Hooters, Bravo and Hairless Beagles

I was awakened early this morning by the sound of a tiny fist banging on the front door, accompanied by the bark-howling of a Boston Baked Beagle and the excitement of a tiny Chihuahuaranian jumping on my chest.

I stood, disoriented, in the middle of my bedroom, searching for my robe (can't answer the door all nakey and stuff.) Once I had the tattas of bodaciousness temporarily covered and somewhat contained, I staggered made my way gracefully down the hall and tried not to trip on the midget dog while wrangling Sammy, my now hairless Boston Baked Beagle in to his crate.

He goes willingly when he hears someone at the door, but he still gets excited. It sounds like a freakin' fox hunt in my living room when we have company.

In the meantime, Ma appeared from the dark corridors of her lair, in the nightgown she cut off way too short, in what must have been some sudden fit of fashion inspiration and her holey drawers. I may have to cancel the Bravo channel.

I had to catch Yoda, the midget dog, while simultaneously dodging Ma and yelling to whoever was at the door that I'd be there in just a second.

Chihuahuaranians are hard to catch ya'll. Those little effers move fast and are close to the ground. You have to effectively squat and run at the same time. Never let it be said that I don't get my exercise.

Once I got my hands on Yoda, holding him with one hand and pulling my silky, floral bathrobe closed with the other (I lost the belt tie thingie years ago,) I thought I was home free. I took a deep breath, collected myself and walked to the door, reaching for the doorknob and with Ma practically climbing up my rearend, afraid she might miss something, I tripped on the Amazon's spiffy new Nikes which were left right in the middle of the mother freakin' floor.

I was falling in to the door, spewing four letter words with wild abandon, as I opened it. I think one of the hooter girls may have escaped in the process.. it's kind of a blur. I was greeted by the half horrified face of my trashy-big boobed-lazy eyed cousin's youngin.

I'm pretty sure I've scared her for life.

I bribed her with pancakes and chocolate milk, but I'm certain that today's events have only solidified my reputation as the weirdo, spinster cousin. The one with anger issues.

Welcome to Monday, ya'll.

It's my "extra" day off, so I'm at home. I'd much rather be at the asylum.. getting paid, but I'm trying to look at the bright side and take advantage of the extra time at home. I think I've washed 186 dishwasher loads in the past two days. Where the hell do they keep coming from? It's not because I've been cooking more. They just keep appearing beside the sink. I'm suspicious that they're coming from Ma's hidden lair.

It's scary in there.

Anywho.. I'm going to do something productive.. like take a shower.. then watch old Eddie Izzard clips on youtube... and wash more dishes. Or vacuum.

Ya'll take this Monday by the cajones and make it yours.

Later Taters!