Can I Keep It?

Hippy New Beers!

Here's hoping y'all have a safe and Happy New Year!  And that you don't do anything toooo terribly embarrassing tonight whilst you're out celebrating.  Here at the Hudarosa, we play it quiet on "amateur nights" and stay in.  I've been the passenger in wayyyy too many car accidents to try my luck on New Year's or St. Patrick's day and the like.

We'll all be making resolutions this evening.  Carmen wants to eat more.  Zali shares this one.  Zoe wants to roll in poo more.  Zali calls this one also.  Simone wants to meet new people.  Yeah, right.  Zali thinks this one is a no brainer.  And Zali wants to have his own kingdom and a harem of Papillons to cater to his every whim this year.  I think this one is a "not gonna' happen".

Hud and I have a lengthy list of resolutions that all involve "less":  less spending, less waistbands, less junk in our house, less...  Well, you get the picture.  

There is one thing that I covet more than anything else on the planet and that is a Christmas gift my nephew received this year.  It is a screaming monkey slingshot.  You put your fingers in his hand pockets, pull back and let him rip!  He goes flying though the air, screaming loud monkey calls. 

http://www.officeplayground.com/flyingmonkey.html 

I KNOW. I resolve to own one if it kills me.  It will be excellent for annoying the children.  Or Hud, whichever is more interesting.  Because the only thing I resolve to have MORE of this year is FUN!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, INTERNET!

*The name of the painting is, "Your Hare's A Mess"*

Lady, You Are No Zali Lama

A grand outing for the Andrews family today to return a fish platter to our dear friend, running buddy and hair color magician, Ellen.  As a sweet gesture of friendship, she had brought by one of her world famous smoked salmons to assist in Hud's recovery from hernia surgery.  The rest of us were enchanted. I feel sure that I may have let Hud have a little, but as Iwas intoxicated by the spicy smoky fish, I perhaps forgot.  Tee Hee.

  

No, really.  I let him have a taste before I forked him.  I didn't mean to.  My utensil slipped.  Promise.  He was on pain meds anyway.  It's not like he felt it or anything.

It had been many months since Ellen had seen Simone.  Zali is a regular guest at Juve Salon.  He is polite, lovely company and is so quiet that most people don't see him at first glance, snuggled up in his backpack chewing a woobie.  When they acknowledge him, he waggles his tail and offers to kiss them.  He is thebest traveling companion in all the land.

Simone?  Not so much.

This is what Simone thought of going for a visit:

"WhyWouldIWantToDoThat?  WillPeopleBeTouchingME?  Can'tWeStayHomeAndEatSomeMoreOfThatTastyFish?  PLEEEAAAASSSEEEE?  PrettyPlease?  I'llBeYourBestFriend!  I'llGiveYouAQuarter!"

We took her anyway.  Oy.

She didn't make it out of the Mustang five seconds before she ran to the end of her leash screaming, "GLABBLEGLABBLEGLABBLE!"

And then she reached the end of it and acrobatically twisted into the air.  She's very well trained, our Simone.  It took me weeks to perfect that trick.

She quieted down inside, but that's when the uncontrollable shaking began.  Everyone trying to pet her because she is so darned beautiful did not assuage her.  She kept looking at me with eyes filled with fear and betrayal.  We soldiered on and finally, she calmed down enough to allow the adoration to commence.   But only FOR A MINUTE.

And THAT is why Simone stays home whilst Zali tours the country in a custom caravan.

We left before she peed herself.  It's a holiday miracle.

Mademoiselle, you are no Zali Lama. 

You Just Gotta' Have Faith

Meet Faith.

He's just strolling back to the room after another guest appearance on some fabulous show like Oprah.  Some people will do anything to get attention.

Faith was born with terribly deformed front legs that needed to be removed.  Her owner is a genius with a heart of platinum.  She spent a lot of time and effort to teach Faith to walk on his own accord.  At first he hopped and now?  Walks like a human.  You don't often have the need of such words as this in our world, but THIS IS AMAZING. 

He and his friend travel around the country speaking to people about overcoming disabilities and making the most of what you're given.  It's a remarkable testament to what a lot of love, devotion and patience can produce.  She named him "Faith" because she had faith in him.

All I can say is that it's a good thing this was not Zali's cross to bear.  For the first two years of his life, his feet never touched the ground, resulting in the diet we are forcing him to undergo.  There is much ado about the nothing we are giving him to eat, repleat with tantrums and whining, but I love him.  I want him to have a full, healthy life. 

He may not ever be able to walk on two legs, but I would like him to learn to walk on all four.  His OWN FOUR.

Amazing, just amazing.

Random Acts of Photography

Just chillin' today.  Ha' bout You?

