WanderingAmylessly 2.0

When my dogs speak, I listen. I also pull off an amazing feat of canine ventriloquism. I initiate conversations with my dogs and, in grand style, respond as I believe they would if they could move their mouths in cgi-enhanced fashion. What are you looking at? What are you pointing at? You do it too. You know you do. My real question is: what do your dogs sound like? Mine have the same voice, really -- a high-pitched fast chatter, not unlike The Chipmunks, waffling between sarcasm and dimwittedness, depending on the moment. I'm nutty, but I'm not going to spend the time it would take to master the art of pup-speak and discern between the two. And I'm certainly not going to bother perfecting a raspy Scottish brogue, although wouldn't that be adorable to have a Scottish Terrier and a West Highland Terrier bantering in the backyard like Sean Connery visiting Shrek in the swamp. Just think what kind of a road show we'd have if they'd wear kilts and play the bagpipes?

It's taking every ounce of effort not to fake an illness and take the day off. My boss is gone. The weather's hot and sunny and perfect. I can barely keep my eyes open. And so far, I have absolutely nothing on my plate, workwise. The lack of work may change. In fact, I'm certain it will. Maybe I should get out while the getting's good. Contemplating playing hooky from work is kind of like imagining what you'd do with a boatload of lottery winnings. In this case, actually quitting my job isn't really an option. I'll have to settle for daydreaming about spending the day soaking up rays, sipping lemonade, snuggling with the pooches, maybe catching a flick at the cinema. Anyone up for Horrible Bosses ?

Streaming video. 24 hours a day. My husband and kid have left for their trip. Netflix is my babysitter. I'm enjoying a day-long movie bender, watching while I clean house and do laundry. Light on the folding and cleaning, heavy on the vegetating in front of the TV. Here's what guilty pleasures I've enjoyed so far. Quantum of Solace Sweet November Maid in Manhattan Four Weddings and a Funeral Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back I think tonight's going to be a marathon of The Tudors. Truly pathetic. Yes. You don't have to point it out. Edited to note: I love Kevin Smith. But that Jay and Silent Bob business? No thanks. I ditched it after 20 minutes.

The Iowa State Fair just announced its newest fair foods being introduced at next month's fair. Doncha wish you lived here? Are you now planning a road trip? Fried Butter on a Stick The ultimate Butter Cow tribute, butter dipped in a honey flavored batter and fried golden brown on a stick. Chocolate Covered Fried Ice Cream on a Stick Found at Oasis Concessions at the Pioneer Livestock Pavilion. Peanut Butter and Jelly on a Stick A tasty skewered version of this childhood favorite. Found at Salad Bowl on the upper balcony of John Deere Agriculture Building. And it's not on a stick, but it's worth a mention: Red Velvet Funnel Cake A chocolate-flavored version of a Fair favorite, complete with a cream cheese glaze. The Best Around located at the Triangle. What building's the Pepto Bismol-on-a-stick in? Where's the location of the nearest portaJohns? I'm waiting for the follow-up news story...

Info no one really needs to know. Taken straight from the Internets: What's up with Rob Pattinson's hair? (People magazine) Sci-fi women more than hot babes (CNN) Accused penis cutter poisoned husband's soup (KSEE) Love it or hate it, self-checkout is here to stay (MSNBC) Man allegedly force-fed iPhone to girlfriend (MSNBC) Help! I accidentally killed my crazy neighbor's cat (Slate.com)

I think EGO. I hear UGH. Tim and I were talking last night about what possesses men in positions of fame and power to think that they can do whatever the hell they want, and they get a free pass because they're, well, THEM. And then when they get caught with their pants down, sometimes literally, they're all incredulous about the intrusion into their private lives. They blame the media, the paparazzi, a tortured childhood, addiction, their significant others. It would never occur to them that they, themselves, might want to take a look in the mirror and re-evaluate their own actions and behaviors. Tiger Woods. Lance Armstrong. John Edwards. Anthony Weiner. Charlie Sheen. And if they can't take the heat, maybe they should get out of the glaring spotlight that they willingly stepped into in the first place. The one that made them famous enough to land the hot babes and the drugs and the big endorsements and the public platform in the first place. I so do not feel sorry for th

I've been prepping for my upcoming week of movie-watching by scouring IMDB for possible rentals. I've discovered something. I don't like blond men. I just might be the only girl in the world who doesn't think much of Brad Pitt. Or Matt Damon. Or that Swedish guy from True Blood. I like 'em dark and handsome. And, evidently, hairy. Colin Farrell Joseph Fiennes Gerard Butler David Boreanaz Alan Rickman (I miss "this" Alan. I might have been in my teens when he was "this" Alan.) Jake Gyllenhaal Rob Lowe

Not Letterman. Certainly not Leno. Jimmy Kimmel? Nah. Hands down funniest guy on late night TV has to be Craig Ferguson. He makes me cry, he's just that funny. I love his delivery, his excellent timing, his sarcastic edge. And of course I love his Scottish accent. He could probably just sit there and talk in his accent about absolutely nothing, and I'd crack up. He's hysterical. He's also on at midnight. Which is why I never watch him. I think I'll start DVR'ing and watching at a more reasonable hour. I have to get up at 5 a.m. And I'm old. He does have some clips on the CBS web site and on YouTube. Perhaps my favorites feature him interviewing another Scot, Gerard Butler. But nothing beats his monologues, which critics have described as more a storytelling session than a series of one-liners. Like this one

Ever since I went to the latest (and final...sniff, sniff) Harry Potter movie last weekend, I've been -- in my head -- talking with a British accent. I've had to be careful so as not to have it burst forth during work meetings. I can't even say Harry Potter normally. I feel the need to say "Haaaarrrayhhh Pottahhh." I feel the distinct urge to drink tea. And place my groceries in the boot of my auto. And declare everything to be "Brilliant!" I'm going to miss those kids. I can't wait to see what the young actors do as grown-up stars. I wish them well. I'm nervous for them. I want them to find success apart from, or perhaps in spite of, their early career adventures. And, with Tim and Henry off on their excellent adventure to Colorado next week -- and me with a new subscription to Netflix -- I feel the urge for an appropriate movie marathon. Lots of men in silk and women with big hair and corsets and cleavage giving Oscar-worthy performances. A