It's finally sunk in that we leave for California in about sixty hours and there's still way too much to do to get ready. I've made some serious progress in my last two days off, but my To Do list is still obnoxious. I work Sunday, so today is D-Day. But what the hell? I'll take any excuse at this point to put it off a little longer, so why not blog?
I don't have anything exciting to report, except that in today's chapter of Retail Therapy, Old Navy bore the brunt of my wrath. (And thanks for that term, CrazyCath. In my recent years of being a non-shopper I'd forgotten it). I'm all done now, but boy, oh boy, did that feel good. It's nice to not look like a bag lady all the time, and even though I completely understand that you can't polish a turd into a diamond, it's still been fun.
Let's see. What other random things can I ramble on about?
In answer to Marti's question about Dee Dee and the sheets, the moron dog has a ritual. She gets on a bed and drags all the blankets off. Then she lays down flat on the fitted sheet and kicks her back legs out as hard as she can. She always does this in the same spot on any given bed. After a while she tears a little hole in the fitted sheet which just keeps getting bigger every time she does it. She's probably destroyed ten sheets since we've had her. This dog needs therapy. And a trust fund.
Speaking of therapy, my counselor has cut me back to once a month sessions. Evidently, she feels I'm well adjusted. It's a good thing I didn't run into her with my arms full of underwear Friday. Hey, it was a really good sale, okay?
On the subject of underwear, I may need more therapy if Peter talks about my panties again. In the meantime, look for my picture on the cover of the upcoming Roughage Diet for Dummies book.
And talking about my picture, I will do my best to post one somehow. You may not believe this, but I don't have a camera anymore. It went away last month with other assorted items (and people), so even if I wanted to be held liable for cracked computer monitors worldwide, I couldn't. I'll come up with one in LA. Somehow. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Have I rambled enough?
I thought so.
PS. Sorry, Ped Crossing. I completely forgot about the window. Apparently there was a fight over the remote and Surfer Dude threw one of Gumby's big honkin' tennis shoes at him. He missed and it went straight into the window. On paper it would appear that the blame is all SD's, but I know Gumby and his instigating ways a little too well. Let's just say that this particular dog house is big enough for two.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Posted by the rotten correspondent at 12:02 AM