She's REALLY Sorry Deep In Her Tiny Heart...

My apologies to those of you in the Midtown area who did not receive their presents on Christmas Day.  Blame it on the dog(s).  No, they didn't eat St. Nick!  Although Zoe probably thought about it...

You see, when Santa made his descent down the chimney of our home, Zoe was so excited by his arrival (yes, and that of the UPS guy and the mailman and whoever else mistakenly treads upon our doorstep...) that she head butted him in the groin. As she does upon greeting anyone, including either of us if we get out of bed or a chair. The pain of the sneak attack made him pass out.  Zali ate all of the cookies we had plated for him.  Simone woke him by gently licking his nose and dancing about on his glasses.  Carmen thought he was an intruder and border collied him into submission as he woke, refusing to let him move a muscle.  By the time I found him, he was bruised, confused and misconstrued.   

So if he were late or missed your home on the twenty-fifth, I am deeply sorry.  Zoe is very sorry.  And I agree that she is.

If it makes you feel any better, Zoe got coal in her stocking.  She ate it anyway.  She said it tasted like chicken.   Not to be acting as the Great Mistress of the Obvious, but Zoe is a lab.  You cannot embarass her or give her something she cannot consume.

To make matters worse, my friend, Evelyn, wrote and asked if I had been to the English countryside as of late.  It seems the gardens of Great Britain have been visited by a purple squirrel. 

http://news.aol.com/article/thats-nuts-purple-squirrel-spotted/284830

I swear I have not been to London since 1997.  Really.  Check my passport.  Someone is impersonating the Furry Godmother. 

There is speculation that the poor guy fell into a Port O' Potty and was dyed by the chemicals they use to keep the pots so fresh and clean.  Yuck.

I bet he was chased into it by some lab on a crotch crunching binge.

*Hope your Christmas was all merry and bright and everything.  The Hudarosa's sure was.*

I Need A Little Christmas, Right This Very Minute!

Ahhhh, that's right!  That's why I love Zoe.  She has an innocence and gentleness not found in all of the creatures of the universe.  This is Monsieur and Zoe playing tug o' war with a toy parrot they received for Christmas the first year he was adopted.

I have desperately searched for a reason not to bury Zoe in the vegetable garden lately.  Not to off her but in hopes of growing a new dog with better manners. 

Since Hud has been a bit fragile after his hernia operation, he has not been able to take Zoe out and throw the ball for her.  She is quite the athlete, catching the ball mid-air at a thundering pace. He usually repeats the exercise until her sides are heaving and drool strings out of her lips and nearly touches the ground.  There is, in fact, so much saliva that he wears a glove to play the game.

I am reminded of the terrible animal she was before Hud discovered that a few moments of catch soothed the savage beast.  In her youth, she cracked golf balls in half, consumed the gear shift off my old Toyota Camry, ripped the dash board off of same Camry, destroyed a love seat and various other demonic offenses, including, but not limited to, certain peoples' crotches.  In addition, Zoe was the most stubborn dog I have ever potty trained.

Minus the ball, she has reverted to her puppy hood.

In the past week we have returned home to find packages torn open and strewn about the house, headless toys,  empty boxes of crackers nibbled into bits and my personal favorite, giant mountains of doody in the living room. Argh. In her defense, the Pappies have taught her to go on the puppy pads so it's easier to clean, but do you know how many pounds an eighty-five pound dog poops?  I feel like I need to rent a backhoe to remove the mess.  Really, I've taken to beeping when I back up while carrying it to the trash outdoors.

So on this Christmas Eve, it is my fervent plea for Hud's speedy recovery.  Or some Valium to calm Zoe until he does.  Or for me, which ever works out best.

Deer Santa,

Please save mon Zoe.  She stinks real good.

Love and keeses,

Ze Zali Lama

PeeEss:  I like ze cookeese, too.

 

 

Oh, Christmas Tree, Or Christmas Hat!

Hud finally felt like getting out and about today, so I took him to the Barbecue Shop for a snack.  Rob, the greatest waiter on the planet, saw to our every desire.  No, he did not get me a pony small enough to keep in my pocket, but I'm not sure any one is capable of pulling off that stunt.  He's still the best.

After, we went to the mall because Hud need to buy a last minute gift for Moi and OF COURSE we had to do THAT.  I got lost in the book store and as I rode the escalator up to meet with Hud, my eyes fixated on the very present I knew I could not live without.  That's right boys and girls, teeny dwarf African spotted FROGS!  I was mesmerized.   

Hud, giant intellect that he is, snapped up a pair so that he would not have to hear the endless stories of their cuteness and the accompanying sighs of wistful desire.  Now he will just have to marvel at their every move as they flip around on their island paradise under the shade of some lucky bamboo.   "Look, Honey!  They're swimming!  Isn't that adorable?  Who's mommy's favorite little tadpole, huh?"

