Thank God it’s Saturday…

And Cuyler doesn’t have a football game.

And it’s finally cold (not that I like the cold, but I hate wishy washy weather).

And Casey doesn’t have to be at work until eleven.

And Stu and I survived his first round of FOLFOX chemo, his first experience with home infusion (with the help of a European-style man purse that clashed with his shoes but that’ll look real good with the Speedo he’s getting from Santa), and his brand new, constant craving for pie.

And I can sit here for a few more minutes, sipping my coffee and watching the sunrise and wondering if any of the cute polo ponies in this picture will let me ride them. Of course it might be safer if I just went back to bed. But hey, I’ve got a free Saturday. Not to mention access to a saddle…

Just horsin' around, honest!

Let’s do lunch!

November is a big month for me. My oldest turns nineteen (how that can be when I’m only twenty-nine, I don’t know), and I’ve been invited to be the guest speaker at the Middleburg Women Networking Luncheon on November 17th. I’m sure you don’t want to come to my kid’s party and play Madden 2011 and watch a special screening of Jackass 3D, but I definitely think you should join me for lunch. Rumor has it the Briar Patch Bed & Breakfast Inn is lovely, the food and wine are wonderful, and the guest speaker has promised to be sufficiently sleep-deprived so she doesn’t tawk at the speed of sound. For complete details and to register, visit Middleburg Women. Hope to see you next month!

Top six things I’ve learned in the last five days

1. Popping out a painfully dry, cloudy contact lens while driving is a virtually surefire way to lose the lens. And doing it while simultaneously turning the AC on full blast guarantees you’ll do the rest of your errands half blind. Until of course you stop, spend ten minutes combing every inch of the filthy floor, finally, unbelievably find the folded, hairy, crumb covered lens, suck it back to life and pop it back in your eye.

2. I am not a germaphobe. Obviously.

3. “Ride on carts have a single rider rule for a reason, ma’am!” Ok, ok. But I’m still not doing the dumb speed limit.

4. Tearing out a clump of hair and a couple of eyelashes during a therapy session devoted to your trichotillomania (a.k.a. compulsive hair pulling) will result in your therapist making you wear a hand puppet for the full fifty-five minutes. Specifically a bumble bee hand puppet. It was cute, but it clashed with my outfit.

5. “I have a hard on!” is eleven year-old boy speak for “My heart is racing!” and no reason to drive off the road. Unless of course you’ve lost a contact lens or been forced to leave an accessory you’ve grown (begrudgingly) fond of at the shrink’s so other budding baldies can use it.

6. The water running up your thigh in the shower is a stinkbug.

And on my side of the bed, no less.

This is what happens when the puppy you got when you should’ve gotten a lobotomy is addicted to your sweet, sick husband.

Thanks to the miracle of the modern pain patch and a five milligram Oxycodone kicker, your husband is so soundly asleep he has no idea his favorite Golden Retriever, who just happens to be splattered in cow manure, has snuggled in next to him. You’d think the smell would wake him up. Or the fact that the dog’s also a smidge soggy. But no. The man’s out cold. (And if he has noticed, somewhere deep in his subconscious, he probably thinks it’s a really ripe, post workout me. Marvelous.)

I’d like to say that this wouldn’t be so bad if the damn hound wasn’t on my side of the bed, that I could deal with it if he were laying on my husband’s side, or frankly, on my husband. But I can’t.

I have rules about who and what I’ll share my bed with. My kids. A good book. My iPod. The phone. And of course, Rip Van Winkle here. Notice though that I didn’t include the dog.

And the dog knows it.

That’s why he’s not in this picture. He heard me coming, thought “Shit! It’s the one with the yellow head!” and took off running.

Only then did my husband wake up.

What’s with the camera?” he asked.

I was trying to catch Tug in the act,” I replied, pointing to the filthy spot where the dog had been laying.

Eyes closed, he flings his arm out and pats his hand around, blindly, on the bed. “Tug’s not here.”

He was. Look at the dirt.”

He groans, lifts himself up on one elbow and looks, then looks at me and rolls his eyes. “That could’ve been from the kids,” he says, flopping down onto his nice, clean pillow. “Really Susan, you have to stop blaming stuff on Tug.”

You think it’s too late for me to get that lobotomy?