Tyrone said Lashawn was a SNAKE. In fact, Lashawn had a habit of cock-blocking on a very regular basis. He steals females from his buddy, so maybe he steals firearms from him, too.

So, Lashawn drove the two of them to a club, and when they parked, Tyrone left his [registered and legal] gun in the car. But when they came out at the end of the night, even though the car was still locked, Tyrone's gun was missing. Apparently, Lashawn was victimized as well; his hoodie and skullcap had walked. (Gun vs. hoodie. Totally the same. Reminds me of those evil idiots who kill someone, shoot off a half-inch of skin from their own forearm, then claim it was all done by a masked freak during a carjacking gone bad. Whatever.) Anyway, the whole thing is--I am sure you agree--shocking. Quite shocking.

But what was even more shocking was that Lashawn kept insisting that he never took the gun out of the GLOVE DEPARTMENT. There is no lock on the GLOVE DEPARTMENT, and everyone knows that when someone breaks into a car, the first place they look is the GLOVE DEPARTMENT. Besides, he never even saw the gun in the GLOVE DEPARTMENT, but maybe the two other buddies who were riding in the back seat saw it and had opened the GLOVE DEPARTMENT and taken it. He was innocent, obviously.

Of stealing, that is. But of murdering the English language? Verdict: GUILTY.

I don't have a single drop of Latin blood in me to my knowledge, but I know I would have gone loco listening to that guy. I would have held him in contempt. Found him guilty of irritating me. Climbed over the big, high judgy desk thingy and strangled him with his own sloppily-knotted, Walmart necktie. Judges exact justice, not mercy...right?

But the Honorable Judge Marilyn Milian? She kept a straight face and didn't even correct him. Didn't even flinch. That hot-blooded Latina kept it cool, banged that gavel, and let the dude go without sentencing him to mandatory English classes.

Yeah, that was probably the right way to handle it. Never mind. I can't be a judge.

Hot Mess Haiku

2011-01-09T21:27:00.003-05:00

tangled pasta thoughts
meatball words call from the sauce
read me first they say

[Haiku On Why I Can't Seem to Write Anything Lately]

Again, obviously I am no poet, but I lust for the genuine efficiency and economy of words that only real poets achieve through their thoughtful and well-crafted verse. My brain feels like "The Mess"--a pasta dish famous in Boston for looking like an accidental and haphazard pile of pastas and eggplant and mysteries that belie its very well-balanced tastiness. If you are daring enough to stick your fork into the ugly pile, whatever comes out is guaranteed to be delicious and decidedly un-ugly. My head is full of ideas that I feel sure would be as tasty as a bite of The Mess if only I could get the nerve to dive into with real gusto and without fear. My literary fork feels timid lately. Maybe it's time for a trip to Comella's for an order of The Mess. If I can tunnel my way through a plate of that, maybe I can tunnel through the writer's block!

Horn Tooting Time...Kinda...

2011-01-04T22:40:00.003-05:00

I thought it was exciting when Happy Dog hit a thousand page views. But that was nothing compared to the little shiver that shot up and down my spine when I discovered that there are two search terms that are bringing folks to the blog in droves:

Search for "taze a dog" and this blog is the #8 result.

Search for "gynonudomania" and this blog is the #5 result.

I couldn't make this up. Well, I could, but I wouldn't. I'm not even sure I would want to. But if my marketing background has taught me anything, it's that ALL publicity is GOOD publicity. I'm sure that's the theory behind young actresses exiting limos in short skirts sans panties. Happy Dog is no Lindsey Lohan or Paris Hilton, but he walks outside completely naked every day and that doesn't seem to be driving traffic to the site. Maybe I need to put him in a short dress. You know how much dogs LOVE to be dressed up in people clothes.

New Year's Rabbit Reconstitutions

2011-01-03T20:59:00.006-05:00

All new year's resolutions fail. It's a scientific fact. Show me someone who is actually keeping a a resolution afloat mid-February, and I will produce the Loch Ness Monster. In fact, show me someone who makes a resolution and keeps it through the end of the year and I'll throw in Big Foot, Elvis, and indisputable evidence that Joan Rivers is precisely 114 years old and has never had a bit of plastic surgery in her life.

Failure simply cannot be an option in 2011. That is why this year I am abandoning new year's resolutions. Rather than resolve to do something new, I am simply going to commit to those things I am already doing with at least some success. I am leaving behind the ideal and grabbing hold of the REAL.

Ideal: I resolve to be more charitable with my time, money, and emotions.
The Real: I will continue to abstain from punching anyone in the face, no matter how much he or she deserves it.

