Have a Nice Guilt Trip (12 page)

Evidently the core is a trouble spot for dogs, too. I’m guessing that sit-ups would improve Little Tony’s core, but he doesn’t even sit.

Maybe he can just cut out the pizza.

Then he could be Littler Tony.

The exercises for his core also include Cookie Stretches, in which the dog stretches forward to reach a cookie.

I can do those.

I also do Chocolate Cake Stretches.

I’m so fit!

You can imagine how well our first at-home exercise session goes, with Push-Ups. In case you were wondering, a doggie push-up is accomplished thusly: “Ask pet to go from the lying position into a sit position and back to the lying position. Ask for 4–6 reps, 2–3x a day, 3–5 days a week.”

I asked Little Tony, but he didn’t answer.

Then I figured the way to get him to do his first push-up was to bribe him with treats, but all he did was lunge for the treats for five reps.

Pushing up or down was not involved. Only whimpering and whining, which does nothing to strengthen your core.

I should know.

So we moved on to Side Crunches, which are allegedly accomplished like this: “Put a treat on pet’s shoulder, hip, and hock, to allow stretching in the neck and back.”

First problem, I don’t know what a hock is, but no worries, I got my hands full with hips and shoulders. I put the treat on Little Tony’s back, but it slides off, whereupon he whips around and gobbles it off the floor.

The only thing that crunches are the treats.

Then I try to hold it on his back, but he keeps moving, turning around in a circle so he doesn’t have to do the crunch.

Who can blame him? Not me.

We try the Wheel Barrow, in which I’m supposed to “lift pet’s legs and ask pet to move forwards, backwards, and sideways in this position.”

I pick up Little Tony’s back legs and wheel-barrow him around the kitchen, whereupon he moves forwards, backwards, and sideways—all at the same time.

Until he gets free and runs away.

For five reps.

You get the idea. We struggle through Weight Shifting, Snoopies, and Stair-Lovin’, which is when we learn that Little Tony doesn’t love stairs.

Little Tony does his exercises.

Who does?

Five exercises later, I gain a new respect for Little Tony’s native intelligence, and I am puffing and panting.

So one of us got plenty of exercise.

Gifts for Him

By Francesca

It’s my first Christmas with my boyfriend, and choosing a gift for him is impossible. We’ve all heard the lament, what do you get the man who has everything? Well, my boyfriend is the man who needs everything.

He’s a musician and travels frequently. He’d be happy with his guitar and whatever clothes fit in a backpack. He doesn’t think much of material possessions.

Doesn’t he know the true meaning of Christmas?

I’ve heard him say he needs basics, like T-shirts, but if I get him a pack of Hanes, I’ll feel like his mom.

And while a man can give a woman lingerie, I can’t bring myself to present my boyfriend with “manties.”

I could splurge and get him some designer shirt, but that’s not his thing. He’s stylish, but not flashy. I actually like how he dresses. I don’t want to change him.

Don’t I know the true meaning of a relationship?

My girlfriends are easy to shop for because I can get them accessories—costume jewelry, a clutch purse, a hair straightener, the latest wonder mascara. We girls love
accoutrements.

My boyfriend doesn’t even wear a watch, and he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing man-jewelry.

Sorry, Mother Mary, he’s not Italian.

A friend suggested I get him nice shaving cream, but my boyfriend doesn’t shave. His scruff ranges from grizzled to Gorton’s Fisherman.

Overpriced bath and body products are a nice girlfriendy gift, but I think they’d be lost on my boyfriend. He’s more of a Shampoo
+
Conditioner in One type. One time he was showering at my place and called out, “Is it okay if I use this Kiehl’s shampoo? I don’t want to use your nice stuff.”

Except that the Kiehl’s is dog shampoo. Pip comes before everyone. I buy my shampoo at CVS.

I tried looking online for inspiration, but that was a bust. I used to envy the “Gifts for Him” tab on websites when I had no Him. But now that I do, it turns out those gift lists don’t suit Him at all—my boyfriend, I mean.

They probably don’t suit Him either, but that’s only because He
is
the true meaning of Christmas.

For example, Brookstone recommends wireless TV headphones with a picture of a woman asleep on her man’s chest while he looks past her and watches television.

This holiday season, tell your loved one, “I know we’re over each other, just keep the volume down.”

The Sharper Image suggests an electric nose-and ear-hair trimmer.

I don’t think we’re “there” yet.

A site called
ThinkGeek.com
, which advertises gifts for “Smart Masses,” features a hammer with a bottle opener on the back—because drinking while wielding heavy tools is a really “smart” idea.

The stakes are higher when choosing a gift for a significant other than for a friend. A gift for a friend needs only to say: I thought you might like this. A gift for a boyfriend needs to say: I
get
you.

And if I get you the wrong gift, I don’t get you.

In my case, my boyfriend is so nice, if I got him something he didn’t like, he’d probably pretend to like it, which is even worse.

No faking.

We’ve been together long enough that we’re comfortable, but not so long that we’re done trying to impress each other. I still get dolled up to see him.

He has about another six months on that.

So I just want to give him a gift that is fun and cool, maybe a little sexy, but something useful, with a clever twist. I want to give him something that he wants now and that he’ll cherish for a long time.

Wait, are we still talking about gifts?

Mother Mary and the 600 Thread Count

By Lisa

Mother Mary and bed linens have a long and storied history.

A few years ago, she refused to use the sheets that Brother Frank bought her, because there were bats printed on the fitted sheet and a life-size Batman on the flat sheet.

Mother Mary couldn’t picture Batman lying on top of her.