Their working titles are Bacon and Cocoa.  It sticks in my craw a bit as frog legs were my Grandmother Becky's favorite food.  I despised her and love them.  It seems an ill fitting match, like me and the gig I still own that EW used to hunt for them.  I may have to find  alternative monikers and a yard sale for that frog gig.

I may also need a new name for Carmen -- something like 'Treemen".  Among the many, many, many trees I decorate every year, she has chosen a favorite.

Yes, her head is shoved inside the branches of the tree without any help from me or the Pappies.  I have no idea why.  There's plenty of room on the fainting couch to spread out away from the tree, but every evening, she turns thrice and inserts her head without losing a single ornament.  If you try to move her, she looks at you in utter amazement and then plops her face right back in.  Last night she had dug her front feet into the braches with her head.  It appeared as if she were trying to hold it on in a strong wind.  Occasionally, she'll wake long enough to rub her sleepy eyes on the stiff needles and go right back to snoozing.  It's been that way for about a month now.

I've cautioned her that, to my knowledge, there are no elves inside baking cookies despite the Keebler commercials. 

Or Bourbon Bacon Brownies, for that matter either.  I've looked.

 

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...

...My wishes have been granted!  I must have received a visit from my very own Furry Godmother, because flipping around in cyberspace today, I found a recipe invented for me alone.  Behold!  The BOURBON BACON BROWNIE.  I know!  Could you die?

When I read it to Zali, he passed out.  Carmen licked her lips.  Simone peed herself a little.  Zoe gasped.  And then I did as I realized that she has learned an entire new phrase that did not include the question, "What?".  I've been floating about in a dream all morning.  Just in case you think I have created this vision in my fervid little imagination, here's the link to the recipe:

http://www.slashfood.com/2008/12/22/bacon-bourbon-brownies/

There should be golden angels shooting light beams from their fingertips and the ends of their hair to illuminate your way to the site. 

It's all of my favorite food groups rolled into one delicious treat.  A festival of flavors so divine that Santa Claus himself could not have wrapped up a finer gift and lugged it here on the back of Rudolph. A divine entwining of smoky pork products, cocoa and sweet Kentucky spirits so exceptional that Barrack Obama's inaugural catering should feature it and nothing else. 

I, myself, may never eat anything else ever again, so help me, as God as my witness and Jesus and all nine hundred thousand saints.

No, fair readers, it could not have come from Saint Nick, it must have come from my own Furry Godmother.  Bourbon Bacon Brownies must have been born in a Tudor cottage, on a creek, next to a church, by the old forest woods.  You see, Santa has separate "naughty" and "nice" lists.  The Furry Godmother has "Delightfully Naughty" and "Not Terribly Nice" lists. 

You can't be that good all the time to receive a treat like that.

 

   "Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat, could you please put some pork in my Bourbon chocolate hat?"

Random Acts of Photography

For those of you who noticed that I reported my mother's actual age on the blog, Hud was the person in his weekly reminder who tried to maintain some decorum about the issue.

   

I've never had even a nodding acquaintance with any sort of modesty.  I have to ask Hud how old I am when asked because of my unusual tendency to "round up".  That's right, I usually quote my own age as a year older than I am.

But then, I am a little squirrelly.  I might get it from my mother...

Surprise!

To rejoin our scheduled program, the night of the party!  Jeanene was completely surprised by all of us when she entered the Mexican restaurant.  TA DA!  Mission accomplished.

She didn't even see me at first, my brother, Michael (left, beige polo) had to point me out in the crowd.  Her beau, Larry is on the right of her.  I told her that we all lied so well that she should never trust any of us ever again.

The batch of flame red hair is the back of my nephew, Alex's head.  Here's the front.

Yes, ginger locks run in our family.  For everyone but me.  Mine is, ummm, a design flaw corrected by Ellen, the magician, every six to eight weeks.

Unfortunately for my mother, Jeanene, my cousin, Trent and his lovely wife, Sabrina, brought their soooooo adorable son, Austin, to the party. 

I'm afraid the birthday girl may have been upstaged by Austin.  I asked Sabrina (right) if she wanted to start a cottage industry, renting him out to parties.  He was the hit of the evening and even helped my mother unwrap the gifts.

I insisted on making him a party hat because, darn it! He just wasn't cute enough.

 

Okay.  I was wearing one, too.

  

Who could resist?  They were so shiny. 

Even Hud was not immune to the charms of the boy.

   

It was a beautiful weekend in celebration of my mother's seventy years on this earth. 

Oh, and maybe the two that Austin has been here as well...