Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Two: Ma’am and the cookie shakedown….

So I am in a pickle. Or shall I say WAS in a pickle? I was walking down the street, minding my own P’s and, Q’s when I was approached by a sweet girl(*Lucifer) with an enormous smile. She was in all her glory decked out in her Girl Scout uniform. Her sash had like one million badges on it. I was blinded by all of the colorful accolades sewn onto her sash, announcing, with pomp and circumstance her incredible achievements. and wondered in her short life how in the world she accomplished all those tasks to receive all those badges.
I couldn’t possibly achieve most of those endeavors and I was a good forty-plus years, ahead of her in this game called life. Her sash reminded me of one of the Royals when they are in their full military garb and you know if they were wearing that in the airport security line they would most DEFINITELY set off the alarms(not like the Royals have to go through security like the average bear, but you get my drift.)


I was in awe of this kid’s poise as well. I imagined I was meeting the future star of something. She turned on that megawatt smiled and said: “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?” I smiled back and said: “Sure!” She asked me how many boxes and pointed to her bag slung around her shoulder. I pictured her schlepping the bag almost bigger than her through the streets of DC peddling her wares. I saw four boxes and figured she was at the end of her cookie-selling shift.


I informed her that I was headed into the store but on my way out would buy the remaining boxes. She smiled even larger and sweetly said: “You are the BEST!” Squealing with glee and acting like I just offered to take her to Disney. (Ok kid, easy on the over-acting you got the part!) She adds that they ONLY accept cash. I tell her I will get some from the store. Turning I ask her how much are they a box? She says 5 bucks(WOW! Inflation has hit even the infamous cookies!).


Exiting the store, I see that the kid(*Lucifer) is standing there waiting with her beaming smile. I hand her the twenty and ask her to dump the boxes in my grocery bag. She says: “Oh they won’t fit and you owe me 100 more bucks.” I am sooooo perplexed! “I thought you said they were five a box and you have four so five times four makes twenty!”(Sheesh! These kids nowadays can’t do proper basic math!). The angelic smile turns into a scowl and she says in a less friendly voice: “You said you would take my remaining boxes. I have 20 boxes left on the table, plus the four in my bag, so that is a total of 24 boxes times five dollars a box equals 120.00 dollars, minus the twenty you gave me. So, you owe me 100 bucks more. She says pointing to a table behind her which I NEVER saw when she approached me like a Jehovah’s Witness or some other kind of solicitor.

The table is stacked with boxes and next to it stands one very angry-looking mother glowering at me. I sheepishly smile and attempt to argue my defense to the demon child before me. I state my case of agreeing to buy the remaining cookie boxes in her BAG! Which, were four. She responds rather assertively and loudly: “You LIED to me!” okay, now people are looking, and I am extremely uncomfortable. Mama Bear approaches and says: “Is there a problem here?” (Now I see where *Lucifer has learned her tactics.) I explain to Mama Bear the COMPLETE and UTTER misunderstanding. She looks at me with such contempt and says: “You can’t make promises to children you cannot keep.” (Thanks for that tidbit lady. I do have children!). I attempt to connect with her mother-to-mother and reiterate that it’s a lesson in disappointment for the kid(*Lucifer) to learn. But Mama Bear is having none of it. She insists that I pay up and take my twenty-four boxes of DELICIOUS cookies with me. We are at a cookie standoff.
I feel like I am in a cookie shakedown. I expect the Pillsbury Dough Boy to appear and haul me off to bakery jail.

Twenty minutes later, I am lugging twenty-four boxes of Girl Scout cookies home. Confused Husband calls and asks:” What are we doing tonight?” I share that he needs to get the folding card table from the basement and meet me at the corner because we are selling cookies.

Chapter One Hundred Seventy-One: Ma’am goes to the mattresses…

So, we have needed a new mattress FOREVER! There have been copious conversations on this topic. We plan to move our existing mattress into the guest room and purchase a new one for ourselves.

Confused Husband arrives home from Costco. His usual expression of glee after a visit to one of his favorite places. He hauls in enough toilet paper and toothpaste to last a zombie apocalypse and then some. He has also been on an avocado kick lately. I unpack enough avocados to start an avocado farm. As I do this, he recites everything we can make with the avocados. I feel like I am in that scene from Forrest Gump, and Bubba is reciting to me: “You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, and saute it. There’s shrimp(*avocado) kebabs, shrimp(*avocado) Creole, and shrimp(*avocado) gumbo.” Exasperated from this interaction, I merely nod my head. Just when I think I am released from this Costco hell, he throws me a curve ball.

Darting back outside and bellowing: “I have a surprise!” Now I am afraid! My mind races: Is it an abundant amount of relish or Swiffer pads? Will I have to suffer through a soliloquy of all the wonderful things we can make with relish? Will there be a tutorial on building a fort made entirely out of the 5,789 Swiffer pads he brought home?

On the other side of the front door, I hear grunting and heavy breathing as well as cursing in Turkish. This can’t be good. The front door is flung open. All I see is a giant cumbersome box. I know Confused Husband is behind it as I hear his labored breathing. I hear muffled words but can’t make them out, as the behemoth box is blocking the sound. I see a hand flail up and point towards me. It is as though, we are air traffic controllers directing a jumbo jet in for a landing.

I slowly move away. From the other side, I hear an enormous grunt, and the mystery box is shoved into the hallway. The writing on the outside of the box is all in foreign languages. There are stickers with stick-like figures looking as though they are in various stages of being murdered. I assume these are warning signs. I am hesitant to ask what is in the box. Before I have the opportunity he announces: “We now have to bring this upstairs!” Okay, I give up and ask:” What is it?”

Like Bob Barker and, with great fanfare, he announces: “Our NEW king-sized mattress!” I look at the box and back at him. I am NOT a rocket scientist but, am highly doubtful of this. He misinterprets my silence for AWE! Confused Husband proclaims:” I know right?!” (he knows right what exactly?). Without further ado(any kind of reaction from me) he begins the arduous task of schlepping the mystery box with warning you are about to be murdered stickers up the stairs. He instructs me to walk behind him in case he falls backward (so what? I can break his fall and be crushed by him and the mystery murder box?)

I feel like Sherpas attempting to navigate Mt. Everest albeit without an oxygen tank which, I fear, Confused Husband needs at this point. After much grunting and sweat, the box is FINALLY upstairs and, thankfully, I wasn’t crushed by either party on the way up.