Ideal: I will exercise at a brisk pace for 30 minutes at least three times a week.
The Real: I will continue to walk my dog so he can pee, and even run a little when it is butt-cold outside.

Ideal: I will eat more whole grains, steamed veggies, and drink 8 glasses of water a day.
The Real: I will continue to eat chocolate on a daily basis, preferably more of the good stuff.

Ideal: I will lose the same 12 pounds I have been complaining about for a decade.
The Real: I will not gain weight. At least not enough to require buying bigger pants.

Ideal: I will get 8 hours of sleep every night, preceded by meditation, journaling, and teeth flossing.
The Real: I will continue to fall asleep on the couch watching trash TV if I feel like it, sleep in on the weekends, and floss at least when a popcorn kernel gets stuck up in there.

Ideal: I will speak in a polite, professional, and ladylike manner at all times.
The Real: I will continue to swear when no other words will do, but restrain myself in front of children and the elderly. Well, in front of children anyway.

This year, 2011, is the Year of the Rabbit in the Chinese zodiac calendar. And rabbits are cautious. They look before leaping. They don't jump into diets and investments and relationships without using their little bunny brains. I feel confident that my list of New Years' Reconstitutions is doable. And that's all I'm really going for in 2011. I'm not saying we ought to settle for mediocrity or stop setting goals or refuse to challenge ourselves. But sometimes we need some small successes just to keep us going. And that's what 2011 is going to be about for me: small successes. It would be great to get out of bed an hour earlier every morning to do sit-ups and stretching and read some classic literature before work--that's the ideal. But you gotta know where you're at. For sometimes just getting out of bed and going to work is not only The Real, but a Real Success, too.

P.S. If you'd like to join me in a year of Real Successes, the official Year of the Rabbit doesn't start until February 3 this year, so you still have a whole month to modify your list and replace some of those idealistic resolutions with realistic reconsitutions.

Christmas: The Season of Santa and Strippers

2010-12-23T21:52:00.002-05:00

'Tis the season to complain about the season.

Today is December 23 and I was out on the road today. The traffic was horrendous, roads were slippery, drivers seemed cranky, and I felt stressed. There are so many things to complain about during the days and weeks before Christmas, and everyone does complain, and, amazingly, we still find it fresh and new to read about how ironic it is that during this season of giving and goodwill and peace on earth, we are really at our worst.

Remember Christmas in 1983 when Coleco couldn't make enough ugly-faced Cabbage Patch Kid dolls and stupid parents loved their children so much that they would drive 95 mph all night long across multiple state lines to join a mob outside a toy store for a chance to riot in the aisles come 5:00am and bodyslam the nearest store employee/parent/grandmother-with-a-cane who dared get in the way of creating the anticipated and priceless moment under the tree when the hideous yet coveted toy would be presented to a half-interested Veruca Salt?

Ah, those were the days.

Not much has changed, but bedlam in the local Best Buy on Black Friday is not my topic today. My topic today is the Cabaret.

The Cabaret is a 24-hour strip club located along a major route just outside of Boston. And I drove by it today around 5:30pm. And the parking lot was full. Not just full—I mean FULL. There wasn't a single empty parking spot available.

What is the meaning of this, you might ask? Well, I asked myself the same thing as I passed by. My first thought was probably the same as yours: how gross, or how sad, or how pathetic must those men be.

But then I considered how many people were jamming up the roads and the on-ramps and off-ramps to the malls and how they represented the unabashed consumerism of the season. And how many people are hitting the stores at the very last minute to buy gifts, proving that the thought behind the gift counts much less than whether it's 4G or HD compatible.

Let me offer a new perspective on those contributing to the college funds of the dancers at the Cabaret. These guys are relaxing because they have either (1) finished all their shopping early, proving that they are thoughtful and deliberate gift-givers who do not procrastinate, or (2) have shunned the materialism of the holiday, proving that something much deeper and substantial than Christmas consumerism moves them (so to speak).

Perhaps we can all take a lesson from these guys. Maybe it's time to turn away from the stripmall and turn toward the stripclub to find the reason for the season. After all, there's a lot of giving going on in the Cabaret tonight, and isn't that what this time of year is all about?

Teaching Without Tazers: "More Than" vs. "Over"

2010-12-20T22:55:00.007-05:00

Don't you hate bloggers who refer to their blogs all the time? It's really just the semi-grown-up, online version of what teenagers do. I am constantly trying to beat it out of my students--you know, this urge to continually write about their writing. I call it writing self-consciously, and I ban it in my classroom. Force of [bad] habit makes teenagers spend a lot of time writing things like this:

In this essay I am going to tell you....
As you can see from what I wrote in the previous paragraphs....
In conclusion, I think I used good evidence to show....

