Dog days.

Anyone that knows me knows my dating mantra well: for every five men you go out with, odds are high you'll only want to see one of them a second time. And even then, your inclination might be lukewarm at best. This, dear readers*, is why I date in volume.

In a dating world where a bachelor's big selling point is showing off his double-jointed ring finger (yes, it happened to me once) you could be out there for eternity. That is until recently...

I started going out with a fella' who -against my best efforts- has captured my genuine interest. I've now broken all my rules by granting (yes, it's a privilege) him four dates with me *and* I've forsaken my other prospects.

Case in point: this weekend, our dogs met. By the way, that's a big deal. OK, so it's not exactly Reagan and Gorbachev here, but pretty close in global importance. I spent at least twice as long grooming Schatzi as I did myself. Was not pleased to discover she had taken off her pink bandana and chewed up a corner, but I got the knots out of her ears and she hadn't been in the lake all week, so her BO was relatively under control. All good things.

After much to-do, I can confidently say the canine introduction went off without a hitch. Well, except that Schatzi ate all of G's food. And then she found a paper bag to tear up. Not so bad until she knocked over a potted plant on the deck. And tried to steal dinner off the table. Then also stole G's dog bed....

I do hope we get invited back again.

*Perhaps presumptious, but I went ahead and used the plural form, assuming that I do indeed have more than one lone reader. Hopeful.

Cookie monster.

So our office orders supplies from an exclusively on-line company. I like their customer service and their prices can't be beat, although their bargain basement price tags alarm me just enough that it's quite possible most of their wares fall off the back of a truck.

Anyway.

A co-worker ordered supplies, which were delivered yesterday. Amongst the usual pens and paper, we also found [surprise!] a tin of cookies. Oh, happy day! Mmmmm a delightful blue treasure chest, full of Royal Dansk danish butter cookies-- high class all the way. We didn't order cookies, but figured they were a nice appreciation gift for spending more than $200 on our purchase. I tell you we did some damage...this was binge eating at its finest and we enjoyed every little bit of our afternoon treat!


That is, until I stopped noshing long enough to wipe the crumbs from my face and answer the phone. Our dear delivery guy was calling to see if we had received a box to RJPS.

"Nope. Not here." I answer.

"OK, well it has some pens and paper. Looks like I have your box of supplies and I must have mixed them up...oh, and there's a package of cookies in there."

Me: ".......................................Umm. Let me put you on hold for a second and see what I can find."

SHIT. Shitshitshitshitshit. Not only had I already distributed aallll the office supplies amongst our departments -like the benevolent spirit I am- but the cookies were six feet under. And there, next to our confectionary graveyard lay the packing slip -invoiced to RJPS- with a cookie tin line item.

Do I lie? If I lie, do I say there were never any cookies in the first place? Or just say we never got the box at all? Do I tell the truth and expose our glutton?

I simply told him we had indeed received the RJPS delivery and arranged for a switcheroo. This morning, we hid the evidence by destroying the [ghostly empty] blue cookie tin and claimed there were never any cookies. I also couldn't bear to tell him that our executive chef blatently stole a gel pen from the mixed-up supplies, with no remorse.

The kicker? He brought us a tin of cookies, just because.

Hump day.

It's officially the middle of the week for those that aren't coordinating a Saturday wedding. I sincerely hope that's most of you. Today also marked my return to the gym. HUZZAH!

...somehow in the midst of closing on the house, destroying and rehabiliting said house, working, and schooling, things holding moderate to high value in my life (fitness, mental stability, social ties, proper hygiene) fell by the wayside.

For the record: 5:00 am is not my friend. Or yours, more than likely.

What's even less friendly? 5:30 am spin class. You've been warned.

I'm happy to report I survived the full 60 minutes, although not without a small amount of trauma. You see, I failed to eat dinner last night-- after a late return from class I determined collapsing into bed would be far more satisfying than any form of caloric intake. Unfortunately, I also failed to eat breakfast-- it was 5:00 am, ok? Seriously, I almost forgot to put on shorts.

Anyway, about mid way through class (aka: just this side of my heart violently exploding) I felt vomitness setting in. Is that a word? At any rate, it is now because the sensation was very real! It must have been the combination of water on an empty stomach, intense cardio, and the instructor's gross error in judgement by playing Evanescence.

I was able to keep it together, although I do believe I let out a small -yet audible- scream at some point. Fortunately, this occurred at exactly the same moment a fellow masochist could no longer contain their flatulence, conveniently diverting attention from the fact that I looked like a sweaty, female version of Meat Loaf circa the Bat Out of Hell: The Monster is Loose years.

Oh yeah, it feels good to be back!

Uncomfortable.

Just returned home from a night in my seminar course, Liberal Arts Perspectives: Time. Today has been pretty rough, as I spent most of my sleeping hours finishing the research paper for my elective, Women in World War II. As a clear indication of my fuzzy mental state I inexplicably volunteered to present my seminar research paper an entire week early.

I will now let the word "volunteer" completely sink in.

Just so we're perfectly clear: I physically raised my hand -with full knowledge of the consequence of said action- to sign myself up to present a twenty page research paper SEVEN days earlier than required. I did this willingly, without a masked man putting a gun to my head. I mean, really?! There was a brief moment when I considered this might be a bad idea, but then realized I will test the very limits of my physical and mental constitution for glowing recommendations to my doctoral program of choice. I believe this makes me the academic equivalent of a consumer whore, oui?

I couldn't shake the feeling of having a giant sweater wrapped around my brain; further evidenced by a classic uncomfortable moment: while a class mate was poignantly detailing his poetic near-death experience undergoing surgery on a malignant brain tumor, I started laughing. It was that most dreaded of moments when you feel the giggle bubbling up...I had suddenly -horrifically- thought of a very funny exchange at brunch yesterday. And the laughter decided to make an audible appearance. Realizing I looked like a completely insensitive jerk, I pulled the classic recover: **fake coughing. Except that I did cough up something -probably lodged from lunch- and proceeded to somewhat choke. Not completely, but enough that I quite simply made matters worse.

Stares. Stares aaallll the way around that room. Kind of like the guy above...go figure.

**Come on, you know what I'm talking about...we've all been "that guy" during the funeral, or church, or lecture from the Holocaust survivor.

Two years later.

So when I decided to pursue my Master's degree --I'll get to the PhD someday-- many images ran through my head. Oh, how I dreamed of wearing corduroy and tweed, perhaps a smart blazer with elbow patches! I would live in a picturesque city with changing autumn leaves and ride my vintage bike -complete with book rack- from my effortless studio to my class on the Sociological Implications of Super Mario Brothers: A Study in Gender Roles of Princess Peach and Luigi.

Can't you just see it?

Fast forward to now, aka: my reality. I live in a blazing hot town that holds candlelight vigils for the near-death of our infamous transvestite. I rush to class in my dented Honda hatchback without even changing heels after my day at the office. I write this sitting on a metal step-stool, with a folded up towel as a chair pad, as I struggle in the mires of finishing a research paper before tomorrow's noon deadline. Did I mention this all takes place in my unfinished house? The one with no furniture, save the mattress on the floor? And with walls that are only 80% painted?

I'll bet you can see it now!

Why take up blogging again? Because in the midst of my entirely over extended and over committed life I thought, why the hell not? I mean, devoting my time to one more activity can't possibly be any worse than say, being chained to a cinder block and thrown to the bottom of the ocean, where I'm not actually killed by ravenous sharks, but just maimed to within an inch of my life, then dragged along the ocean floor by a giant brain-sucking squid.

Right?