So I know I’m supposed to tell the story of my husband nearly castrating his finger after smashing our glass coffee table while watching the kiddage, but I have like zero time.  After staying up until 4:00 am–4:00 AM–on Saturday night for my 20 year high school reunion, I am pretty much a zombie right now.  I figure at my age, I can expect to be fully recovered sometime late next week.  Which would be fine and dandy, except I have three articles due this week.

Since I have no time to write on subjects that don’t involve dating in random cities strewn throughout the United States, I’ll instead post some photos of Skye I found on my computer while searching for some specific baby photos of Finley, which of course I was an utter failure at locating.  Not to worry–no doubt I’ll stumble across the baby pics when searching for photos of Fergie eating our vacuum cleaner at a later date–that’s pretty much how stuff works around here.

At any rate, back on topic.  It’s official–there’s some major Fergie hound missing going on around here. I actually find myself following Skye around, hoping she’ll do a no-no, and my son has taken to asking, “When’s Fergie coming home?” on a regular basis.  Meaning about once every ten minutes.  Even hubby admits that he misses our naughty liver girl.

And since I couldn’t ever get Skye to perform any misdeeds in front of me (she’s more of a closet bad girl, that one), I had to instead settle for looking at these photos I found.  Still no misbehavior, but they are kind of cute.

So without further ado, here’s Skye performing her patented spin moves:

You never know when life is going to throw you a curve ball. Take Skye, for instance.

One day, she’s basking in the sun without a care in the world:

The next, disaster strikes in the form of an absent hot tub cover:

It’s like the epitomy of the Project Runway slogan, only in reverse: One day you’re out, and the next–you’re IN! And I guess Skye is a glass half full kind of girl, because this is the second time she’s made a splash and yet she’s already back in the saddle, sunbathing on the hot tub again.

Or maybe she thought we needed a little excitement around here, since Fergie and her crazy brother Leo are visiting “Nana” in Colorado. You see, my family is entirely insane and to ensure we demonstrate this adequately, every few months my dad takes various dogs on interstate road trips between California and Colorado. I wouldn’t be surprised if a clause of “Do you, Jerry, solemnly swear to rent a variety of minivans and drive the family hounds thousands of miles each year to different households, purchasing them burgers along the way and letting them sleep on the hotel beds with nary a complaint, so long as you both shall live?” was added in to my parents wedding vows. I guess that would involve some special telepathic gift on my mom’s part seeing as how we didn’t have Ridgebacks until after I graduated college. Which could explain why I was always getting busted in high school before I even got the opportunity to do anything wrong.

Anyway, we said our good-byes on Saturday. Leo was in his crate less than a minute before wreaking havoc on his bedding:

And Connor says good-bye to Fergie:

It’s really nice to share the chaos for awhile but I have to admit—we miss our little Ferganator.

Not too long ago, I sent in an article to eharmony, in hopes of getting a writing gig.  Guess what?  I-Got-Published!

Okay, so it’s not like I’m going to be short-listed for the Pulitzer or anything.  Or even that I finally  finished that heinous romance novel I started over five years ago (poor Drake and Sophie–they at least deserve some kind of closure!) 

But I’m excited about it anyway.  Besides, as a mom, I’ve been pretty much indoctrinated in how to celebrate the mundane.  Such as all those times I cheered like a crazy woman upon discovering poop in the potty.  Or when I do the happy dance because my son chooses a tissue upon which to wipe his weeping mucous membranes, rather than his sleeve.  Or the couch.  Or even the hound dogs (poor Skye). 

I mean, surely, if human feces and boogers can make me pump my fist in triumph, then you can pretty much guarantee I can get excited about anything. 

So awhile ago, I wrote an article on dating (yeah, funny one, I know) in San Diego.  As it turns out, they chose nine writers out of over a thousand submissions, and for some crazy reason, I happened to be one of them.  And, I’m actually getting PAID to do it.

Without further ado, here is the link to my article.  Actually, there’s just a teensy weensy little more ado to be had.  A small precaution, really—you see, here’s the part where I tell you how truly awful my article is, in the hopes that your diminished expectations might be ever-so-slightly exceeded.  Seriously, though, if you’re seeking an introspective, erudite discussion on the philosophy and conundrums of procuring romantic partners in Southern California, you shouldn’t even think for a millisecond about clicking this link but instead, make a beeline for your local library (Only, don’t check out fifty books and then promptly forget about them for over two months.  As I recently discovered, librarian types tend to frown on that.  Plus, you can buy your own bookstore for less than the overdue fees.)

http://advice.eharmony.com/article/the-top-10-guide-to-dating-in-san-diego

And, since my brain doesn’t understand the term “linear” at all, here are some photos that have absolutely nothing to do with dating in San Diego.   I caught Fergie being, well, Fergie, about a few hundred times today. 

I like to call this ensemble, “A Day in the Life of Fergie:  So Many No-No’s, So Little Time.”

Hmmm, anything tasty by the sink?

The approach….

The kill….Um, hello, does she not see me standing RIGHT HERE???

Same bowl, different snack time.  Are you kidding me?  And I’m still standing RIGHT HERE!

And now for the trash:

What have we here?  Mommy’s used snot rag?  Score!

Aha–my favorite dessert!

I promise you, the dog really does get fed.  And sometimes, even digestable stuff.