My nose and I saw Iris last night. Also, Edsel broke the blinds. I abhor Edsel currently. Because I want new blinds anyway, and can I afford them? No. Blind Iris is in front of my broken blinds. The blind leading the blind.
The point is, I hardly ever see Iris now, as she is pretty much on constant Avoid Lottie missions, and I don't blame her.
Lottie's like me. She thinks she's a pleasure of life. She, however, was never written about under the Pleasure of Life section of a magazine, as I was.
Last night after work, Bitchy Resting Face Alex came over to see Lot--and me, Lot's Wife. No photos were taken, so you're just gonna have to believe me on this. I didn't make it up to seem less pathetic. The point is, we sat in my back yard drinking the Chardonnay you all sent me, and what lovely readers. Lovely readers, June. Anyway, as we did that, Lottie dug a big hole in the back yard.
"She's digging a hole," announced BRF Alex, and right then I knew. Actually, as soon as she started digging a hole, I knew, but whatever. Really, hoo care. She likes it, and my yard is a wreck. What did you all say I could do with my 100% shady yard and the lack of grass? Because I am flummoxed. I wish the guy who did my lawn was more ambitious. He seems content to mow the mud and leave.
Anyway, once Lottie got bored with her hole, she looked up at us and her entire snout was red dirt. Now, that, I wish I had a picture of. She looked ridiculous.
We were doing our downs and stays. Edsel does not NEED to review his downs and stays, but always does, which is a pain in my ass because he gets in the way. With his big lug self.
Lottie has been sitting with no problem, and now, when I reach in the treat bag to ask her to do a down, she starts sliding down to the floor before I even ask. Maybe I can take her on the road, get her to do math tricks for the crowds.
Work yesterday was a pleasure of life, with me working so much that I'd forget to pee. The newsletter came out, as well, but yesterday I had someone else fold and distribute it. Look at me, all delegating. I asked someone at work if they wanted to take over, be the new editor, and she hasn't answered me. The last person who edited the newsletter was stuck with it for, like, six years. I been doin' it since 2012, so I'm not far behind. What you gotta do is get a new person, who looks enthusiastic, and offer it to that person.
Which is what happened to me. That was back when I had enthusiasm. "SURE! I'd LOVE to edit the newsletter!" Now I am a nub. An exhausted nub. This does not at all have anything to do with the part where last night, for example, I slept five hours with 26 restless times. Thanks, Fitbit.
I've gotten into a bad habit of coming home and napping after work, but WHO CAN HELP IT? I haven't been to the gym or done Tracy Anderson in something like 10 days and I already feel blobby. How did, like, Sarah Jessica Parker whip her body back into shape after she had a human child? I guess nannies helped. I need a dog nanny.
Hey, who sent me the t-shirt about petting all the dogs? I wore it yesterday while I petted all the damn dogs who live here and I act like that's someone else's fault, that this is a house of dogs.
Aw, hell. My battery is about to die on my mouse, and I don't have any more batteries that fit. I should go. Before I do, let's have solicited advice day. Go ahead, give me all the damn advice you've been holding back that you're just dying to give me.
Last time I did this, some nutbar sent me all these, "Here's what's wrong with you" messages, and when I told her to cut it out, she wrote, "But you SAID it was Criticize June Day." Yeah. No I didn't.