We slide it into our bedroom and with much discord, move our old mattress into the guestroom, and the guestroom mattress gets shoved down the stairs like a luge participant in the Olympics. Confused Husband is attempting to decipher the ominous you are about to murdered or lamed as well as maimed stickers. He looks at me, I look at him. Downstairs Buddy who can’t do stairs, is yapping to be brought up. He heads down to get him, leaving me alone with the box. I walk around it and get a closer look. I am doubtful they have packed and crammed a king mattress into this box.

Buddy comes bouncing into the room and sniffs dubiously at the box. Confused Husband shares his plan with me:” I am going to open the top of the box, and then we will pull it out of the box and VOILA!” (In other words; he has no plans and VOILA! is like yada, yada, yada. ) I am growing tired of this game so relent by nodding my head like that is the BEST plan I ever heard. Beside him, Buddy barks and wags his tail.

With great flourish, he opens the top of the box and says: “Gametime!” We look at each other and attempt to yank whatever is in the box out. The opening is too small for both of us so I move aside and he attempts to shimmy the box contents out. Nothing is happening. I hone in on a sticker that shows the side of the box has a flap and, once opened the stick figures are running out of the way. I point to it and say maybe open the side? He looks at the sticker and agrees. I stand back and call Buddy over to me. He gets the side open and moves out of the way. Nothing occurs. We cautiously get closer to the box. I see a tab sticking out of the rolled item. I point to it and Confused Husband yanks it with such gusto, like he has started up a lawn mower. A hissing sound fills the room, similar to a tire deflating. At first, it’s a whisper then grows increasingly louder. Suddenly there is movement in the box. Buddy barks ferociously at the box as it moves and expands.

We watch in confusion like what is happening here?! Moans and loud noises are coming from the box and I wonder if there is a living thing in there. A loud hiss ensues and the box literally flies across the room. I feel like we are watching a fat superhero strip out of his costume. I hear myself scream and Confused Husband shouts: “Run!!!”Where can I run? It is blocking the exit. I jump into our bathroom and Confused Husband follows. We slam the door and on the other side, it sounds like a plane taking off. I realize Buddy hasn’t made it into the loo with us. I hear him barking and am relieved he has survived this fiasco. There is a boom and then a slight hiss, followed by silence. We attempt to exit the bathroom and realize the bathroom door is pinned in by the mattress.

Confused Husband and I attempt to push through the door. We get about a foot open and look at one another. Between us, there are no viable candidates to squeeze out. We force the door another foot and wiggle through. The behemoth mattress that was really in the box is before us. It is like the box was a clown car, and the mattress is the 100 clowns that had climbed out of the miniature car.

Buddy is peering at us from the closet. Our nightstands are askew across the room unable to remain in their previous places.

We are gobsmacked! There really was an ENORMOUS mattress shoved into the mystery box! I am NOT a rocket scientist and have no clue how they fit that in there! It is one of the great mysteries of the world to me. We lay on the mattress and it’s an island! AMAZING! Outloud I say: “How are we going to find sheets for it?” I look over at Confused Husband and he is Googling on his phone catamaran sails…

Chapter One Hundred Seventy: Ma’am and the hot flashes….

So, for about five years, I have been on menopause pills. They help to minimize my hot flashes and curb my night sweats. In general, they made my life as a menopausal woman easier to handle.
I have thought about this long and hard. If there was a fire, my pills are at the top of my list for saving. If I were stranded on an island, along with a book, my pills would be the top things to take.
Every first of the month, like clockwork, I am at the pharmacy picking up my pills. Kwan, my local pharmacist with a permanent smile on his face; hands them to me like he is Willy Wonka and I am Charlie, being given the golden ticket, and for all intents and purposes, I am.
I stand in line, and ahead of me, some guy is yammering away to Kwan about his ailments and does; he have over-the-counter -solutions, as this guy apparently is anti-big-pharma. He rather loudly declares that they are sucking out our souls and controlling us like we are a bunch of junkies addicted to crack, and they are supplying it. He spins around and points to me as an example. If I am a junkie, for my hot flash pills, then I relent and accept this title wholly and gladly without an ounce of objection.

Finally, he leaves after being convinced by sweet Kwan that the goiter on his neck does not have an over-the-counter fix. As he passes me, I am almost stabbed in the eye by the goiter, which mind you, should have its own zip code.
I sashay over to Kwan and give him the”you know why I am here look.” Usually, I am received, with a beaming smile. Kwan looks off. His eyes dart around and, he whispers:” Umm, your insurance company has decided that your hormone pills aren’t a necessity.”
I am GOBSMACKED! Kwan is playing some cruel joke. I repeat: “Not a necessity?!” He nervously says: “They are no longer covered by your insurance. You can buy them.” I whisper back: “How much?” Looking around like we are involved in some nefarious drug deal. He taps away on the computer in front of him and then with a dramatic sigh as if he is about to turn states evidence he announces:” “Four hundred ninety- eight dollars.” I breathe a sigh of relief.”Oh for a year supply?” I say a tad too cheerful. Kwan stares at me. I notice a small bead of sweat above his upper lip. Looking downcast, he responds: “Um, no, that’s per month.”

My head begins to swim. Like a well-rehearsed play, a massive hot flash is cued. I feel my mouth moving but no words coming out. Pleadingly I look at Kwan, who is looking at me blankly. This is not my Willy Wonka cheerful Kwan who fixes my hot flashes! This is that scary guy who tried to steal Charlie’s Golden ticket. The lady behind me clears her throat as if to say: “Hurry up there are others in line behind you.” Like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, I swivel my sweaty face around to her and glare. She scurries out of line.
“So Kwan, any solutions?” I ask with as much hope(and sweat) as I can muster. He looks crestfallen and shakes his head no. I hear a sob and realize it is from me. I suggest to Kwan that he find a solution because “Mama needs her pills.” I am in a hot flash panic. I am swirling in a manic, menopausal episode, an out-of-body experience. I don’t remember much after that. I hope I wasn’t threatening Kwan but honestly have no recollection of what followed.I am escorted to a plastic chair and a woman is whispering in my ear. I am given a cup of water. The gossip in the line is rampant. I hear whispers of: “She needs her fix.” “Went ballistic on Kwan.” “Demanded her pills like such a Karen!”. I sit there sweaty and defeated. The chair beneath me capturing my sweat like a plastic puddle.


