I itch pretty badly.  I just thought I’d share.  When I brought Charlie into “the shelter,” I bathed the dog I knew how.. I dragged him, claws and paws and all, into the bathroom, picked his large ass up, and dropped him into the bathtub.  He does NOT like the bathtub.  So we fought bathing, and I’ll admit, as a result, he did not get very clean.

But he smelled better.  And I gave him a flea treatment.

That night, Bryan took him home.  We were having a Mary Kay party, and while Mabel is fun and all, Charlie pees on things when new people come over.  My house is not pee-proof.  Unbeknownst to me, Bryan bathed Charlie when he got home.  So.. goodbye, flea treatment.

So last night, after Book Club (which was way too much fun, ladies.. I like feeling like I’m smarter than those NOT in the club), I wandered over to Bryan’s (after two glasses of wine) and sprawled out on the couch with Charlie at my feet.  Bryan was doing manly stuff like dishes and laundry, and I was good and buzzed, so we stayed that way for awhile.  I woke up this morning, and legs from toes to knees are EAT UP with bites.  FLEA BITES.

Argh.  I feel like there’s things crawling on me. (There aren’t.  But as anyone who KNOWS me will tell you, skin irritations are one of the few things that REALLY get to me.)

Old men should not wear sleeveless shirts to work.  Period.

I cannot wait for the weekend.  Why, you may ask?  Because that’s two days without work.  I have been having the most vivid, horrible dreams lately.  They usually involve a baby (I HAVE NO IDEA WHY I’M DREAMING ABOUT BABIES), and me being chased and persecuted.  And then annoyed.  And I usually end up chucking the baby at whomever is persecuting me.

Again, picture of maternal instinct, right here.