Dentists, last I heard, still hold the dubious honor of being the profession with the highest suicide rate; I contend that English teachers who actually read and grade student essays must be catching up. I can't see how we're not at least giving dentists a good run for that record.

The reason I bring this up is that I am about to do something that I find incomprehensibly annoying when I see it on other blogs. I am going to blog about my blog. But only for a moment, and only as a starting point for a brief yet important lesson on one of my Wild Peeves. Stick with me here; this will be pretty painless (unlike your last visit to Dr. Yankatooth). So here we go with the annoying self-conscious self-promotion:

Earlier today the Happy Dog blog hit the 1,000 page views mark!

So what? Well, besides the fact that I'm pretty stoked to get this kind of traffic after only 39 days, it also gives me an opportunity to school you in one teeny, tiny misusage that gets under my skin.

Imagine I tell you that I reached 1,000 page views.

If you liked me, you would probably say something like, “Over 1,000 page views? That's awesome.”

And if I liked you, I would probably reply something like, “Thanks. Yeah, I'm pretty stoked.”

And if I didn't like you, I would have to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “No, I don't have OVER 1,000 page views. I have MORE THAN 1,000 page views.”

It's a small, small thing, I know. And perhaps I am a small, small person for even caring about this. And I am not even going to look up what the current stance is on this by famous or wanna-be-famous grammarians. Because I don't CARE what they say. Lots of things become proper usage through incessant misusage, and I am digging in my heels against it. Therefore, on the whole OVER vs. MORE THAN issue, let me break it down for you.

In what I consider to be its purest usage, OVER should function primarily as a preposition in a prepositional phrase that shows the relationship between two things.

The horseshoe hung over the door.
(shows current relationship of horseshoe to door)
She spread the chocolate frosting over the cake.
(shows current relationship of frosting to cake)
Your mother is coming to visit over my dead body.
(shows future relationship of marriage)

Yes, you can use OVER as an adverb instead of a preposition, as in,
The smell of your cologne makes me want to keel over.
But even then, OVER is being used basically to show physical positioning and direction. Which way will I keel? Over.

When we are talking numbers, quantities, amounts, monies, I much prefer MORE THAN. That's what MORE is for: to say that there exists a greater number, quantity or amount of something. The following sentences include both OVER and MORE THAN and may be illustrative in showing how and why each serves a specific purpose:

* When Sue discovered Brian had more than one girlfriend, she beat him over the head with a frying pan.
* The thief jumped over the wall and was greeted by more than one pit bull.
* There are more than a few ways to skin a cat, but only one way to serve it: over rice.

Is all this an almost gross oversimplification? Yes, of course it is. But just like your middle school English teacher gave you only the bare bones of grammar until you shook off your teenage angst and acne, I, too, am sensitive to the demands on your time and attention. Suffice it to say that your formal writing and speaking will benefit from using MORE THAN when referring to quantities rather than using OVER, which is informal, conversational, and frankly, a bit lazy when used in those same situations.

Oh, and about the cat thing...I was just kidding, so save your hate mail. It's better over couscous.

Don't Taze Me, Bro...Teach Me!

2010-12-19T17:59:00.002-05:00

Hypercorrection makes me hypercrazy. It seems to have reached the point where if one does NOT hypercorrect it sounds wrong. And I don't know who to blame, but I know there is plenty of blame to go around. And plenty of offenders. I have considered packing heat in the form of a tazer for the express purpose of shooting at and paralyzing all those who abuse the language at the wrong time (i.e., when I overhear it and am already in the throes of a serious chocolate withdrawl), but the cons of that plan so clearly outweigh the pros, I won't even insult your intelligence by enumerating them.

Instead, the kinder, gentler side of me—the side that lets my dog lick me on the mouth—has won out. For now at least. I have decided that instead of simply ranting and criticizing and generally freaking out over something that obviously no one cares about but me, I will instead try a more productive approach.

The new approach, unfortunately, does not involve a tazer. As much as I would love to condition the populace at large through the tried-and-true method of electroshock therapy (whose effectiveness I am convinced has been not just underrated but perhaps completely squashed as a result of elaborate conspiracies, the likes of which could only be orchestrated by the ACLU, the Tea Party, or the largely underground My-Kid-Is-Not-A-Menace-Just-Because-He-Tortures-Your-Cat-And-Keeps-Starting-Fires-In-Our-Livingroom-Society), it's not the most feasible solution. It would be fun, of course, to run around tazing grammar felons, but it's more likely to land me in court than to start a solid grassroots movement toward better speaking.

