Pat, Victoria and LaFonda

Guess what! Guess what! Guess what!

I (accidentally) found something Lulu will eat. Besides socks. Something edible.

Cat food.

She'll eat cat food. Not only will she eat it, she'll snarf it down like nobody's bizness.

Do you think Lulu is a cat stuck in a dog's body?

(Not that I care, I'm totally tolerant when it comes to animal orientation.)

Guess what else! Guess what else! Guess what else!

Pat, the Nutty Hamster Chick, picked me up from Big-O Tires yesterday and took me to the Olive Garden while I waited for my brakes to get checked. It was the one year anniversary of the Crash Test Dummy Olive Garden blogger lunch, and I had not one, not two, but three servings of Zuppa Toscana soup.

Can I just publicly declare that I never want to see another bowl of Zuppa Toscana again. In fact, this is the last time you'll ever hear me utter the words Zuppa Toscana.

Shudder!

Anyways, eating Zuppa Toscana with Pat is like eating Zuppa Toscana with a very old, dear friend.

Did that come out wrong?

Not an old, dear friend per say, more a we go way back, dear friend. It was like, "So Pat, how's your mom? Is she still in remission? And how's Jared's hip? And what about Trent? Did you cry at the MTC? And how's that little cutie patootie Diana? And what's your hub's name again?"

That's what blogging does. It helps you see that blogging friends are people too. Just like me and you.

See what I mean?

(BTW, get a load of Pat, she's wearing her seat belt. What a silly goose. I guess she takes the Crash Test Dummy experience very seriously.)

(Get it? Crash test dummy?)

(Sometimes I crack myself up.)

(Literally!)

(Does it not look like we printed this photo on a piece of paper towel, or what?)

I have to tell you that Pat's voice is like butter. It's so sooooothing, you just want to grab a piece of toast and jar of raspberry jalapeno jelly and smear it all over her face.

Unlike Nevada and I, we didn't talk about neuroses. We talked about secrets.

Not our secrets, other people's secrets.

Not other blog people's secrets, other real people's secrets.

(It's nobody you know, so stop your speculating.)

I personally feel that secrets are bad. Bad, bad, bad. Except my secrets. My secrets are necessary.

The only person who shouldn't tell her secrets is Victoria. Victoria's Secret is . . . kinda naughty. I know this because after the Zuppa Toscana I actually stopped by Victoria's Secret to pick up a gift for my niece's wedding shower.

My, oh my! Oh my! Did I already say that Victoria's Secret is kinda naughty? I would go so far as to say it's kinda naughty Marrietta.

I'm out of the naughty Marrietta loop, peeps. I honestly couldn't decide between the teensy tiny French maid uniform for $58.99 or the itsy bitsy sparkly pink baby doll for $48.99.

(And that Love ROCKS body lotion? It costs $20.99!! HELLO! Love don't ROCK that hard! Especially when it's misspelled.)

I decided on the baby doll but HOLY CATWOMAN, Batman! Gimme some lace and glitter and I coulda/woulda/shoulda made a sparkly pink baby doll for only $5.99.

Actually, I just bought a real pink baby doll at Walmart for $5.99.

Meet LaFonda. She's my trek baby so I can't take responsibility for her name.

Here's a true story about LaFonda: My twins found the Victoria's Secret receipt on the kitchen table this morning.

They freaked out.

"You paid $48 for LaFonda?"

How do you explain to your 11-year-olds that no, you didn't buy a baby doll for $48 from Walmart, you actually bought a piece of sparkly pink lace for $48 from a naughty lady named Victoria?

Hee hee hee Look what Lulu just did to the receipt:

Not only is my dog globally responsible, she's also morally sound.

P.S. Garden of Egan, are you exhausted again?


P.S.S. You have to read back a few posts to get all the allusions in this post. Look to it, peeps.


P.S.S.S Raise your hand if you want to go to the Jack Johnson concert with me, my hub and my daughter on August 13th. I've got two extra tickets. Come back tomorrow to find out how you can win them.