Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog Part 21

Fun!

But the mystery of Paid Programming pales in comparison with the other shows on the TV listings. I was skimming the guide and came across something on Channel 28 called Educational Programming (EDUC). I tuned in, but the screen was blank. I kept waiting for someone to educate me, or failing that, a guy to sell me something special, but no, nothing.

This doesn't bode well for our educational system.

It's like No TV Left Behind.

I kept spinning the dial, as we used to say, and came upon an equally ambiguous listing on Channel 98, called Local Original Programming (LO). I tuned in, and it was showing a man and a woman talking to each other, neither of whom seemed very interested in the conversation.

In other words, my second marriage.

I would rename Channel 98 The Strike Two Channel (LOSER). Or maybe The What-Were-You-Thinking? Channel (GET OUT WHILE YOU CAN).

Either way, you couldn't pay me enough to watch that programming.

I kept looking for something else to watch, as I had three hours of mandatory viewing left to fill, and I came across Channel 22, which purported to be Government Access Programming (GA). hours of mandatory viewing left to fill, and I came across Channel 22, which purported to be Government Access Programming (GA).

Wrong.

It had nothing to do with government, but was Paid Programming In Disguise, namely, a series of real estate ads. ("Rear Fenced Yard!" "Six Years Young!" "Family-Friendly s.p.a.ces!"). Likewise, The Information Channel (INFO) had nothing to do with information, but was more Paid Programming In Disguise, albeit for non-profit organizations. ("Monthly Sunday Breakfast!" "Annual Spaghetti Dinner!" "Winter Dance!") I watched for ten minutes and came to the realization that Paid Programming for non-profits is just like Paid Programming for profits, except with worse music.

Things picked up when I got to Channel 166, The Fear Channel (FEAR). It was showing something called FearNet On Demand, so I clicked and got a menu of scary choices such as Blood & Guts, From Beyond, and Interrogation Room. I looked for The Economy, but they didn't have it.

That's probably on The Apocalypse Channel (PUT ALL YOUR MONEY IN A MATTRESS).

Or The Armageddon Channel (NOW GRAB THAT MATTRESS AND RUN FOR THE HILLS).

Or The End-Of-Life-As-We-Know-It Channel (AND REMEMBER, THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE ARE FREE).

Anyway I was too scared to click on any of the Fear categories, but I applaud the idea of a Fear Channel. Why shouldn't there be channels devoted to the major emotions? I'd like to see a Love Channel (CHOCOLATE CAKE). And a Hate Channel (LIVER WITH ONIONS).

And a l.u.s.t Channel. (GEORGE CLOONEY).

(WITH CHOCOLATE CAKE).

Creamy

I never use any moisturizer on my face at night, but when I went to visit daughter Francesca in New York, she and her roommate smeared cream all over their faces before they went to bed.

And their combined age is still less than mine.

So I thought, I should do this. I should take a lesson from the kids. Maybe if I used a moisturizer at night, my face wouldn't look like a roadmap of wrinkles, with I-95 running parallel to the turnpike on my forehead. So I went home, dug some cream out of the closet, s.p.a.ckled my cheeks, and went to bed. Which is just when Little Tony the puppy trotted over to my pillow and sat on my face.

Whoever said you should use a night cream didn't have a dog who sleeps on their cheek.

To interrupt the story, I never had a dog sleep anywhere near my head, much less on my face. All my dogs always sleep at the foot of the bed, and it works out just fine. My feet are always warm, and I doze off listening to the rhythm of their contented snoring.

It's like Ambien, only with fur.

But Little Tony, the new black-and-tan Cavalier puppy, sleeps on my pillow, with his head resting on my cheek or my neck. I know it sounds weird, but it's cute, cozy, and fun. I highly recommend it, if your social life is at an all-time low, too. I know it sounds weird, but it's cute, cozy, and fun. I highly recommend it, if your social life is at an all-time low, too.

In any event, I forgot about this habit of Little Tony's as I put on the night cream, so when he plopped his puppy tushie on my cheek, it took me a second or two to understand the implications. And by the time I detached his b.u.t.t from my face, stray black hairs clung to my cheek like a beard.