Hypercorrection is not the only problem that needs to be addressed, as you well know. The bad news is that there are far more than 31 flavors of screwing up the English language, most of which you can hear in a single walk through the mall or even after spending five minutes reading almost any blog; the correlative good news is that widespread ignorance, laziness, and the tendency for most of us to have long ago blocked out everything related to middle school English classes should provide me oodles of fodder for future posts.

Oh...I almost forgot. My new approach? Teaching. Not tazing.

Yep, I am going to provide a free and needed service. Right here on the Happy Dog blog. Feel free to leave comments here or on the Wild Peeves page to lobby for a lesson. And check back often for easy-to-understand instruction that will hardly insult you at all. Or better yet, sign up via email and get lessons right in your mailbox. I know it sounds too good to be true, but I'm good like that.

Everyone's a Critic

2010-12-16T19:11:00.007-05:00

A few years ago I mentioned to my mom that I had this fantasy where I would sit down with a big canvas and a palette of paint and discover that I have been harboring a latent talent for creating huge, beautiful pieces of art that would grace at least the walls of my own home, inspiring guests to widen their eyes and ask where I got such a great piece and then try to contain their surprise and envy when I tell them the truth that would make them so jealous they could hardly breathe, but would finally breathe, but only to say, “Wow,” because I would be so nonchalant when I would say with a slight dismissive wave of the hand, “Oh, I painted that.”

That was the fantasy.

That Christmas, my mom sent me a bunch of painting supplies, and I sat down and, well, I guess I would have to say I painted. Technically, that's what I did. Squeezed paint onto plastic plates, mixed colors, used brushes to transfer colors onto canvas. The first piece was this curvy, abstracty design, and I kind of liked it. So I tried a companion piece, but gave up halfway through because the design was awkward and the colors reminded me of throw-up. Next I tried a flowerish picture that ended up awfully pink and girly and like something a seventh-grader would make. Only worse.

So if I'm honest, I'm not good. My husband at the time claimed to like two of them, and even though I knew he was probably just being nice, I secretly hoped his liking them meant there could be some modicum of talent there. Somewhere.

I'm not a poet. I'm not even sure I'm a writer. But I know that I'm better with words than I am with paints. And it's not like I'm completely ignorant; I am a teacher of English, after all. So I know about form and meter and sound devices and imagery—I don't even have to look up alliteration or iambic pentameter or enjambment or slant rhyme; I actually know what these are. Impressive, right?

So, when the mood hit me a couple of weeks ago, I wrote a poem. And then I wrote another one. And then I revised them. And I kind of liked them. Actually, I kind of liked them in a different way than I kind of liked the first painting I did. I felt that I had written something that, well, said something. And I was deliberate in my diction. And I was precise about stanza length and line breaks. And I paid careful attention to assonance and consonance and the connotations of the words I chose.

And a couple of people claimed to like the poems, and even though I knew they were probably just being nice, I secretly hoped that meant there could be some modicum of talent there. Somewhere.

So I posted them to a poetry workshop website. There were five levels to choose from, where the lowest level was for the very amateurish poetry and the highest was for big boy stuff ready to be published in big boy books. I read some of the poems at each level, and the reviews and criticism, and all the tips and advice for newcomers.

Level One was home to poems you find on websites where anyone can post anything. You know, the kind of crap fifteen-year-olds rattle off in their notebooks during math class about the adolescent angst they cannot name and the depths of which others can never hope to comprehend:

When you came into my life
You ended all my hurt and strife
I knew the day I met you
You would always be my Boo....

After reading enough of these to kill off as many brain cells as one loses drinking a box of wine, I made what I thought was a well-informed and justifiable decision: I submitted my poetry to Level Two.

Imagine my surprise when, approximately 30 seconds (that's 30 seconds, not minutes) later, I received an email with a canned message saying, “Hey, moron. You think you're an intermediate poet? Wrong. You were supposed to post in Level One. Get a grip, Shakespeare. You suck WAY more than you think you do. I, Mr. Moderator, was able to determine with a mere glance at your verse that you have absolutely no idea what you are doing, and furthermore, that you have a highly inflated sense of self. Did your mommy and daddy tell you to dream big and that you can be anything you want to be? An astronaut? A doctor? Even the president? Well, they lied. Because I know Level Two poets, and you, sir, are no Level Two poet.”

