A vicious debate has been raging over the past several days on the Early American Republic listserve. It's nearly gotten to the point of name-calling and hair-pulling. And the question? Whether or not James Madison is the most under-appreciated Founding Father. I kid you not.

The other day, I was walking up the steps to the History building and one of my former professors pulled up in his baby blue Cadillac. The door opened and the dulcet strains of "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" came blaring out. That's why I love history: you never know what you're going to discover.

Okay, this one is classic. Not quite as good as the full body doggie wet suit that I blogged about several weeks ago, but still pretty good: Doggles. Goggles for dogs. Behold:

As if we needed it, Donald Trump recently offered up more proof of his creepiness. In an interview on The View, he remarked that his daughter Ivanka has "a very nice figure" and went on to say that "if Ivanka weren't my daughter, perhaps I'd be dating her." I'm sure a Woody Allen/Soon-Yi joke would fit nicely here, but it seems far too obvious.

Standing in line at Starbucks today, I saw hands down the weirdest thing I've ever seen: a lady sitting at a table outside with a bird in a cage, sharing a bowl of ice cream with the bird. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. She would take a spoonful of ice cream, feed it to the bird, then with the same spoon (the SAME SPOON!), go back for another spoonful and eat it.

Walking through Target last night, I did a double take when I thought I saw something near an end cap with the word "butt" in the name. Knowing that I wouldn't be able to rest until I knew for sure, I went back. Sure enough, there it was, in the baby product aisle: butt paste. John and I had a good laugh about it and walked away, wishing we had a camera with us. And in that moment, I remembered that I have a camera phone. So here it is: proof that Target carries a product called Butt Paste. Observing that they had based the name off of toothpaste, John wondered aloud if it whitened. I, on the other hand, wondered if it fights cavities. (Get it???)

You'll notice that-- as promised-- I've added a "Crazy Neighbor" subsection to my blog. Now, along with learning about the research, school, and home (or miscellaneous) aspects of my life, you can also learn about our crazy neighbor. Or neighbors, depending on who's in the neighborhood on a given day. To get you up to speed, last time I mentioned our crazy neighbor he had purchased a ladder so that he could see over the six-foot privacy fence in order to talk to our dog. Now he's gone further: he climbs to the top of the ladder, whistles for the dog (who, I'm sorry, doesn't respond to anyone who whistles) and if the dog isn't in the yard, he just continues to stand on the ladder and peruse our back yard. As if it were his own. Which I'm sure is what he thinks. In case anyone thinks I'm lying, I've attached a photo. The quality isn't very good (it was taken through the sliding glass door), but there he is. Looking back at me. What a weirdo.

Today was the day. The day that will, for Amos, probably live in infamy. Shave day. We dropped him off shortly before nine this morning, and shortly after noon we got the call that he was all done. He looks smaller than he used to (what with 5 pounds of hair gone and all) and one other observation: he's chubbier than I thought. He's got a little chub hanging off his belly that was heretofore cleverly hidden under-- well, five pounds of hair. I think he looks like a rock star. Although we're still laughing pretty hard:

A couple weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to get a bird feeder. Despite John's protests that it would lead to bird carnage (three cats and all) and, later, that ours would be the most unpopular bird feeder in the neighborhood (large dog and all), we went ahead and bought one and hung it from the tree near our deck. Pretty soon, our bird feeder was attracting not only a bevy of birds, but also a swarm of squirrels. Although I proclaimed early on that I didn't care whether or not the squirrels ate the bird food, it quickly became apparent that the rodents would eat us out of house and home if allowed to. So we went back and forth, humans versus squirrels, with us trying to keep the squirrels away from the feeder and with the squirrels trying to access it. This afternoon, with a loud CRACK, they won and the feeder lay busted on the ground, bird seed everywhere. Squirrels 1, bird feeder 0.

Well, it finally happened. We have to take Amos to the vet on Monday to.... get him shaved. The upside is, he'll finally be free of all those matted knots and our house will be free (for a while) of his shedding. The downside is, of course, that he'll be the subject of widespread mockery and derision in the kitty world. He may not leave the house. Because, when you take a cat to a groomer, it's not the same as a person going to a hair salon. While your hair stylist wants you to look good and be admired when you leave, the groomer really doesn't care whether or not other cats think that your cat is gay. So they wind up making them look like this:

This is how Sally's cat, Alex, looked a few summers ago after a trip to the groomer. I know that Amos will come home looking like that, and I only hope that he will forgive us, in time. Hopefully he'll be confident enough to leave the house.

In a night of glitz and glam, all viewed from the comfort of the couch, I must say that last night's Oscars confused me a bit. I understood when George Clooney won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor and then lost for Best Director. I understood when they dragged Lauren Bacall out to introduce the segment on film noir. I also understood when Crash won for Best Picture over Brokeback Mountain. What I didn't understand was, who invited Gary Busey???

I have a theory that reporters get a cash bonus every time they get someone to cry on the air. They must take these people aside during broadcasting school and teach them how to turn even the hardest, most steeled person into a sobbing, sniffling mess. You always see them, in interviews, "So, how did you feel when you saw your house float away in the flood?" "How did it make you feel to lose the gold medal to your arch rival, having suffered the loss of your grandmother exactly one year ago today?" "What were your feelings the moment you found out you'd never walk again?" And I bet if their initial line of questioning doesn't produce the desired results, they hold up pictures of sad puppies off camera. Just a hunch.