This is what my life has come to. I am a menopausal hot-mess express that is a hormonal pill junkie. Delegated to a plastic chair in the corner of a public venue. I am Hester Prynne. Albeit, my scarlet letter is my sweat. I assume I am being detained until the police get here. I have no recollection of my hot flash escapades. Before I know it, Confused Husband is squatting before me. He stopped by to pick up his prostate pills and of course because he is a man his pills were ready and covered by our insurance. He informs me that Kwan is trying to see if there is a generic form that the insurance will cover. However, states that I may have to find an over-the-counter remedy. I snicker back.”Imagine if you didn’t have access to your prostate pills. Carrying an enlarged boulder in your underwear and unable to pee? ” That shuts him up quickly.I watch Kwan on the phone surrounded by two female pharmaceutical techs. They are young, wide-eyed Bambi’s. I am not sure if they even know what menopause is. They are decades away from it. We are sent home with a list of substitutes that we will have to call our insurance company and find out if they will be covered. I do the walk of shame through the pharmacy. I don’t care. Passing Goiter man on my way out who gives me the”I told you so.” look. I have an urge to karate chop his goiter and see if he will still have that smug look on his face after that.

Back at home with a frozen bag of peas on my neck to help alleviate the flashes. I begin my thesis-like task of contacting our insurance company with the hieroglyphic list of potential substitutions before me. The crazy unpronounceable names of the pills as well, force me to spell each one out. The majority of them are rejected by the suit-wearing penis Czars in charge of my body.
Hours later I find one that they would accept. Albeit, I may soon grow a beard and Quasimodo-type hump on my back from the side effects, I must outweigh the pros and cons. A prescription is ordered and I can pick it up in a day. I am told it will take perhaps two weeks to enter my system and assist in curbing my flashes. Do I have any other choice?

Confused Husband attempts to console me as he senses another menopausal meltdown on the horizon. I inform him that he may wake up one day and next to him is the bearded lady with open canker sores on her lips and oily discharge from who knows which orifice? I read him out loud about the potential side effects. I then lament about how even with paying HUGE amounts for health insurance our health care is equivalent to that of a third-world country. It is a disgrace compared to other countries. I then look at real estate in Canada and in the UK and he laughs until he realizes I am serious. If we have to move in order for me to live without hot flashes and night sweats and all of the other lovely menopausal symptoms then so be it. I can buy my pills over the counter overseas. The ones where I had no negative side effects which are now out of reach. So instead they will give me other ones that will potentially make me sick and therefore, in the end, cost the insurance company more. It is BANANAS!! I suggest he brush up on his CV because chances are we are moving across the pond. He nervously chuckles and I say that Finland has a good health care system. I can see the fear in Confused Husbands eyes. He knows I am serious. I then announce:”Minun täytyy ehkä olla poronkasvattaja, jotta vaimoni voi saada pillereitä.” Translated means: “I may have to be a reindeer farmer so my wife can get her pills.”

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Nine: Ma’am is not Maria Von Trapp…

There are many women to look up to in this day and age. The obvious are Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Michelle Obama, and Gloria Steinem, to name a few. But one of my go-to superhero women is Maria Von Trapp.

Think about it. She made clothes out of curtains(I look at our blinds and wonder how that would work out.) She was a guitar-carrying nun who could sing. She married a brooding widower who had control issues as well as seven unruly children. (Blowing a whistle to get his family in order(If Confused Husband EVER blew a whistle at me, I would have personally handed him over to the Nazis. )

The Colonel had a butler with ties to Nazis and basically on return from their honeymoon, Maria was informed that he was heading off to war indefinitely and she would be home with her seven disobedient stepchildren, one of which was involved with a Nazi. (I mean LOOK at the family she married into!)

Maria formed a singing group with the kids and even convinced her moody new husband to pipe in. Albeit she now had this gorgeous mansion on the water with staff, she soon realized she would only be the lady of the house for about a week. After the week she would be a refugee in hand-me-down clothing. But still, she hung in there!

Escaping Austria to first sing in a concert, then hide in her former Abby all the while wearing rugged, homely traveling clothes, was in itself heroic to me. Climbing the Alps running from Nazis with seven children in lederhosen is a feat within itself. They would have been better off having Maria make some camouflaged curtains from those heavy green ones in the library to trudge through the Alps in.

I would not survive trekking through the Alps, especially in thick curtains. Massive hot flashes and irritability would overpower me. I would have a list in my head of which of the seven kids I liked the least and they would be the first one we ate if need be. I would not be singing Doe a Deer whilst running from the Nazis. I would be hysterically packing all of my newly inherited fine garments, crystal, and antiques. I also probably would have said to my new husband when he told me he had to go off to war and become a Nazi for us to continue this lush lifestyle in Austria. “Auf Wiedersehen” because after looking around at my new digs I could definitely ride out the war at this mansion. I may have suggested sending the kids(for safety) to boarding school far, far, far, away. I would share that I would hold down the fort(mansion) as it were and continue to host lavish parties to cheer ourselves up. I would play my guitar(If I played the guitar) and drink martinis and champagne while commiserating with my fellow party guests.

I would get rid of any Nazi staff and write lavender-scented letters to my new husband, suggesting if he had time to browse some antique shops in between fighting because I am looking to dress the mansion more to my taste, than the tired widower with a gaggle of kids motif he has going on.

I would probably hire the Colonel’s friend Max as my gay bestie, he could assist me with my new life as Mrs. Von Trapp in Austrian society. I also would definitely have the nuns over for a sleepover and makeover party. I would show them that putting a little effort into your looks for the Big Man upstairs is rewarding within itself. Why can’t nuns look good and serve at the same time? I bet it would be appreciated.

Maria didn’t have Google(to do an in-depth check on the Colonel.) She didn’t have Waze to assist her through her journey over the Alps(there were no Nazi-traffic warnings.) Maria didn’t post on Instagram about her difficult journey. She didn’t need followers encouraging her with shoutouts like; “Go Girl!” “You got this!” Maria had one goal, and that was to get her family to safety. She did this whilst singing Climb Every, Mountain. She didn’t complain nor question why me?! She just handled the task at hand. Maria probably wouldn’t have been invited to the Met Gala by Anna Wintour, or been on the cover of Vogue. She wouldn’t be let in Mr. Chows because of her curtain dress and Peter Pan’s haircut. Albeit, she may have been able to break out in song to solve her problems.

Yes, her fashion sense while escaping from the Nazis perhaps weren’t choices I would have made, and agreeing to marry a guy with seven kids(some of them teenagers) wasn’t something most of us would sign up for. But, overall Maria took charge and handled her business.