That's a paraphrase, of course, but accurate in terms of message and sentiment. It's been a week now, and no one has bothered to critique my poetry. I guess it's just not landing over there. So I'm working on something new, something more relevant and modern, something that will elicit the kind of high-level critique that I hope will catapult me to Level One superstardom and put me on the path to Level Two where the real poets live. I've just gotten started, but I think the beginning is strong:

When you harshed on my art
You really broke my heart
It meant a lot to me
But you said it just can't be
I didn't think I was Level One
And it sucked when you made fun
From your bullets I want to duck too
But really I just want to say....

This is all I have so far, but when I'm done, I think they're really gonna love it.

Small Sacrifices

2010-12-14T20:08:00.004-05:00

He didn't really want to go to the party, but he had agreed weeks ago, gambling on the possibility of a tornado or earthquake or a run-in with poison ivy to save him by the time the night finally rolled around. Anyway, was it fair for her to ask him for things when she was wearing that see-through nightie and standing in the doorway with the light on behind her? She knows I'll say yes to anything when she's wearing lingerie, he thought. In fact, that's how they ended up buying a pink couch instead of the black leather one he wanted. It's why they got a lhasa apso instead of a labrador retriever. It's even why they bought the little colonial three blocks away from her mother instead of the cape two towns over where his commute to work would be five minutes on foot instead of thirty-five minutes in traffic.

Oh well, he mused. Marriage is about give and take. And he could suffer through one party with her friends. He'd certainly dragged her to enough boring work events. And she'd always dressed perfectly, smelled great, impressed his bosses and flattered their wives. She even claimed to enjoy herself, which he knew to be a lie, but a lie that he appreciated and that made him feel like less of a vampire who sucked her will to live through countless evenings spent drinking weak cocktails, listening to stories about people she didn't know, politely deflecting the barely veiled sexual innuendos of the philandering vice-president of marketing, and tolerating random colleagues even he could hardly stand.

She's a good wife, he thought. And she had said there would be beer and food at the party. Bonus. And she had promised to wear that little silky red number to bed after they got home. Double bonus.

As they turned the corner onto the cul-de-sac, he saw a few other couples parking and getting out of cars and walking up to the house. They looked relatively normal. And even if they turned out not to be, he figured he would just keep his mouth full of whatever appetizers they served, and maybe even feign a hearing loss. Oh, that's too bad, they would say, as he would apologize and twist his head awkwardly in whatever direction would make him look as uncomfortable as possible. Left ear, right ear—the bad ear would always be the one furthest from the annoying conversationalist. How did it happen, they would ask with equal parts timidity and eagerness. I don't like to talk about it, he would say, but basically it was a bar fight. Sky diving accident. Birth defect. War injury. The result of sticking hot pokers in my ears and piercing my own eardrums the last time my wife dragged me to a stupid party. Did it matter? As long as he said it with a pained look of embarrassment, any story should deter even the most curious and chatty of guests. And if it didn't work on that one lonely, clueless, socially unaware single woman who seems to haunt every party, he would pull a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and shove it in his ear right then and there in front of her and God and everyone. In fact, maybe he should do it now before he even went in. A preemptive strike against banal smalltalk.

He pulled the car up against the curb and turned off the engine. He got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door to help his wife out of the car. She took his hand, and as she stood up, her fragrance followed her and filled his nose with vanilla and honey and that little smell of spice that he never could identify as anything other than just the smell of her. After all these years, she still made it for him. She turned to grab her purse from the car seat, and as he sneaked a peak at her rear end, he decided that she rocked a pair of tight jeans just as well now as she did back when they were first dating. She turned back around to face him, brushed something invisible off the front of his shirt, then reached her hands around his waist and pulled herself into him. Thank you for coming with me tonight, she whispered into his right ear. She pulled away just enough to brush his lips with hers on the way to his left ear where she whispered, I'll be the luckiest girl at the party.

On the way up to the house, he still shivered a little with the thought of her voice low and soft in his ears. He kept one hand gently against the small of her back, and with the other hand he reached into his pocket, grabbed the ballpoint pen, and tossed it into the street.

Come Back, Comma, Come Back

2010-12-13T21:58:00.004-05:00

Maybe it's because the sky is a little gray today and the clouds are loitering low in the sky, too lazy to move on or to rain, but I'm feeling a bit melancholy. I tried to figure out where the empty feeling was coming from. Holidays are approaching, family is far away, my African violet is looking sickly. All kind of sad, but none responsible for that little ache inside. You know what's really bothering me? I miss the comma.

Specifically, I miss the comma that used to escort the word too into and out of a sentence, and when needed in the middle of a sentence, stand guard on both sides. He's a small thing, the comma, literally. But symbolically, he's one of the Heavy Lifters in written language—tiny but mighty. I'm tired of seeing the little guy pushed around and evicted from situations where he used to reside not only with purpose, but with dignity as well. Too deserves to be flanked on either side by the comma; a small word itself, too also pulls a heavy load, but without the commas can be glossed over, swallowed up, forgotten.

