Below is communication, intercepted from my dog to my father outlaw, an attorney.

The poor, mistreated beast attempting to fake me into complacency

Mr [redacted],

My name is Ella Jane Fitzgerald of the Burke-Schrock household on the [redacted] estate. I recently contacted you regarding legal representation. However, it has been brought to my attention that my Humans have been made aware of my request. I am unsure (as I am a dog) if this is a violation of Attorney-Client privilege or if that even applies to canines. I can only ascertain that you have ratted me out because I have not yet paid my retainer.

I find this troublesome.

I am prepared to pay you a handsome sum, in big, slobbery kisses and and occasional, inappropriate dog farts. These are the only forms of currency I possess and I assure you they are highly prized in the Dog World. At this time, I am unable to share my treats as I fear that my Humans may deny me kibble due to their knowledge of my request for help. I think this is duress or coercion. What, you are surprised I know of these things? Golden Retrievers are renowned for their intelligence and I am no exception. Well, maybe when I slide across the tile in furious pursuit of my ball and I crash into the  door, or the wall, or the couch, or the bed, or innocent passers by. Maybe also when it is dark and I stare at that dog in the sliding glass door who looks suspiciously like me, but who refuses to introduce herself through the usual crotch sniffing measures. But most of the time, I am remarkably well educated.

I will contact you through less conspicuous means to discuss how you may represent me in my quest for filet mignon. My need is dire.

Thank you.

Woof,

Ella

I feel that we are close enough, you and I, that I can admit that I have a problem.

*big breath*

My name is Christine and I am a Farkleholic. Farkle is a dice game, I play it on Facebook and it is HIDEOUSLY addictive. The first time I played against an actual, live human being they wished me luck in the chat window. I wished them the same and thought it very sportsmanlike conduct.

I’ve noticed, however, that not everyone adheres to sportsmanlike conduct. My interactions with many other farkleites, upon receipt of my hearty “good luck!” leave something to be desired. To wit:

good luck!

*crickets*

Perhaps Lisa does not speak English. After all, Facebook is an international community. So, using the unfavorable practice of racial profiling, I tried Spanish.

buena suerte!

*whatever noises crickets make in Spanish*

Ok, German?

viel glueck!

*nichts*

I ran through several other languages of which I have a loose grasp, being able to say such handy things as:

Where is the bathroom?

How much is this item?

Why does this cheese smell?

All the while not at all being able to understand the answers. Methinks it is time I should employ Rosetta Stone. I digress. None of my multilingual salutations received so much as a blink from my pal Lisa. Snooty bitch. I decided perhaps something more Medieval would be appropriate.

May the sinewy arms of Lady Luck wrap around you as an anaconda and infuse you with nothing but the cascading lush of good fortune!

“Wut?”

Success! Encouraged by my rousing of the sleeping intellectual, hidden deep in my friend Lisa, I proceeded.

A warrior’s heart, I see. A woman of few words and hearty action, forsooth shebeast! I shall trounce thee mightily and claim thy heart for my lover’s treasure!

“gl 2u2″

If it take me until the bed of my death to decipher thy devil tongue, I shall do so. I shall learn thy language of sulfur and spew it back at the as so many cockroaches! 

“it’s ur turn”

So it is, my most fair and worthy adversary, so it is. Prepare to meet thy death by the crackling fire of Beezlebub!

(I immediately rolled a completely shitty hand)

“ok”

Oh, but ye are a tight lipped sorceress. Must be descendant from witches!

Lisa left the game. Some would say it was because I was acting like a lunatic. But I know, oh I know, that it was truly because I was onto her and she couldn’t handle the pressure. That’s right.

Bet her ass will say good luck, next time.

My underwear is too small.

Not ALL of my underwear, just one particular pair. I don’t really understand how this happened, since I was comprised of more, um, girth when I purchased them than I am now. But too small, they are. Oh yes.

When leaning over in a session today, I felt the right side of the silky red material start to creep toward my asscrack in an upward and inward motion. It only stopped when it reached maximum wedge capacity. It’s a perfect storm, that. being unable to stealthily unheft a killer wedge. Feeling previously comfortable and pretty fabric, begin to saw you in half at the ass.

You start to think about your life. You start to wonder if THIS is the way you’re going to go. That my new coworkers would find me in a twisted heap at the foot of my massage table. Coronary by panties.

You start to regret things. Your choices, your religious beliefs, your breakfast. You regret not telling everyone you love that you love them. YOU REGRET PUTTING ON THAT PAIR OF FUCKING UNDERWEAR! That one cheap pair of underwear that has somehow managed to escape many undie-drawer prunings. The undies that get worn when the laundry pile outweighs the clean things in your closet.

I began to question my sanity in buying the damned things to begin with. I mean, really. Red, high cut, completely unnatural fabric. What exactly about that sounded comfortable? What, exactly made those a good choice in which to do massage? This is the perfect example of my questionable decision making prowess.

