I woke up the other morning to find the tupperware full of baby herbs I had spent the previous night capsulating (that would be 5-0 for anyone counting) not on the ottomon where I had left them. Rut-ro.
Sidenote: Several months ago when I was stirring up the masses over at that forum I adopted - making friends - sharing my innovative and completely unsolicited opinions on matters of such importance as the shape, size, and characteristics of my vagina, I told a story I thought might cheer up the gals. I'll relay it to you in so many words- because I would hate for a future employer of mine or Zacks to discover that we actually have sex. In the kitchen.
This will all come full circle, I promise.
One day the birds and the bees met for an afternoon rendezvous. Marls (the brown dog) was on kitchen patrol, as usual, searching for a random shard of rotissere chicken skin, or even better, a misplaced 12oz filet. He gets an 'A' for effort. While he didn't find a steak, the bird flew off rather abrubtly post-rendezvous (on the kitchen island) - and accidently left a dallop of bird au'jous six inches from Marls' nose. Before the bee had time to clean up, Marls had hoovered the remains. It was way bogus.
Back to the point. I found my herbs. Spread all over the family room rug. Some half-chewed, some just licked and shriveled, some completly MIA.
All of this to say, what can be best summed up in a photo essay - and one I shared on the forum back when Marls injested my husbands sperm. If my male, ball-less dog gets pregnant before I do, I will be really pissed off.
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