So when others are saying: “Namaste” and “Serenity now!” when things are tough. In my head, I hear Maria singing :

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don’t feel so bad…

Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Eight: Ma’am has a fluffy potato…

So I took Buddy to the vet for his checkup. There are several veterinarians at the local practice I don’t think I have ever seen the same one twice. Much like the human doctor’s office, you are ushered into the examination room and wait for quite a long time for the Doctor to see you. Unlike a human examination room, there are treats or toys in the veterinary examination room.Which gives me a BRILLIANT idea! Next time I am in my doctor’s office waiting to be seen. I will suggest they have snacks(a hotel mini-bar type of concept if you will,) instead of toys perhaps a laptop with Netflix or Amazon access. I think the doctor would have fewer angry patients waiting to see them for over an hour. A good film and cocktail may help to ease the waiting tension. It’s a win-win on BOTH sides.

Buddy is happy. I have given him a copious amount of snacks and we have played tug with the rope toy. He has slurped from the community water bowl and I wonder just how sanitary that is to have in a vet’s office.

Finally, a good forty-five minutes later, in the breezes a, young girl. At first, I think she is a middle-schooler looking for her pet. But, the white coat and embroidered name declaring Dr. Haskins DVM informs me that she is indeed Buddy’s physician. I wonder if she is one of those child prodigies like a Doogie Howser but in veterinarian form? She smiles and pushes her big glasses up on her tiny nose. She has red hair and wears it in two braids. She reminds me of the Wendy’s girl or Pippi Longstalking.

“Well, hello, Buddy-Cornelius!” she says rather enthusiastically. Buddy is licking his privates and has no interest. She looks over Buddy’s chart. Like when my children were little and we were at the pediatrician’s I would scan the Doctor’s face for a sign while they were reading the chart. I notice her scrunch her microscopic dot of a nose causing her glasses to slip further down. She pushes them back up and clucks her tongue. Uh-oh. Her eyes dart over to Buddy who looks like he is at an all-you-can-eat buffet with his crotch.

I then feel her judgemental eyes burning into me. The sweat begins to trickle down my upper lip. I am suddenly petrified of the middle-school Pippi Longstalking veterinarian. Silence…(except for Buddy’s licking sounds). I hear myself say: “Is there a problem?” She stares at me and then down at Buddy. “Mom can you cover Buddy’s ears she whispers.” I am confused but follow her directions. I attempt to cover Buddy’s ears and now he thinks we are playing a game. He starts to jump up and nips me. The doctor suggests we exit the room out of earshot from Buddy. Now I am concerned. I also want to point out that she could just spell whatever she needs to tell me, as I am fairly certain that Buddy cannot spell.

Outside of the room and before she tells me what BIG thing it is she needs to announce, she looks up and down the hallway. I feel like we are spies and she is about to trade me intel. She low talks with that smile plastered on her face.”Buddy needs to lose weight. He, um, is rather portly for his size.” Not only is this bizarre but I hear Confused Husband bellowing in my head: “What do you mean Buddy has to go to fat camp? How much is it?” She continues:” I didn’t want him to hear you know being fat-shamed.”

Fat-shame him?! I don’t even think he really knows what his name is never mind understanding him being called fat. I try not to laugh, but catch myself as I see how truly serious and distraught Pippi seems to be. I nod in agreement. We head back into the room and Buddy has knocked over the bowl of treats and is devouring them. Pippi gingerly picks up the remaining two treats out of fifty that he had yet to swallow. She lifts him to the exam table making a grunting sound like she is a Sherpa carrying a load up Mt. Everest.

On the table she probs Buddy. She does the normal stuff like eyes, ears, and mouth. She squeezes his belly and clucks her tongue again. There is a knock at the door and in waltzes a chipper young guy. He has on a rainbow tie and unruly hair. He and Pippi are whispering and, once in a while, I see him glance over at me. He can’t be more than Twenty-one if that. I wonder if he has even finished veterinarian school yet. He spins around and informs me he is Abe the dietician. He has a plan for Buddy. I feel like one of those Moms who is reprimanded for smoking in front of her kids’ like I have done something wrong.

Pippi exits the room and says she will be back after our consult with Abe. I notice he has a rather generous belly himself and I ponder if he really is a good example as a role model for Buddy. He has charts and goes over Buddy’s body mass with me. He loses me after he says something along the lines of Buddy’s self-confidence. (Buddy doesn’t seem to be waning on self-confidence in my opinion. I mean do dogs even have any?) Abe explains that Buddy is already squat and stubby, so any added weight on him isn’t a help. (Whoa! There, I like his squat, stubby-ness!) He is not a gazelle or Grey Hound Abe! What about you Mr. Pre-teen dietician and your bit of squat stubby-ness I think? He gives me instructions and a plan to follow for Buddy. I ask out loud, “If this plan would work for middle-aged, muffin-topped, menopausal women as well?” Abe chuckles and I want to share I wasn’t joking. I quickly look over the plan. There are a few things I could do but not the eating of, low-cal canned dog food. I also don’t know if I could skip “No treats”. I could do the no eating after 5:00 pm. It doesn’t mention anything about wine or cheese here, so I assume that is still okay for me to have. This plan may be difficult for me to follow let alone Buddy.

Abe suggests I get a scale. I don’t have one in the house because I don’t need a scale to tell me that I am fat. I already know this. Also, I don’t see Buddy hopping up on the scale for me to weigh him. Abe says he can offer me suggestions weekly via email and we can chart Buddy’s progress. I nod enthusiastically thinking: “Um.. nope that won’t be happening. I can barely return regular emails, yet am expected to email Abe? He tells me to just fill out the chart weekly and email it to him. That way he can track Buddy’s progress and tailor it accordingly. He mouths(we don’t want him feeling insecure.) I look over at Buddy who again is going to town on his crotch, he doesn’t look insecure to me.

I smile politely and he says that Pippi will be back to add anything else she feels Buddy needs to assist in his progress. He then attempts to high-five me and I awkwardly high-five him back. He pats me on the shoulder and dramatically says: “No worries Mom we got this!” I don’t know what “we got” but I nod.

Abe rubs Buddy’s head and says in a baby voice:” Buddy before you know it you will be bikini ready.” (Bikini ready? I would pay to see Buddy in a bikini.) He exits and a few minutes later Pippi returns. She smiles sympathetically at me and says:” I know you are concerned(I am?), you may be feeling disappointed in yourself(well, now I am!), but we are all rowing in the same direction for the sake of Buddy.”(I am waiting for Jerry Lewis to burst through the door in his telethon tux belting out: “You’ll never walk alone!” What the heck?!