And please: spare me the whole language-is-constantly-evolving diatribe. I know it is. And I can't stop it, but I don't have to like it, and I will duct tape myself to a tree in protest of the bulldozer of linguistic laziness if necessary. In fact, my complaints about the deterioration of the English language are only just beginning, and I've got a whole list of grievances I'll be filing on behalf of the comma alone. I reserve the right to defend the comma and his other punctuation pals on a pro bono basis whenever and wherever the mood strikes. And don't even get me started on the semi-colon or the emdash; those guys have me on retainer already.

Anyway, that's the whole point of having a blog, right? I get to complain about whatever I want, and you, too, can get in on the action. Agree or disagree, at least we're talking about something that matters.

Suck it up, survivor.

2010-12-12T15:26:00.005-05:00

I'm going to keep this short but satisfying and a bit PG-13. Prepare for a Survivorgasm.

Remember Kelly, the nursing student who was so excited about the prospecting of milking her own milk? (See previous post...she's priceless.)

Well, she had another great moment the other day. Wanting to quit because of the hunger, fatigue, and constant bad weather (um, you DID know you were signing up for 40 days in the Nicaraguan rainforest on Survivor and not Rock of Love, right?), Kelly turned to a fellow survivor for support.

Holly, the motherly type, gave her the kind of advice you'd expect: you came out here for a reason, don't be a quitter, and just suck it up. Good advice, especially considering there were only eleven days left. But maybe Kelly was missing home for reasons she didn't want to come right out and say. Her response?

“I've been sucking it up for 28 days. I have nothing left to suck.”

Kelly, Kelly, Kelly. You are blind to the opportunities all around you. The same guys who were surely disappointed they had missed out on a chance to milk your milk are the same guys who would willingly offer you something to suck. That would be one satisfying episode. Survivorgasms for everyone--not just the viewers.

Anyways, it's anyway.

2010-12-11T23:24:00.003-05:00

If you are a true logophile, every day, on average, you
-> cringe 16.23 times
-> do a double-take 2.1 times, and
-> bite your tongue/lip/inside of your cheek or dig your fingernails into your own palm 5.5 times
...all in an effort to keep from correcting a co-worker, friend, family member or complete stranger on the grievous misuse of the English language.

One of the frequent causes of my linguistics-tics is the increasing use of the word “anyways.” It's become so common that one may believe that it is acceptable--and maybe even interchangeable--with “anyway” based on personal preference or regional dialect, a la to-MAY-to versus to-MAH-to.

And this is tough to say (because some of my very best friends are anywaysers), but I really think it's time we put a stop to this. Any is an adjective that is meant to modify a singular noun. Just because we decided to take out the space between the two words and make it an adverb (which, incidentally, still means basically “in any way or manner”) does not mean we need to continue to take unnecessary liberties with the language. From an economical point of view, we conserve type space by pushing the words together, and then screw it up by adding an extra letter. Why? I say stop it now, in any way or manner possible.

I am right about this; really, I am. But anyway, any person who has any thought that there is any problem with any piece of logic just presented should feel free to express any disapproval using any method, including leaving any comment desired below.

After the Afterward

2010-12-10T00:12:00.001-05:00

[What I like about poetry is the economy of words. There's pressure to say more with less--never my strong suit. This is a sort of bookend to the poem “Afterward” from a previous post.]

AFTER THE AFTERWARD

Empty was the cold blue room

It wanted warmth so
she invited it in
and it filled the space
and pushed out the cold
with its comforting oranges
and passionate reds
and she was warmed

Too late she noticed the smoldering

Passion turned fury
painting the walls
a palette of hate
flames ate their way
up the walls of her heart
and her soul turned to ash
and scattered the floor
of the cold black room
emptier now
than before

Canadians at Closing Time

2010-12-09T17:02:00.004-05:00

So, I'm all caught up on last season of "Jersey Shore." For those of you who have not yet discovered the thrill of a Jersey Shorgasm, let's see if I can give you a hint of what you're missing.

Nights in Miami, or Jersey, or wherever, include lots of time out dancing and fist-pumping at the club, lookin' fresh, scoping out guidos and juiceheads, avoiding grenades, and hoping to smush. As closing time at the club approaches, the guys are particularly eager to seal the deal with someone of the opposite sex, and with tequila-goggles on, start the mad dash to find girls who are DTF, or Down To (ahem) Cuddle. In case you're wondering about how to handle this almost nightly last-call crisis, Vinny says you can just go up and ask a girl if she's DTF, but if you have to ask, she probably isn't.

