So that happened, in three acts.

Act one: I got all Preachy Mc Bloggerson at my Babble Voices today about that Time magazine Attachment Parenting article. Which is only of note because I don't normally give a rat's ass about breastfeeding, anything-parenting, or Time magazine. I don't even know who I am anymore. 

Act two: I managed to compare the conference I am charging with the programming management of to Tengen Tetris. That actually isn't of note at all; I compare most everything to Tengen Tetris. 

Act Three: I have this thing with helpless animals who have no one to take care of them. I went to a flea market to get a plant stand and came home with Plant Stand Fail. Whoopsie.


I took Plant Stand Fail for a walk and Trash Can Ninja popped his little dirty unhomed head out from around the trash can he was trying to find something edible in. Oh, crap

I met this cute guy at a bar with mommy issues and no car an.....oh, I can't even be that mean. Today. 

Because today this puppy was hanging out on my cul-de-sac all morning, driving Plant Stand Fail into a braking tizzy of Beagleic proportions. When I left this afternoon to take my kid out for some medicine, it was on the porch, soaking wet, and very happy to see us outside. Mother of Pearl. 

I drove away, friends. I want to state that for the record. 

And while I was gone, my 12 year old came home and informed me that there was a cute black puppy on the porch. 

I told him to go inside and ignore it, friends. I want to state that for the record, too.

I got home from the store and he was outside, giving it some water. I noticed that its hipbones were sticking out a little. I gave it just a little of the giant bag of dogfood I'd just bought. Some so many/others so few. It's not like it's any secret that I'm nothing more than a commie socialist at heart. Blame Canada. 

We agreed to walk it around the block, slowly and deliberately, so that the owner would see us and scream at us for stealing their puppy. So we did. My sons walked it for forty minutes, in fact.

When they came back, we agreed to keep the puppy in the back yard until tonight when we could walk it again. After a while in the backyard, the storm-clouds started rolling in and we realized we might just have to being it inside for just a little while tonight while the storm passed, you know? 

So we gave it a bath. Just to get it clean enough for my nice couches, mind you. Record, and all. 

And when we got to scrubbing it, we realized it A) was slightly more skeleton than a puppy should be and B) had the beginnings of a case of the fleas. So we fed it some more. And then, naturally, we had to get it some flea medication. 

And then my boss asked for a picture of it, and I didn't send one for a while, because when you take a picture of a stray dog, that's like signing a pre-nup. 

My boss made me do it. I want that on the freaking record. But we aren't naming her, goddamn it. We ARE NOT NAMING HER ANY NAMES LIKE MITTENS OR SHEERA OR MARYANNE JUST SO I CAN CROSS #15 OFF MY LIFE LIST

And now She Who Must Not Be Named is tired, after a long day of meeting Plant Stand Fail and Trash Can Ninja and basically eating food and being taken care of, so we have to let her come inside for some rest. After all, she's just a helpless puppy.

It's raining out. 

She has no where else to go. 

I am a motherfucking id.i.ot. 

With three dogs. 

There, Beneath The Blue Suburban Sky

The thing with working from home is that I never get to stay home sick, and I never get to play hookie from the office. I don't get the 30 minute commute to listen to The Divinyls real loud and forget about life. I never get to 'leave it at the door', because I never leave the damn door. I never remember to take a lunch break because it's not like I'm going to get some Major Change of Scenery if I do. And then my boss calls me to ask about something and I am a flaming ball of bitch and he's all, "Did you take a lunch today?" and I'm all, "What's the fucking point, yo?" and he's all, "I'll call you back after your exorcism" and then my kids come home from school and I actually stop working then for a while to make them dinner and get their homework done but then I hear Outlook be all, "Bliiiiing! You've got mail!" and I try to ignore it, I really do, but once my kids are settled and happy and playing basketball or Wii - because they're smarter than I am and also, get to leave their day jobs - I go into the office to pick up the coffee mugs and gatorade bottles and I think about vacuuming but that damn Outlook is all, "Bliiiing! You're ignoring me!" and so I think, "Huh, I could just wrap up this one last thing while the kids are settled and then it's 9 at night and I'm dead smack in the middle of something I can't stop.

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.