She stares at Buddy and I wait. Then she scribbles something on her pad and hands it to me. I am praying it is a prescription for Ozempic and guess who will be taking them? NOT BUDDY!!! (I wonder if they will be the same ones as humans use or are there canine ones? Must Google) It is a chicken scratch scribble and I feel like I am decoding hieroglyphics. All I can make out is Buddy and a word that looks like Gout. OMG does Buddy have Gout?! I ask her to translate; She clears her throat like she is about to recite the Gettysburg Address. “Buddy’s weight growth is about half a pound a month. We would like to see Buddy lose 4-6 pounds. The personal plan created by the dietician and the veterinarian must be followed to achieve this goal. After a session with Mom(a session? like therapy?), we feel that she is on board to make this happen. Our plan is to send weekly chart emails tracking Buddy’s progress to address any concerns. Go, Buddy! Is written out in big letters. I don’t have the heart to tell them that Buddy can’t read.

I am GOBSMACKED! I feel like I am watching a middle schooler play Doctor. (Go, Buddy!) Honestly, what is happening? Have I just been Mom-shamed by Pippi Longstalking? I look down at my fluffy potato(a moniker coined by my friend Jen). It’s not like he is the Goodyear blimp or Free Willy. Papers in hand, I skulk out of the vets with my portly potato and mull this over. We pass the ice cream shop and Buddy pulls me towards it for one of his blueberry flavored pup-cups. I ask Skippy behind the counter if he knows how many calories are in it. He scratches his head and sighs. “I have no clue.”(Of course, you don’t.) I watch Buddy devour his pup cup and then lick his chops. Looking up at me, he wags his tail. I ask Skippy if he thinks Buddy is fat. He thinks I am asking him if I am fat. He looks extremely uncomfortable and says: “Umm, well how old are you?” WTF Skippy??? I ask him what my age has to do with Buddy’s weight. He scratches his head furiously and says: “Oh! I thought you meant you!”

I have no patience for Skippy, Abe, or Pippi Longstalking. Slowly I walk home with my Fluffy Potato. I decide I am not going to share with Buddy that he is fat. Ignorance is bliss. My Fluffy Potato will continue, sniffing other dogs’ butts, licking his crotch, and devouring any food item that is not nailed down. The day he comes to me and says: “I am not bikini-ready”, is the day we will begin his weight loss journey. Until then, may he continue being the Fluffy Potato that he is…

Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Seven: Ma’am is a critic…

When one is little, there are dreams of being a ballerina, fireman, rock star, etc…I have always dreamt of being a movie critic. Imagine watching films for a living and then writing about them. Sitting in a dark theatre eating sweets, munching on popcorn, JuJy-fruits, nonpareils, whatever your fancy. Watching a film, AND getting paid for it!


There were these two guys Siskel and Ebert. They watched movies, wrote about them, and had a show where they discussed the film. I was in awe. Being the expert on whether people should go to a certain movie or not. They in my eyes had the perfect job!


As it happens, life goes on. My dream of being a film critic was merely that, a fantasy, like one, has as a child as say an astronaut. That is until Amazon! Not only can you shop whilst in pajamas, watching Amazon Prime(the company is sooo awesome it even has its own network!), and drinking wine, (the pj’s and boxed wine you ordered from Amazon itself! The irony is not lost on me.) But, you can also give reviews of the purchased products that people will actually read! It’s the closest thing to becoming a movie critic! It makes one feel powerful if say; Alice in Ohio is debating whether or not to buy the bejeweled cell phone holder based on your review. My review could be the only thing holding Alice back from”add to cart”. I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders as I type my reviews. The immense pressure of bearing my soul, my opinion if you will on Amazon is MASSIVE! Before I push send, my stomach flutters. I imagine this is how Siskel and Ebert felt before a big movie critique.


I picture sweet Alice from Ohio. Sitting in her favorite chair. Her index finger hovered over the “Buy Now” button. It is a lot of responsibility! Her hopes, dreams, and aspirations of the potential bedazzled phone case cover that is on the cusp of being hers is an insurmountable responsibility.
Could be the wine, but my guess is my childhood dream of becoming a movie critic has kicked in and Fido’s newly purchased poop bag holder rests upon my shoulders and that’s not a position I take lightly! Martha from Nantucket is having serious doubts about this purchase. I hope to sway her with my five-star commentary. I write: “How clever is this poop bag carrier? Two in one! Flashlight attached, no more searching for the doggy deposits in the dark!” (I chuckle at how proficient I am in my review!).


I jump next to my assessment of Women’s athletic yoga-type pants with the disclaimer “Let your vagina breathe”. I hope that I can convince Mindy from Scranton who is debating whether or not to purchase these vagina-breathing yoga pants to “DO IT!” My wish is that my enthusiasm for these yoga pants conveys! I share with my readers how comfortable and free I felt(along with my va-jay-jay in these pants!) I tried to narrate the evaluation from my vagina’s point of view. My interpretation of the Vagina Monologues if you will. My narrating vagina sings the praises of these breathable yoga pants without oversharing too much of the landscape of one’s netherregions as so many yoga pants do. There is no camel-toe situation as well. Mindy tells me that she will order them in all the available colors and she is super excited about her new purchase. I tell Mindy and her vagina to keep me posted.

I continue my diatribe of reviews sharing with Tammy from Buffalo that “She HAS to purchase the organic makeup remover cloths! That is life-changing.” I detail how it’s like getting a mini-facelift all at once.” They are INCREDIBLE! I proclaim. I imagine Tammy from Buffalo clicking on: “Add to cart” because of my powerful words.

In my head, I am the Oscar Wilde or Dorothy Parker of Amazon reviews. I am on a roll and I have Tourette-reviews syndrome. I share with Harry in Vegas that he should most definitely stay away from the hair clippers that are supposedly pet friendly as well. (Somewhere there is a photo floating around, of Confused Husband and the dog looking like the cast from Dumb and Dumber after their home haircuts.)

I feel like an Amazon celebrity! Harry thanks me profusely like I have just donated a kidney. I tell him crisis adverted! and, I point out that he won’t have to be shopping on Amazon for a wig or hat to hide his and his dog’s home haircuts. I feel like the Amazon Oprah!
Piper pipes in from Orlando that she has purchased items based on my reviews and has been HUGELY disappointed. I am GOBSMACKED! Why is Piper raining on my parade?! I type (rather aggressively) “Which reviews?” She responds: “Mostly all of them!” Piper is more like a pipe bomb blowing up my situation. I try to be the diplomat and enquire: “Could you be more specific?” I feel the beads of sweat dripping down my brow.

