Crack IS Wack!

 

I was like most girls in the late 80’s, early 90’s. I would dance in the mirror wearing a scrunchie in my hair and leg warmers. Whitney Houston’s songs would be blasting on the boom box. For those of you in your 20’s, a boom box was a portable radio with a cassette tape player that you could carry on your shoulder. If you were rich you had one with two tape players. Now, this was before Whitney married Bobby Brown. Cissy should have called Mr. Telephone Man to keep this bad boy away from her daughter. It is reported that Bobby Brown broke down sobbing on stage last night over Whitney’s sudden death. He is on tour with old members of New Edition. Perhaps these were tears of guilt and shame. He took the pop diva down this road. Sure, Whitney is also to blame. She had a life most people only dream of, but it wasn’t enough. I find her decisions incredibly selfish. Once you become a mother you don’t get to think about yourself first. Do you have any idea how many nights I would love to eliminate my stress by chugging margaritas? I can’t. I have three children who depend on me. Children I chose to have. Children I love more than myself. Whitney Houston obviously didn’t realize that is “The Greatest Love of All.” Otherwise, the pop diva would have taken one look at Bobbi Kristina and put down her crack pipe. Well, actually if she would have looked at Bobbi Kristina she would have realized her drug money should have been used to buy that poor girl some braces. You can drive a truck through her front teeth.


House training

“Did he pee?”  “Mom, did he pee?”  “He peed?”   “Oh man, really? He peed again?” These are common questions nowadays in my house.   Why?  We have a puppy.   I have days when I wish I could put on a puffer vest , hop in a DeLorean and relive the day we decided to bring this dog home.   Don’t get me wrong, I love animals.   I grew up with dogs and it was such a joy.   Of course it was.  I didn’t take care of the pets.   I played and snuggled with our dogs.  Our cat curled up in my bed at night until it ran away.  When that cat disappeared so did the allergies and asthma attacks I had been plagued with.   Turns out I was allergic to that cat.  Back then, I didn’t change kitty litter, walk the dog in frigid temperatures or clean up pungent dog urine.  My oldest son loves the dog.  My daughter tries to play with him, but cries whenever it playfully bites.   My middle child? Well, he may be Satan. (I’m kidding.  I think.)   He torments this dog.  Then again, I remember, as a child, my brother played football with our cat.   Unfortunately for the cat it was always on the opposing team.  My brother would race down the long hallway of our apartment and tackle the cat.  Amazingly, the cat never got hurt and loved him anyway.   I suppose I will grow to love our dog too.  As soon as he learns to pee outside.