Not a good look, for a single gal.

Of course, I didn't give up, as I need both smooth skin and warm puppy, so since then I've gone to bed with the night cream and Little Tony, craning my neck to keep his fur off my face, or my face off his fur, generally twisting and turning most of the night until we both fall into an exhausted, albeit glossy, sleep.

The plot thickens when Little Tony has the first of what would be three operations. As you may remember, the poor little guy had a mother who accidentally bit off his foreskin, evidently taking literally the term "castrating b.i.t.c.h."

In any event, he needed an operation to reconstruct his foreskin, but it came out too big. So he had a second operation, but it came out too small. He just had his third operation, and this time it's just right.

It's like Goldilocks, only with, well, you get it.

Why this matters is that after each of these operations, he had to wear one of those plastic Elizabethan collars for dogs, shaped like a cone over his head. He wears it for two weeks after every operation, and with three operations, he has spent six weeks of his young life in the plastic collar, or, as I call it, the Tony Coney.

So you know where this is going.

If you thought it was crazy to have dog face stuck to your night cream when you sleep, try wrapping that puppy in a plastic cone, slapping it on top of your face cream, and trying to catch forty winks. plastic cone, slapping it on top of your face cream, and trying to catch forty winks.

It's fun.

The only experience I've had like this happened ages ago, when I was in sixth grade, trying to clear up a case of adolescent acne by using Cuticura ointment. Please tell me I'm not the only person in the world who remembers old-school Cuticura. I went online before I wrote this and am astounded that the product still exists, though I'm sure it's improved.

It would have to be.

Back then, it was a round orange tin full of smelly, gooey, black-green gunk. Somebody told my mother it was good for pimples, but they must have been criminally insane. In retrospect, it was good for greasing axles. Yet I smeared it faithfully on my skin every night, reeking like a motor pool, and every morning my skin looked worse.

In any event, I digress. My fancy night cream is better than Cuticura, even though I get the occasional dog-hair sideburn. Two weeks later, I am sleepless but happy, but there's not a wrinkle on Little Tony.

So maybe it works.

The Value of Money

Now that we have an economic stimulus plan, everybody is trying to figure out how it will work.

Me, I opt out.

I'm trying to figure out how Jennifer Aniston spent $50,000 on her hair during her movie tour to London and Paris.

I'm not sure she got her money's worth, unless they blew her dry with gold.

Although I admit, there's part of me that gets it. Hair matters to women. If I won the lottery, I might pay somebody $50,000 for great hair. In fact, I bet if you asked the average woman how much she would spend to get hair like Jennifer Aniston's, that woman would answer, "Anything."

So already, it's cheaper.

Plus, it's a bargain if you break it down by strand. By my calculations, Jen spent only fifty cents a hair. I got that number by going online and plugging "how many hairs on a woman's head" into Google. I didn't bother to verify the information. This is the comic relief department, remember?

Anyway, the computer reports that the number of hairs on a woman's head varies with her haircolor. Who knew? A blonde has 140,000 hairs on her head, but Jennifer Aniston isn't a natural blonde, because they're extinct. They died off millions of years ago in a meteor shower, or maybe they ran out of vegetation, scientists aren't sure, but either way, nowadays we all highlight our hair and forget our natural color. of years ago in a meteor shower, or maybe they ran out of vegetation, scientists aren't sure, but either way, nowadays we all highlight our hair and forget our natural color.

People with brown or black hair have 110,000 strands, but the computer says that the average person has 100,000 hairs. I used 100,000 because it's easier and I hate math.

Therefore, Jen spent fifty cents a hair.

That's nothing. I can't remember the last thing I bought for fifty cents. Chewing gum costs twenty-five dollars, and sandwiches are a million. Your basic bailout starts at ten billion, and we owe China twenty trillion, so why split hairs?

Sorry.

By the way, the same week that Jen spent $50,000 on her hair, Patriots Quarterback Tom Brady bought a Rolls-Royce Phantom for $405,000.

He also got married to Gisele Bundchen, and I sense that these things are not unrelated. If you're gonna marry Gisele Bundchen, you're not carting her around in a Ford Fiesta.

She's tall.