She has a novel worth of complaints for me. Like a bratty kids’ Christmas list. Items run from A-Z. It’s as though Piper has been stalking me! I have no words, I picture Piper in a stained bathrobe which is her everyday outfit, chipped coffee mug in one hand and her phone in the other. Piper had dreams. They were squashed when she got knocked up on Prom night of her junior year. Now, divorced from her high school sweetheart Grant who works in Ikea to pay child support to their two kids. Piper lives in a generic apartment that houses mostly college students. She is dismayed by her lot in life. Piper takes out her life’s disappointments by becoming a cyberbully, and I am her target.
I try and diffuse the Piper bomb from obliterating my Amazon review career into a short-lived 15 minutes of fame type situation. I choose to ignore her and hope my non-interaction will curb this situation. I continue with the all-important task at hand.

I move on to the organic lavender hand sanitizer. I profess my love for the smell, feel, and handy spray bottle this comes in. I share with Doug from Shreveport that “Once he buys this item he will never go back to another kind of hand sanitizer.” (I secretly wonder if any of the companies that I am giving positive, glowing reviews to will send me freebies like the fashion houses do for celebrities). I am a connoisseur of Amazon reviews and I feel empowered! Having bundles of items sent to me would just add to the euphoria I am feeling as a critic.


Frank who hails from Milwaukee, leaves me a glowing review. He says that based on my five-star comments about the orange pistachio lip gloss he bought the entire set! Hand lotion, bath, and shampoo as well. Frank claims that his lips have never been so kissable, and well, I will take his word for it. Frank shares that complete strangers sniff him and compliment him on how great he smells. I smile proudly, as I feel responsible for Frank’s new happiness. The saying: “The pen is mightier than the sword”. Flashes through my mind. I like Maya Angelou am changing lives with my words. Frank is achieving sniffs of happiness and goodness based on my opinion.
I scroll through my purchases and see what I can review next. I noticed Lucy from Pensacola is wavering about committing to purchasing the embroidered jeans I bought last year(that have YET to arrive from China.) I jump right in and inform Lucy that Sassy-Jeans based in Beijing is NOT the place to order embroidered jeans from. She thanks me profusely. An hour later I receive a message from Mr. Ho. He claims to be the President and CEO of Sassy Jeans Incorporated. He tells me that he is saddened to hear of my unfortunate Amazon experience with Sassy Jeans. I write back that I have been sending DAILY correspondence to try and resolve this issue for a year. Not until Sassy Jeans received a bad review from me did I hear back. Mr. Ho promises to personally mail me the jeans I had already ordered himself. I won’t hold my breath.


Clyde in Philly has questions about the fancy cookie cutters I ordered over Christmas. I share with Clyde that albeit beautiful, the metal cookie cutters are sharp and can cut fingers when pushing down on them. I have almost lost several digits in my cookie-making skills. I suggest wearing gloves when using them. I advise Clyde to also order the cooling garden gloves I had ordered and wound up using those when I need to work with the cookie cutters. There is a two- for one sale, so one pair for, the cookies, and the other for the garden. Clyde praises me as though I have just discovered Penicillin. I am happy to be such a beacon of hope for Clyde. I realize how important my reviews are and so I forge ahead.
Dana from Denver is stressing if she should purchase the laundry mesh bags in three sizes. I brief Dana on their various sizes and how awesome they are to put in fine washable, and delicates. I inform Dana that her laundry life will be forever changed. I could never go back to doing laundry without them. Dana tells me that she has just purchased them! I feel my excitement build. I fantasize about turning this into a full-time career. Getting free items would be the icing on the cake. Would I have my own page on the Amazon website? The possibilities are endless. I decide to try and locate Jeff Bezos, email and suggest this to him. I turn to E-News and am informed that currently Mr. Bezos and his paramour are living it up in Ibiza. He definitely won’t be checking his emails.


I wonder then, if I should create my own aspirations website based on my reviews? “Dear Amazon Abby…” Must marinate this but continue reviewing as the potential consumers need my professional assistance. Helen from Hoboken is questioning how much of an impact the retro outdoor fairy lights will change her life. Helen from Hoboken, where do I begin?! These lights add just what you need to your outdoor fete. They glow the perfect amount illuminating your outdoor space as though you had hired a professional lighting designer to come in and install them. These lights will be the talk of your party, and no one will remember the bad potato salad or lack of decent wine. I admit to Helen that I bought two sets because, in my opinion, one can never have too many fairy lights. Helen is THRILLED! She decides to purchase three sets and even invites me to her backyard soiree in Hoboken. I consider going like a famous person making an appearance. I wonder if I could get paid for my visit.


Hours later, I am depleted of boxed wine and snacks. I feel as though I have just run the Boston Marathon. Being a critic is NO JOKE!
I am changing lives! Confused Husband informs me that my Amazon shopping has gotten out of hand, I explain that it is research for my future career. He retorts that if I continue with my Amazon obsession he may have to find a second job. He bellows about the stew of nonsense items that I have purchased. He has no concept that this is all part of my future burgeoning career. I need to spend money to make money! The anti-Amazon Critic career path rant continues. I no longer hear what he is saying. I am wondering if Kevin from Poughkeepsie is going to cancel his order for the Yodeling pickle, based on my viewpoint. (I didn’t actually purchase this nutty item, but just the description alone made me feel like I had to intervene and save Kevin from Poughkeepsie from an imminent divorce if he follows through with this ridiculous purchase.

I would LOVE to give Confused Husband an Amazon review. It would go something like this: The pants look good on the model. You think if you purchase them, you will look ten pounds lighter too. So you buy them and wait with excitement for their delivery. The anticipation builds as you try them on, and the reality of what you are stuck with hits you like a ton of bricks. You are a walking sausage. There are no refunds, no exchanges! You are stuck with these pants. Pants for life! Your mirror of truth is saying: “Yes, your butt looks fat.” Avoid purchasing this item at all costs. Yes, that would be his Amazon review…

Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Six: Ma’am’s side hustle…

On a daily basis, Confused Husband reminds me that we are not getting any younger. He is like the Grim Reaper but in a Father Time form. Every day, I am lectured about us preparing for: “Our next chapter” in life. If I hear the phrase: “Our next chapter” one more time, Confused Husband’s photo will wind up on the back of a milk carton.

A while back he brazenly announced: “You know, since you stopped teaching and embarked on this writing thing, and it hasn’t produced any monetary value”*(code for: you aren’t getting paid yet.) “I mentioned to my friend M that you would help him out at his restaurant.” (So now I am being farmed out like Bessie the working mule?) I am GOBSMACKED! (How would he like it if I casually said one night over a plate of meatloaf: “By the way, I offered your services at the makeup counter at Mona’s boutique.” ) Makeup and Confused Husband should NEVER be in the same sentence! Like me and restaurant. Besides being a patron, I should not be near a restaurant as an employee. I mean, sure, during college, there was the standard waitressing job. But, that was before an extra twenty pounds, thirty years, and hot flashes.