One night, the guys are scrambling, and Paulie D. finds a couple of chicks with fake tans, fake boobs, and fake blonde hair--the perfect trifecta and they seem pretty DTF. So Paulie D. practically runs to his buddy Mike, AKA, "The Situation," excited to tell him about his big score. Not only are the chicks coming back to the hot tub, Paulie D. announces, but they're exotic, too:

"They're from Canadia!"

No one corrects him even though he keeps saying it over and over. Even the girls from Canadia don't seem to notice until they've been in the taxi for quite a while. Maybe they didn't notice. Maybe they were trying to be polite. Maybe--in fact, probably--they were wondering if THEY had been saying it wrong all these years.

And THAT, my friends, is a Jersey Shorgasm. Go have a brownie.

Hurt People Hurt People: A Lesson My Dog Taught Me

2010-12-08T21:33:00.002-05:00

I noticed a funny thing about my dog the other day. He's pretty small, about 19 pounds, smart, neurotic, and a typical Yorkie in every way. He's a lover, not a fighter. He will yank on his leash until he chokes himself silly just to get a little closer to anyone he thinks will pay him some positive attention. Usually he gets it, too, because he's pretty darn cute. And that's not just my opinion; everyone he approaches makes those little ooh and aah noises that are reserved almost exclusively for puppies and babies, so I know he is a likable little guy. I named him Happy, and it's a fitting name, because he seems to give some happiness to every human he meets.

But here's the thing I've noticed. If we are out walking and we pass another dog on a leash--say, a bulldog, for example--and that dog shows the slightest bit of interest in Happy but continues on its way, suddenly Happy shows a different side of himself. He lunges, he barks, he growls, and he doesn't stop. It sounds very aggressive and hostile, and the owner of the other dog usually gives us one of those sideways glances that say why-don't-you-get-your-dog-under-control-before-he-kills-someone.

But like I said, Happy is a lover--NOT a fighter. If you didn't know him, you might not believe it. But I've figured him out. He wants to make contact with that other dog SO BAD. He wants to run over and take turns sniffing butts. He wants to run around in little circles and get chased. He wants to make a new doggie friend. And he thinks he's being rejected. And dogs is dogs, you know? So when I watch the other dog being led away by Ms. Far Superior Owner of a Dog Who Would NEVER Make Such a Scene, I pay special attention to that dog. And nine times out of ten, that dog wants to run and play with Happy, too. He's just not allowed to show it or act on it. And Happy misinterprets it, he feels shunned, and he does what so many animals do--he lashes out in frustration and anger and he scares people. Inside he is whimpering and wanting attention but unsure how to ask for it; on the outside he looks like a rabid, crazy creature, good fer nothin' but a good beatin' and a puttin' down.

I get it. People do the same thing.

In Bra We Trust

2010-12-08T20:17:00.007-05:00

Every once in a great while, I come across a cause that I think really deserves attention. Recycling, dolphins, Frankenfish, back acne...these are covered by people with greater influence and personal interest than I can muster. But I can certainly get passionate about things. And you know what has me spitting nails right now? They discontinued my bra.

At this point, gentleman readers, you may want flip over to ESPN.com or go make yourself a sandwich. This here's Woman Talk.

Ladies, I'm sure we've all been here before. We spend hours in the department store, trying on bra after bra after bra. And because it's no longer the 70s and because we are no longer 19 and perky, we MUST buy SOMETHING. So, we pony up more than we should for a bra that gets the job done--barely. And we live with it. That is our lot in life.

But every so often, the heavens open, the stars align, our horoscope promises that we will find what we are seeking, and on that day, we find The Bra. You know the one. It is exactly the right color, and it feels good against the skin. It gives you lift and separation in a way you thought could only be bought from Dr. 90210. And, miraculously, it fits BOTH girls perfectly, in spite of the fact that they are clearly two completely different sizes.

You buy one in every color, go home, and for days afterward, see your tightest sweaters and skimpiest tank tops in a whole new way. You walk around the office feeling like a Victoria's Secret model, standing taller and straigher and with the confidence that comes from knowing You Are A Woman. Weeks, months go by, and you love your body again. And you wish you had found this sooner. You wish you'd known that all it took to look and feel this good is The Bra.

But then, one day, it happens.

You get up, get showered, get dressed. Huh. Something isn't right with The Bra. The elastic is loose, the girls are droopy, and you realize that it's time to make another trip to the lingerie section of Macy's and buy The Bra again. This will be a quick trip. You know your size, you know the brand, and you have your credit card in the holster. In and out, with time for a latte before you have to pick up the kids.

