Is that a dog? Or a chicken? I can't tell!

7:55 a.m.

Monk's been practicing wearing his chicken costume. Unfortunately, he doesn't really like the head part, so instead it looks like he's wearing some sort of lame chicken hoodie.

Also, he looks sort of...depressed. In the photos. He manages to do that every time I pull out the camera. But I swear, when we ask him if he wants to wear his costume he goes crazy and prances around like an idiot. I SWEAR.

And now, because I know everyone has been simply dying from all the anticipation:












































































































Love,
black sheep

And Shut the Door Behind You

7:09 a.m.

I've been finding it impossible to post, lately. I'm always tempted to sit down and write a long emotional post about how up and down I've been the last few weeks, mostly down, and how it's been so hard to get out of bed and go to work, and how I feel annoyingly cry-ey, and how I just want to sleep, a lot, and how numb I've felt when I'm not feeling sad, and how this tension headache just will not end, no matter how much medicine I take. I want to write about how hard it has been to pretend that I feel happy, when I don't.

But then I think, why? Why should I do that? Why whine?

So then I think I should write a post about how it snowed last weekend because summer died and fall is brief here, or a retrospective on the greatness of my old car after we sold it, or tell a silly story about my flight to Missouri, or post those pictures I took of Monk in his new chicken costume, or maybe tell you about the ridiculous sweat suits the members of my new gym wear, and how they are all retired and very nice and everyone uses the sweat towels properly.

Then I'd feel like I didn't have the energy. That it was fake. So I wouldn't.

But yesterday morning, I woke up early. The gym was good and I didn't feel too exhausted to finish, and then I got ready for work without staring into the closet with tears in my eyes, and brushing my hair didn't feel like a completely overwhelming task. I straightened up the house and had the energy to make myself some tea to take to work. And on the drive, I noticed colors looked brighter, and I felt as if I was seeing the falling yellow leaves for the first time. I felt good for about a five hour stretch, and I realized I'll get through this one.

This one, surely, is on its way out.

Love,
black sheep

I Accidentally Joined a Gym

7:17 a.m.


I keep meaning to post.

I also keep meaning to 1) do the laundry 2) pick up the house 3) buy some food, already 4) pack 5) play with the dog more 6) stop acting like a crazy woman. But, no. No! Especially not the last. I'm going to go ahead and blame it all on my uterus/hormones. After last week's hormonal drama, and a family breast cancer scare, and the onset of the absolute worst period I have ever had, EVER, I just haven't, you know, given a shit. In fact, Tuesday night I thought I was going to DIE due to cramps of doom (I didn't know they could feel like that!), so I was leaning more toward a "writing a will so someone good will inherit the cats when I die from my uterus imploding" option than a "doing laundry despite the fact that our dryer is probably currently a fire code violation" option.

This week I did manage to bitch a lot about my cramps, however. (Lest you think I was completely unproductive.) And somehow I accidentally joined a gym.

I KNOW.

I know.

I suck so bad.

I got this promotional mailing for half off a membership, so I called them to ask annoying questions like "what if I move before 18 months are up, do you still own my soul?" and "how did you get my name and address?" but within thirty seconds I had been roped into driving down for a tour.

The young tour man was very tan, with very white teeth and very slicked back hair. He also was incredibly awkward and was reciting the sales gig badly from memory. These lines included things like, "So, when was the last time you were in a gym?" (ANNOYED.) "Today is a new day! It's a fresh start!" The tour included a painstakingly detailed demonstration of every weight machine they had, regardless of if I had used one a thousand times or never seen one. "And this one works your pecs! All of these machines are great for turning that fat into muscle! Nice, lean, muscle! But, I mean, you look pretty good! Just if you want to continue looking good!" (SUPER ANNOYED.) Finally I explained that I'm a girly girl, and if he could just point me to the room with the treadmills and tv's, the locker room, and the room where they do yoga classes, we could move on with our lives.

And then somehow I joined.

I suck so bad.

There are only three gym-like facilities in this town, as far as I can tell. The university's, which I can not join because I am not a student and also I am not rich. Then there's the community rec center, which is also expensive. (I find it disturbing that I can not afford to use the community rec center. The one we probably pay taxes for.) And then there's this, a privately owned gym. The ghetto and annoying gym I joined.

I feel guilty spending money on things like haircuts and gym memberships. (Which is why I day dream every single afternoon about getting a massage, oh MAN, do I want one, to the point of drooling on whatever I'm working on, but never actually do. I am pathetic. My thought process: A massage is the cost of the gas bill! Or three bags of dogfood! Or my half of the cell phone bill!) But. I joined the gym anyway.

The cost is really the same as eating at the vegetarian place twice for lunch. (Kara, shut up.)

I'm going,

black sheeped

Edit, 8:58 p.m.

PS. Monk's costume came today. SO. RAD.

PS. #2 I'm going out of state for five days. I will see my sister and consume a lot of food. Which is fine, cause I'll go to the gym when I get back.

PS. #3 I'm afraid the gym membership is going to be a "slight problem." In that I will pretend I can eat anything I want, and it will be fine, because hey! I'm going to the gym!

PS. #4 Isn't tobasco sauce awesome?

b.s.

Yes, I Did Buy the Dog a Chicken Costume

1:17 p.m.

Friday was hellish, yesterday sort of numbish, and today I think I'll be okay.

So.

We're getting ready for Halloween, of course, because, Halloween! It's the candy-soaked precursor to Thanksgiving!

I'm very excited. I like cats, I like candy corn, I like pumpkins, I like those cheap plastic spider rings, I like giving candy away, I like crappy Halloween decorations, and I really like costumes.

I LOVE costumes.

Last year I was Cher, and Justin was Steve Zissou. But. We didn't get the DOG a costume. I know, I know. What were we thinking? He's been depressed about it for a year:
















But this year! This year we are ready. Last night I ordered something special for him:





















And just so you don't confuse that beautifully groomed and well behaved dog with mine, here is an artist's representation of what Monk will look like in his awesome new chicken costume:























MS Paint = heart!
Ridiculous dog costumes purchased from Drs. Foster and Smith = heart!

(I can not believe I have turned into the sort of person who buys her dog a Halloween costume.)

(But I am so glad I have.)

Love,
black sheep

Yesterday was a full moon, after all.

8:41 a.m.

This was a strange week, and I feel closer to Justin because of it. He is a good man.

Also, I feel sad. Very, very sad.

I need some emotional down time. Also, I need to drink more milk.

Love,
black sheep

I'll Cut You Deep

4:42 p.m.

So, um.

If you're wondering where I went, and you guessed that Wednesday I cut open my finger at work and got stitches, and it was really painful to type but I still composed two extremely whiney and dramatic posts about it, featuring LOTS OF AWESOME CAPS LOCK ACTION, and then Blogspot randomly deleted these two magnificent posts about my four (4) stitches, you would be correct.

And also there was work and an art opening and cleaning the house for weekend house guests and a mojito party and driving to the airport.

But, hey, look, stitches! On my right index finger! Blood squirting! Trip to the ER! Receiving four (4) shots in the WOUND in the TIP OF MY FINGER and believing that I WAS GOING TO DIE because I am a big, big baby!

Oh, and then Thursday I slammed the cut part of the finger in a door, and I sobbed like the little pansy bitch that I am.

(Also, I am an idiot. I cut myself because I was holding a blade upside down.) (That's right.) (An idiot AND a little pansy bitch.)

This post was a lot more fun the first two times, when I was feeling more brave and hardcore and desiring lots of sympathy and ice cream.

Ice cream!
black sheep