The offer is attempted to sound glamorous, all smoke and mirrors. A few days a week, no pressure, plenty of time to write, yada, yada, yada. Then our friend gives me the:”No your butt doesn’t look big in those pants” lie of a speech, and makes me feel like: “I NEED this job! I WANT this job!. Fast forward, and I find myself in our friend’s pizzeria. It isn’t brain surgery, but I am not as young and quick to learn new things as I once was. There is talk of POS and I smile like I know what that means. I have deduced that it’s either a person with a quirky nickname or an unusual ingredient that I have never heard of. Turns out I am incorrect with both guesses. It stands for “Point Of Sale” (a fancy name for cash register). I am introduced to POS and am sweating like a nun in a cucumber patch. It is like I am in the cockpit of a jumbo jet and shown the instrument panel, and “instructed to land the plane.”

For sure, if he weren’t a friend I would have been fired after an hour. I managed to cancel orders, put in the wrong addresses for drivers, give a vegetarian a steak sandwich instead of her eggplant one, and charge someone $400.00 for a slice of pizza because the print on the POS is too small for me to see. Yes, I am a hot mess express! Plus, because of the ENORMOUS pizza ovens, it is like five-hundred degrees in the restaurant. Under my breath, I cuss out Confused Husband and put a hex on him, using the old spell from Harry Potter: “Avada Kedavra” Voldemort’s favorite killing spell.

Six hours later I return home. I am hot, sweaty, and covered in pizza sauce and cannoli filling. I feel as though I have just been working at the Gulag. I pour a goldfish size bowl of wine and plop on the couch. Confused Husband comes home with that idiotic smile asking:” Well, how was it?!”Like I had just returned from Italy and was excited to tell him about my trip. I take an enormous gulp and say: “You know the kids I used to teach that drove me to drink these enormous vats of wine?” He nods in exorbitant anticipation(Putting Sarah Bernhardt to shame.) : “Well, now I give them slices of pizza and sodas. Except they all have Apple Pay and none of them have enough, so I dig in my purse for loose change to pay the extra forty-one cents, or whatever they need, any piddly tips I make are put right back in the till. The cash register is like flying a jumbo jet. The restaurant is hot, loud, and full of people. Three things that as you know I am vehemently against.” He looks at me like everything I have just relayed to him is “GREAT!”

Here comes the reinforced reel them-back-in Used car salesman, Timeshare, and Snake oil salesman speech. (There is that idiotic smile again): “Wow! Think about all of the new material you have for your writing because of this! Some writers would KILL to have this experience to help with their craft! (I have NEVER, EVER, heard him use the word craft before other than for Mac and Cheese!).

I dramatically take a sip of vino and say:” Well I told Mona since I am at the pizza joint and unavailable, that you would help her in the bra section at her boutique. You have to be there tomorrow at 9:00 am for orientation, VICTORIA…”

Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Five: Ma’am is not a celebrity…

Celebrities get away with a lot. Even though they are millionaires, they also get free swag and are gifted copious amounts of expensively outrageous items. Then, there are the rules that apply to you and me. If one of us did ANY of the ridiculous things celebrities do AND get away with, we would be wearing orange and Large Marg’s best friend in the penitentiary.

For example: If Helen from Omaha were to announce that she was creating a candle that smelt like her vagina, she most certainly would be arrested and blackballed by the PTA. The local authorities would confiscate her low-budget infomercials filmed in her basement by her husband Harold and his comb-over hair like they raided a porn film site. Selling a vagina-scented candle and describing it as the more it melts the more vagina-like it smells would give Skippy the local prosecutor all the ammo he needed to shut the whole operation down. Helen and Harold would be ostracized within their community, forced to sell their home and move Nancy, their awkward teenage daughter, and Harold Jr. into new schools. Years later we wouldn’t see Nancy plugging her best-selling book titled:” My mother’s vagina ruined my life” Or Harold Junior’s pictures blasted all over the tabloids because he is a raging alcoholic and bounces from rehab to rehab. Trust me, no one cares about these boring people and their children with their boring names. But, if they were celebrities, even Wolf Blitzer would be doing a news piece on them.

Speaking of names, celebrities can get away with naming their child anything they think of. Pilot, Apple,X Æ A-12. If the Stubbs family from Little Rock named their son X Æ A-12. Surely social services would be called on them. Imagine the moniker X Æ A-12 Stubbs.

Flo and Roger who hail from Kenosha were bored one weekend and decided to make a sex tape. But, Roger is a dufus and accidentally returned it to the one and only video store that still rents out videos to those who have VCRs. Roger is cheap, therefore they never upgrade their electronics. He still uses a flip phone. Like wildfire, the tape is seen by the entire town. Flo and Roger become local celebrities, but NOT in a good way. There are no monetary offers or fast food commercials. Victoria’s Secret is not sending boxes full of lingerie for Flo to enjoy. Roger is not seen on talk shows being high-fived by the douchy male host. There is no offer from the E channel of “Keeping up in Kenosha.” Instead, they are shunned by their community and have to shop in the Walmart twenty miles away from their home out of embarrassment. One eyewitness has described Flo and Rogers’s social outings as sounding eerily familiar like the stoning scene in the book The Lottery by Shirley Booth. Flo and Roger had to move out of Kenosha and rumor has it took their VCR with them.

Farmer Dan drives his pickup around his peanut farm outside of Tuscaloosa. His truck has no AC and therefore, windows down, shirtless he drives. It is a lonely job and farmer Dan has an out-loud daily dialogue with himself. Many local townsfolk have seen Farmer Dan talking to himself. There have been town hall meetings about his daily soliloquy and what to do about this odd behavior. Farmer Dan isn’t asked to film a commercial in a fancy car, that has AC and new-age background music, talking out loud to himself nope, Farmer Dan doesn’t receive a HUMUNGOUS check. Unbeknownst to Farmer Dan the town doctor is filing papers to have him committed to the local sanitarium.

Kitty in Phoenix is a breakfast cereal expert. She spends a lot of her grocery money on buying cereal. She writes poems and letters to the various cereal companies expressing her love for the boxes of goodness and admits to her crushing on some of the cereal mascots. She is not sent free cereal. Instead, she is served restraining orders by the multi-billion-dollar cereal attorneys. Basically, Kitty is labeled a stalker. Because of her now less-than-stellar record, Kitty is let-go from her job at the local library. Kitty never asked for a menage a trois with Snap, Crackle, and Pop(which I guess would make it a menage a quatre.) She didn’t pull rank with Cap’n Crunch by calling him Major. Kitty didn’t make fun of the Lucky Charms leprechaun’s height. She didn’t shame Tony the Tiger for running around sans trousers.

