And then my husband comes home at midnight, walks in the office and says, "Why are you still *sniffsniff* ohmygod did you not take a lunch today?" and I'm all, "Look, I can stop whenever I want" and he's all, "But have you smelled yourself today?" and I'm all, "I DON'T HAVE A PROBLEM" and he's all, "Not one some deodorant can't cure" and then he makes me go to bed. And then I get up the next day and I am a flaming ball of banshee because the dishes aren't done and there is a crumb trail across the living room floor and I have started a dust mite breeding mill on my mantle but the kids rooms are clean and my husband has washed his laundry and everyone is very well rested and have all watched their respective favorite shows because they are selfish assholes who understand the concept of "downtime" but I have 8,382 editions of the Daily Show piled up in the DVR and I can't find a bra so I do what any reasonable person in my position would do...I go back to work.
Second verse, same as the first.
So, I bought a dog.
I didn't mean to buy a dog, I meant to buy a plant stand and some pants that will actually button around what used to qualify as a waistline. Because as awesome as it is to be able to say, "I am the Head of Communications for Random Nameless Business Solutions Corporation", sitting in an Ikea chair typing all day is not nearly as good a cardio workout as running 10 miles every night carrying trays full of very expensive crystal wine glasses was. That shit should be an Olympic sport, seriously.
My fingers, however, are totally beefcake.
But we went out to buy a plant stand and some fat pants and we passed the place where the wild things are and I had to look because someone had to go take a laser to his balls and now I can't have anymore babies so I project all my misplaced clock-ticking onto fuzzy little four legged creatures and while I was looking at the Chihuahuas, because god forbid you own anything but a Pit Bull or a Chihuahua in the great state of Texas, I saw it. Her. The one, lone beagle, looking at me and my husband with that, "Resistance Is Futile" look that only an 8 week puppy can give right before she p0wns you, or the Borg, just with more wires through your brain, and the next thing I know, I am taking lunches.
Because nothing says "it's time to take your lunch break" like an eight week old puppy's digestive system trying to adjust to a new diet on white carpet.
And nothing says, "I certainly made the right choice in keeping these 19 piercings out of the chin-to-hips zone" like 8 week old puppy teeth going for your forearm but missing, slightly to the left. And so we named her Penny Lane because she is in my ear and in my eye and also in my nipples and in the boys no-fly zones but that's honestly just because she's a midget-dwarf and they wear boxers, but her name goes pretty nicely in keeping with the theme we have going here, what with Jethro the frog and Tull the toad, who used to live in the causeway behind our house but now live with us in our yellow submarine. There's also Pedro the tree frog, but we're pretty sure he's a refugee from Arizona. Bygones.