Fetch

I’m in need of a funny fucking post.

Apparently my sense of humor is directly linked to my health-O-meter. Since my happy introduction to Lyme nearly 3 weeks ago, my posts have been L.A.M.E. and, friends, I apologize whole-heartedly. Thanks for staying the course (muffin baskets for everybody)!!!

But now it’s time to get back to business.

And what do I have in store for you sluts today?

…Jesus-fucking-Christ not a god-damn thing (except for a bunch of explicatives, which is really only an indication that I’m starting to feel like my old self again.)

You can put the defibrillator down, Lou. She just said “fuck.” Everything’s gonna be ohhhh-kayyyy

So I guess what I’m saying is that while I was recovering from my near-death encounter with a Ixodes scapularis (Google it, people), nothing of any interest happened. Well, except for a little destruction of things of enormous sentimental worth and one living room window valued at $morethanImakeinayear.00

But seriously, these past weeks have entailed me gracing a number of different beds, couches, chairs, and chaise lounges with the presence of my ever-growing ass. And now, almost three weeks later, I’ve finally got my “piss and vinegar” back (because it’s 1934), as well as about 5 lbs that I had been successfully removing from my hips/thighs/buttocks at an excruciatingly slow but nevertheless consistent pace, Pre-Borrelia burgdorferi infection (somebody, please get me away from Google).

Brian and I took Milo to the dog park last night because it was either that or watch him eat the couch/hump Jericho/chase his tail for the next 5 hours because he’s been smokin’ the puppy crack for the past week (which gives him the wood munchies, but let’s not go there again, shall we?). So we were walking around the spacious fields and woods that encompass the local dog park, and I was feeling great because A) I was walking – for pleasure – for the first time in two weeks, and B) Milo had found a friend who was intent on running him into the ground, and I knew that for once I was going to get some fucking peace and quiet in the house when we went home.

So Brian’s throwing a ball for Jericho and Milo is getting physically assaulted by a strange dog and everything is copasetic. At one point, Brian throws the ball and Jericho, being the genius that he is, kind of sort of heads in the exact opposite direction.

Proof-positive that even smart dogs can be really, REALLY stupid sometimes.

So I’m sent out in the general direction where the ball landed to retrieve it. At which point Brian makes some joke about me being a better fetch-partner than the dogs and I do the squinty-eye thing which is his signal to STFU, like, yesterday.

When I finally spot the ball, about 15 yards away, I jog over to it.

And then I, the woman who ran 6 god-damn miles a mere month ago, almost had a fucking heart attack right then and there.

I could literally hear my heart saying, “Why did you do that to me? WHY?!?!” and then my lungs were all, “I quit this bitch” and my eyesight started to peace the fuck out and a literally almost died from jogging 15 yards and bending over to pick up a saliva-coated squeezy-ball.

Once I regained my breath, eyesight, and reasonable heart-rate I told Brian that apparently I wasn’t in any shape to play fetch, or do anything else for that matter. Of course, he responded by saying “well you certainly seemed to be in good shape last night,” for which he was rewarded with yet anther stink eye and possibly a snarl because my cardiovascular health is no laughing matter.

(But I guess he does have a point…)

Regardless, I believe it is now officially time to get my ass back in shape. If not only for the bedroom antics, but also for the next time Brian wants to play fetch.

It’s good to have a purpose in life.