Neither can I.

Visualize amongst yourselves.

Frank had gotten the sheets because they were on sale, which gives you an idea of how the Flying Scottolines roll. If there’s a sale, we’re buying. Even if it’s in the kid’s department and Mother Mary has aged out, at eighty-eight.

So I should have expected trouble when for Christmas, Mother Mary asked for new sheets. But I didn’t see it coming, and neither will you.

“No problem,” said I. “What color do you want?”

(By the way, what a sport I am, huh? Why spring for jewelry when your mother wants sheets? Nothing says love like percale.

After all, it’s not like you only get one mother.

Oh, wait.)

But Mother Mary answered, “I want sheets, but I want to buy them myself. Just send me a check, and I’ll go to Anna’s.”

“What’s Anna’s?”

“The store on the corner.”

I shouldn’t have asked. Mother Mary loves stores-on-the-corner. She grew up in South Philly, going to the corner grocery, bakery, and butcher. There are precious few stores-on-the-corner these days, but Mom always finds the mom-and-pop stores.

So I send the check and call her a week later. “Ma, did you get your sheets?”

“No, Frank did, and I hate them. They’re too big.”

“What size are they?”

“600 count.”

“Mom, the count of the sheets isn’t the size. It’s the quality of the cotton.”

“These aren’t cotton. They’re polyester.”

Now I’m really confused. “600 count polyester? That can’t be right.”

“I agree, they’re not right. I hate them.”

I cut to the chase. “I have an idea. How about I send you a new set of sheets. You have a queen-size bed. What color do you want?”

“White. Cotton. I don’t care about the count. I can count.”

Gotcha.

“Also, they can’t have bugs.”

I blink. “Got it, no bugs. Good thing you mentioned that, because I was going to buy sheets with bugs. But now, no way.”

“Don’t make fun. Your sheets at your house had a bug and that’s why my ass itches.”

“What?” I ask, thrown for a loop by the non sequitors. You have to roll with the punches when you talk to Mother Mary. Sentences come out of nowhere, like a conversational video game.

“I got a bite on my ass from your sheets.”

It makes no sense. The last time she was at my house was during the summer. “Your butt still can’t itch from six months ago.”

All she says is, “What can I tell you? It was a helluva bug.”

So I hang up, go online, find a set of nice cotton sheets, and send them down to Miami, then call a week later. “Ma, how do you like the sheets?”

“I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“They’re not white. I said white.”

I cringe. Actually she’s right. They were cream, not white, but the ones I liked the most were cream, and I didn’t think it would make a difference. “Does it really matter, Ma?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“On white, I can see the bugs better.”

Of course.

And for her birthday, she’s getting jewelry.

The Season of Giving

By Lisa

The good news is that somebody’s having fun during the holidays.

The bad news is that it’s not exactly under the tree.

It’s in the brothels.

Love is all around.

Or to be accurate, in Nevada, where prostitution is legal.

I say this because I just read a newspaper story that the owner of the Mustang Ranch, a brothel near Reno, has been elected to his County Board of Commissioners.

I have no problem with this. I think he’s perfectly qualified to be a politician.

I hope he runs for national office. We need more brothel owners in Congress. At least they’d know how to run the House.

By way of background, you might be interested to know who sold the Mustang Ranch to its current owner.

The federal government.

The government had seized it from its former owner because he didn’t pay his taxes. Because our government is perfectly fine not only with taxing the income from brothels, but buying and selling brothels.

Uncle Sam be a pimp.

In any event, I’m relieved that, despite the recession, people are still able to buy the necessities.

Evidently, not everybody is tightening his belt.

On the contrary.

And this could be good news for the real-estate market, too. It may be tough to sell a three-bedroom, but if you have a twenty-seven bedroom, you’re in luck.

They used to say that the kitchen and the bathrooms sold the house. They were wrong.

In the newspaper story, there was a photo of the Mustang Ranch, and a fair number of the bedrooms had silver poles. I’m guessing this was for fire emergencies.

By the way, there are no mustangs at the Mustang Ranch.

No self-respecting mustang would be caught dead at the Mustang Ranch. A mustang can get a date without cash.

You know why?

Have you ever
seen
a mustang?

To be honest, I haven’t either, but I have a pony and an imagination.

Enough said.

Truth to tell, it’s probably just marketing to call it the Mustang Ranch. Because there’s no sizzle to Middle-Manager Ranch.

In fact, I bet it’s not even a real ranch. You shouldn’t be able to call it a ranch if the only things that get tied up are the people.

Cattle everywhere should protest.

It’s false advertising.

The reason the brothel owner was elected commissioner was because business is booming at the Mustang Ranch, and he has become an economic force in the county.

Wow. I’m proud that America has some growth industries.

I was also happy to learn from the article that there’s a Nevada Brothel Owners Association. I’m just wondering where they go for their convention.

The library?

And believe it or not, the Association has a lobbyist, because in our system of government, even the pimps need pimps.

Interestingly, this news story came on the heels of the election, in which a bunch of states legalized marijuana for medical use.

Another step in the right direction.

Who says we can’t do anything about health care?

And so many people suffer from joint problems. Now they can fix it with joints.

Why see a doctor when you can see Dr. Feelgood?

Plus health care is so expensive. Why see your money go up in smoke when you can just smoke up?

Plus, it’s the holidays, when everyone is supposed to have fun, relax, and eat too much.

Tailor-made for the ganja.

I have no problem with this, either. After all, I drink margaritas for medicinal purposes.

What ails me? After a drink or two, I forget.

I’m cured.