Doris and Frank from Des Moines, consider themselves professional DIY people. Doris has been known to brag about her incredible ability with a glue gun. She bedazzles EVERYTHING! They post their DIY stories on Tik Tok. They decide to bedazzle their bland couch. It takes over three days and hundreds of thousands of rhinestones. This project was not well thought out. The couch is no longer viable to sit on because of the sharp gems. Several days after their epic bedazzle project fail, Doris and Frank announce on Tik Tok that their beloved cat Mitzie and three-legged rescue dog Pepper passed away after consuming some of the bedazzled couch cushions. Their viewers are outraged! They send PETA and the local Humane society after them. Doris and Frank are banned for life from adopting any furry friends. Frank has a glimmer of hope after he notices a loophole in their predicament. It says, furry friends. Frank suggests to Doris that they get a Giant Tortoise. She is not on board until he mentions that she could bedazzle its shell.

Confused Husband is lamenting about our finances. He tells me to think of a side hustle. I tell him that a sex tape is out, bedazzling our sofa, or renaming our grown children some ridiculous moniker, is NEVER happening. I add that I have no intention of making a vagina candle either so what are our options? I also point out that he is not Walter White. He just stares at me and says:” Are you drunk?”

Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Four: Ma’am & Huckleberry is Fucked….

So I took Buddy the dog to the groomer. We have been going there for a while. I come to collect him and see a vanilla-looking George Stephanopoulos-type guy standing there in loafers, no socks, and khakis rolled up screaming into the phone.”Huckleberry is fucked!” I being the person I am, having a Ph.D. in diarrhea of the mouth announce to the sockless loafer-wearing millennial that:” I wanted to name our son Huckleberry. But, because of our RIDICULOUSLY long and hard-to-pronounce last name, Confused Husband vetoed it on the merits that he would be beaten up during recess on the playground because of his length of the equator-sized moniker. Plus, he would be late starting his SATs because it would take him a good hour to fill in all the bubbles for his name. I then shared that my next choice was Atticus. “
Loafer man just glares at me and continues bellowing into the phone: “Huckleberry is FUCKED!” It sounds like the title of an 80’s Grunge band or tragic novel. I wonder how is Huckleberry fucked and why, and who did the fucking? I turn to the person at the front desk and inquire if: “Buddy is fucked as well?” She looks at me and says: “I don’t think so.” But, somehow she doesn’t sound so sure. She calls downstairs on the intercom to have them bring Buddy up to me. Smiling she informs me that Buddy’s haircut is a whopping $160.00 bucks!


I begin my mantra of: “Buddy is fucked.” (Sounds way cooler when you say Huckleberry is fucked.) But, I am actually the one fucked because of the outrageous price. I say rather loudly:” That’s way more than I pay for my hair!” I feel the millennial’s judgy eyes on me sizing up my hair. I explain that:” I am having a bad hair day and could not be judged on this one particular viewing. But, that on a good day, my hair didn’t cost that much, and looks fabulous!” She announces there are several add-ons such as breed, matting, etc… I retort that Buddy is a mutt and cannot be penalized for this, that I find it highly discriminating. I also point out, that Buddy wasn’t matted as he is brushed ALL of the time, and he is a small dog not a Great Dane for goodness sake!” Huckleberry’s father joins in saying: “Yes! Same with Huckleberry!” We make eye contact! Partners in the Good-fight! I nod and he nods back. I envision us creating the “Huckleberry is fucked foundation.” Holding seminars on how not to get fucked over by your dog groomer. I write a best-selling book about it. Yes, Huckleberry is fucked, definitely has legs.


Buddy is brought up to me. There are whispers about what to do by the employees, as I have REFUSED to pay such a fee! I hear snippets of: “Breed fee, a matting disclaimer.” Huckleberry’s father and I stare at each other. I hold onto Buddy for dear life as I realize they haven’t brought Huckleberry up yet. Perhaps they will hold him for ransom? At this thought, I attempt to mouth to Huckleberry’s dad: “Where is Huckleberry?!” He doesn’t understand what I am trying to mouth to him. I scootch closer and loudly whisper: “Where is Huckleberry?” at this question I see the panic rise in him like a wave. He looks ashen and puckers his lips like a fish.


Wide-eyed he croaks: “I want Huckleberry!” The employees stop whispering and look at him. I wonder if he is about to ask for proof of life like in the Meg Ryan, Russel Crow movie. I visualize Huckleberry holding up a newspaper with today’s date. I don’t even know what Huckleberry looks like but I imagine he is cartoon-like.
The intercom buzzes and Deep Throat on the other end inform the desk people to omit the add-ons from Buddy’s bill. I feel empowered. That is more like it! Next to me, Huckleberry’s father asks: “What about Huckleberry?” More whispers and a huddle of discussion occur. I pay, yet feel that I must stay and see the safe return of Huckleberry. I take Buddy and mill about feigning interest in organic butt wipes for one’s pooch.
Huckleberry is brought up. The hair on his head looks like a Tupperware bowl was placed on his noggin and his crooked bangs were trimmed around that. He resembles one of the characters from Dumb and Dumber. Huckleberry’s dad is on the verge of tears. He shockingly says:” Do you have a blind groomer down there? He looks like he just had surgery, not a haircut!” I nod my head in agreement. Huckleberry looks rough. Miss Millennial explains that:” Huckleberry moved a lot during the grooming. The groomer was basing his haircut on the picture you sent him. (I NEED to see this picture!) Huckleberry’s dad announces: “I am NOT paying a penny for this! He looks RIDICULOUS!” Again, Huckleberry’s dad is screaming: “Huckleberry is fucked!” I nod in support. On top of the astronomical fee. The haircut is a disaster as well.
Deep Throat announces via the intercom that Huckleberry’s cut is on them. I exit the groomer with Huckleberry’s dad. I attempt to convince him that Huckleberry looks a little punk rockerish with his new do, a slight resemblance to Sid Vicious. I notice people giving Huckleberry a double-take. I look down at Buddy who just looks adorable. I suggest out loud that we start a “Huckleberry is fucked foundation.”

I sense from Huckleberry’s dad that he is no longer interested in forging a foundation with me. Cracks begin to show in our once united front as he speed walks away from me. I shout after him in unity.: “Huckleberry is fucked!” I do the Wakanda forever sign and skip down the street happily knowing that Buddy wasn’t fucked…