My ass and I are very disappointed in me.

The Dr. : Hey, K (another therapist in the office) are you still working at that other chiro on tuesdays?

K: just until they hire someone, I told him he could use my table until he got another one.

Me: That was really nice of you. I’d be like Oh, HELL no!

The Dr.: (raising an eyebrow quizzically) Unless I asked you, of course.

Me: Oh, clearly!

I have exactly two pairs of shoes that don’t kill me to work in. One is a pair that my friend Sue bought for me last Christmas (hi Sue!) the other is a pair that my mother outlaw bought for me because I liked them.

Common thread? They are both on the low end of price. Other common thread? They both smell. Bad. As in not good, like, at all. I wear them with hose, I wear them with socks, I put kitty litter and baking soda and dr scholl’s and full pieces of charcoal in them and really? Skank.

I first discovered the stank factor when I had to kick off one of them in my car, because my foot hurt where the seam ran up the back of the shoe. All of the sudden a green cloud of footy goodness filled my car and threatened to choke me. Thank GOD I was alone, but I immediately had to roll down every window in the car and swallow huge gulps of air.

Seriously? SO gross.  So it is disappointing that the pricey shoes I have purchased don’t hold a candle to these in terms of how long I can wear them.

That is so awful.

I have one pair of Soffts and another pair of Born sandals that get thrown into the rotation and they are remarkably scent free. I just don’t understand the cheap-shoe-your-feet-smell-like-the-devils-ass connection…but I will be damned if it isn’t true.

That my hair was so tall that it used to bend when I got in the car.

and yet she still wants me to come to her dinner party? Clearly it’s the power of batman.

of sorely needed CPS intervention.

Why did my mother let me leave the house like this?

Solve it like your friend flutter.

Give yourself a ghetto pedicure, complete with a french that highlights the pigginess of your toes

If that doesn’t lift your spirits, perhaps you would find it uplifting to dye your hair. THE WRONG COLOR.

make sure you have absolutely zero makeup on when you take the photo of your bad hair, because maybe JUST maybe the giant zit you have on your chin will distract from your hair. Maybe.

Still feeling crappy? Perhaps if you made your way into your bedroom, you could snap a photo of the world’s porniest sheet set, and revel that it is on your bed.

Black satin AND leopard print satin. Gloriously cheesy, wonderfully cool in the a/c and if you happen to sleep commando  (what?) they will manage to wedge themselves directly up your ass.If that doesn’t snap you out of your mood, then I dunno what to tell you.

I am speaking at Blogher ’08 and clearly it is fucking with me. I am dreaming of the conference. Well, not the conference per se…

So this dream I had last night the colors were VIVID and it seemed like it lasted for 8 hours. Dreams only last 5 seconds on average..did you know that?  Anyway, so she was there and was like, 6 feet tall and wearing all brown…total glamazon. She told everyone who came within a foot of me to talk to me quietly, that I was very fragile.

She was there, and was dressed in a teatowel and louis vuitton heels. She had champagne in her hand, and a hiking pack on her back. She was there, with a cut out of bill clinton stuck to the front of her face she was cutting a rug and would only speak to me in Spanish.  She was there and would only say the words “Love is all around us” but, with varying inflections so we all TOTALLY knew what she was talking about.

She was there, dropped off a shopping basket full of children in front of me, then ran away, laughing.  She was there, I asked her how to cure my elaphantitis of the ass and she told me I would need a shot of circus venom. She said she would give it to me if I taught Jolie how to knit because she was running out of clothes.

She was there, and for some reason smelled like cinnamon and sugar. I wanted to eat her.  She was there and gave me sugar free cupcakes and was holding hands with her. She  brought me cocktails in the bathroom, then told me to get my sorry ass on the dance floor because he was there.

Overthinking this conference a bit, flutter?

The women of my family are a gassy lot.

Sorry, it’s true.

While my mother was out to visit, we rekindled a long standing rivalry in Mexican Train. Since The Boy and I are not officially adults yet, we have no table big enough to carry such a game. So we played on the floor.

There was drinking (mild, people MILD) and a lot of laughing. Then it happened.

My mother farted.

This was no delicate affair, it was loud and effusive and…well…hysterical. We all started to laugh, my mom included. She stood up and bent over. And farted again. The Boy, not to be outdone, let one loose and raised his hand, victoriously.

“In solidarity!” he roared.

As my mother began to laugh, a series of machine gun farts belted out of her backside.

Powpow POW pow pow pow!!!

In an attempt to stop the onslaught she backed up towards the wall. All was lost. The Boy started laughing and snorted (which never happens). My brother hiccuped and I laughed, silent, tear streaming laughter.

She sat back down, farting again and continued to play the game.

The Boy looked at me incredulously and said.

“Oh my God, it is ALL. SO. CLEAR. NOW!”