You march right up to the rack where you first discovered The Bra, but it isn't there. Did they move the racks around? No. Wait, did you find The Bra at Nordstrom? No. You were sure The Bra was made by Bali, but maybe it's by Playtex. Or Wacoal. Or Maidenform? No, no, no.

Oh...NO!

Because it just hit you. The Bra has been discontinued. Some stupid MAN (had to be a man) on the board of directors or in accounting or marketing has decided that The Bra is not bringing in an adequate return-on-investment and will therefore no longer be made. And when you call customer service to find out what they recommend you buy to replace The Bra, they give you three other model numbers, NONE of which is even remotely CLOSE to being The Bra. And you complain. And they don't care.

It's a tragedy, and it happens to women every day all around the world. And frankly, I wouldn't find it so irritating if retailers didn't continue to carry OTHER items for decades on end, often hideous, outrageously ugly and outdated items that have survived far past their fashion usefulness (banana clips for the hair, mom jeans, Christmas sweaters, turtlenecks with little flowers, anything Bedazzled or made of pleather...I could go on and on, but I won't). They don't seem to mind manufacturing and selling the same old unflattering outerwear, so why can't they keep making The Bra?

Ladies, I'm fed up, and I don't want to take it anymore, but I don't know what to do except cry, complain, and finish up the container of Chunky Monkey. What can one do? It's all been done before--PSAs, celebrity statements, sit-ins, rallies, bra burning....hmm. Maybe that's what made the bra makers so flippant about discontinuing designs in spite of who loves them. We burned bras in protest and in public. Obviously we didn't care about them THEN, so maybe they figure we don't care about them NOW.

Why, oh why, didn't we burn denim jumpers and Birkenstocks instead?

Afterward

2010-12-05T23:13:00.008-05:00

[Note: Based on my unscientific research, it appears that all bloggers must write and post bad poetry. Okay then.]

AFTERWARD

Empty is a cold blue room

cry, scream, curse
sob, weep, stomp

then listen
for the echo
forever listen

for the sound turned blue
icy shards of pain
sucked away
into the cold

the room still round
round and cold
cold and deaf
deaf and blue
still empty is the room

of love
of sound
of salve
of balm

no solace
no sound
no calm

only
only

The Empty

* * * * * * * * * * *

Call Me Elaine, If You Must

2010-12-05T18:06:00.005-05:00

Another first date. She checks in the rear view mirror to make sure there's no lipstick on her teeth (none) then looks at the door of the restaurant to see who's there (him). She knows the staff and the menu and the quickest route to the door and can be home in less than ten minutes if this goes south.

They get their water and bread. He's relatively attractive for his age, and even though he is ten years her senior, he's held up okay. He never removes his suit jacket even though it's a lunch date and the sun is beating down on them through the glass. She decides this means he's either hiding sweaty armpits or a soft midsection. She feels a bit bad for him, but also thinks it might be kind of cute.

He's pleasant, courteous, generous. Comes from a pretty rough childhood, but has a positive outlook on life in spite of it, or maybe even because of it. She's impressed that he served his country and retired from the air force and now works for a non-profit. Kids? Nope, but still wants them. Good.

When she presses him about why he never got married if he always wanted to, he admits that he had married when he was twenty, but it had lasted less than a year. He's honest, she thinks. Pretty smart, too. And even though the waitress is slow and forgetful, he makes small talk with her, smiling and genuinely unbothered. Three hours they sit and chat and eat and laugh. The chemistry is so-so, but first dates are funny things, she tells herself.

So when he walks her to her car and asks her if she'd like to go out again, she says yes, and realizes it's because she can't think of a good reason not to. He hugs her, goes in for the kiss. She turns her head and he hits her cheek. They both pretend that's what they meant to do. Everyone retreats with dignity.

She hadn't lied when she had accepted a second date. In fact, it's not until she gets in the car that she realizes that she is NOT going out with him again. And she wonders if God will punish her with eternal singleness and childlessness for her shallow and Seinfeldian reason for rejecting him.

The first time it happened was over bread and dipping oil, and she had hoped it was a fluke. The second time it happened was when the salads had arrived, and she had teased him about it, secretly wishing he would take the hint. When it happened the third time, something inside her had clicked, and it was then that she had known--without even knowing--that he was not the one for her.

As she puts the car into gear and pulls out of her parking spot, she is at peace with her decision. Others could mock her, even criticize her, but she was NOT going out again with a man who says "Delish."

[Attention all Jerrys and Elaines! What's the dumbest reason you've ever turned down a date--or even broken off a relationship? Don't be shy. We're all friends here.]