The news also reported that Tom Brady put a baby seat in the Rolls-Royce, for the child he conceived with the woman whose name he forgot when he met Gisele Bundchen.

But that's not my point.

I'm trying to understand how Tom could spend $405,000 on a car. To be fair, men do love cars. I bet if you asked the average man how much he would pay to drive Gisele Bundchen around in a car, that man would answer, "Anything."

So $405,000 is a bargain.

I went online to the Roll-Royce website and learned that the Phantom has four "coach" doors, which means that the back doors are hinged wrong and open in a counterintuitive way. But they're only $100,000 a door, so it's still cheap.

Also the Phantom has a statuette on the hood, which looks like a Barbie doll with wings. The statuette has a name, "The Spirit of Ecstasy," and if you take into consideration that you're getting the car, the Barbie doll, and the p.o.r.nographic name, then $405,000 is more than fair.

Plus the Phantom has a quiet, powerful engine, specifically, "453 bhp at 5359 rpm and 531 lb/ft 720 Nm at 3500 rpm." I have no idea what that means, but I bet it translates to five miles a gallon.

So you see where this is going.

Buying a car for $405,000 is as crazy as spending $50,000 on hair, and it brings me to my point: Cars are hair for men.

Conversely, hair is cars for women.

I doubt that a man would spend $50,000 on his hair, and no women I know would spend $405,000 on a car.

Now, here's the hard question: Do men care if women have great hair?

No. If I were a woman who wanted to interest a man, I would take the $50,000 and buy the best b.r.e.a.s.t.s ever.

And do women care if men have great cars?

No. If I were a man who wanted to interest a woman, I would save the money and mow the gra.s.s.

And what have we learned?

The best things in life are free.

Or plastic.

Undergraduate

Little Tony and I just completed our first day of puppy kindergarten, and we flunked.

Of eight puppies, he was the worst in the cla.s.s.

Where did I go wrong?

We were supposed to learn to Sit, but all Little Tony would do was Jump Up. We were supposed to learn Watch Me, but all he did was Watch Everybody Else. When it came to Take It, as in, wait until the command to eat his treat, he skipped the waiting part and went straight to That Tasted Great, Gimme More.

I should have known it would go bad from the beginning, at playtime. How can you flunk playtime? All puppies do is play, chew, and fart.

And he's very good at two of those things.

But at playtime, while all the puppies chased each other in a circle, nosed tennis b.a.l.l.s around, or tugged pull toys, Little Tony sat shaking under my chair, his brown eyes round as marbles. If he was learning Look Terrified, he would have gotten an A plus.

The teacher tells me this will get better, but I'm hard pressed to understand a dog who acts terrified in public and, at home, morphs into Little Tony Soprano.

Oh wait.

Maybe that's human, after all.

It got me thinking that it would be useful if we could send people to puppy kindergarten. How great would it be to have your toddler Sit and Stay For Just Five Minutes?

And everybody wants a husband who can Watch Me. Too many husbands are only good at Watch Basketball. And too many wives are only good at Watch Out.

All most people want is a little attention. If we could just get people to Watch Me, then all manner of acting out could be eliminated. Lindsay Lohan would vanish from the tabloids. Paula Abdul would spontaneously combust.

I'd love to expand the curriculum, too. I wouldn't mind a guy who obeyed Listen To Me. Or better yet, Tell Me I'm Thin. And I'm sure that men can think of a number of commands they'd like women to obey, but I'm guessing that they're unprintable.

Also the teacher at the obedience school told us that it follows the principles of Nothing in Life is Free. They mean this literally. Nothing-in-life-is-free even has its own website, NILIF.com, and ironically you can go visit it, for free.

I grew up hearing that nothing in life is free, but that turned out not to be true. Plenty in life is free. Going for a walk is free. Hugging is free. Money is free, if you're AIG.

Anyway, the bottom line of nothing-in-life-is-free for dogs is that you have to figure out what your puppy loves, and every time before you give it to him, you have to make him do something you want, like sit, stay, or please G.o.d stop having accidents all over the rug.

It seems kind of hardcore, for a puppy whose black-and-tan coat makes him look like a Reese's Peanut b.u.t.ter Cup with legs.