Friday Featured Follower

First, a brief monologue, if you will (oh, stop your complaining, I'll get to the good part soon enough):
Ahem...

There is no doubt that the past week has been a lousy one for me. I’ve been moody and bitter and all kinds of shouty, and I kind of knew why but kind of didn’t. I think it was an amalgamation of worries and doubts and feeding off of other peoples’ frustrations that left a big ole’ black cloud trailing me like a leopard trailing an injured gazelle. Great for my blogs (because my humor is fueled by my unquenchable rage), but not so great for my sanity, which at any day is iffy, at best.

Regardless, today I feel like I’ve turned the corner. Maybe it’s because it’s a beautiful, sunny Friday. Maybe it’s because I have a great weekend ahead of me, full of fire pits and dogs running on the beach and horses that need riding.

Or maybe it’s the crack I smoked this morning…

Either way, things are really looking up today, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

Moving on…

It’s Friday (Yessssssss!)
And you know what that means.
Time for a Friday Featured Follower.

Today’s Friday Featured Follower is Carrie over at Brick City Love.

Now, there may be a few of you out there who are saying, “No fair! She's, like, one of your best friends! That’s cheating!"

And to those people I say, Shut it. It’s my blog and I am the blogtater and I make my own G-D blog rules.

But seriously, for those of you who are able to look past this blatant favoritism and check out her blog will see, in an instant, why her blog is featured on my site today.

Why I want to do sexy times with her blog:

Here’s the deal with Carrie:

I’ve actually known this little blondie since the day she was born. As in, literally, the day she was born, my parents took me and my sister to go visit her in the hospital. My mom watched Carrie and I every day before we were old enough to go to school, and her parents are my godparents.

Hell, this chick not only attended my wedding, but practically ran that bitch.

To say we’re tight is an understatement.
It’s like saying Nicole Kidman and her Botox doctor are tight.

Anyhoodle, watching this lady grow up has been something all kinds of special. When she was a teenager, she was sort of creative, in this arts-n-crafts, home-ec kind of way (and with a home-ec teacher for a mother, is it really any surprise?). In short, she could sew and she could cook, and that was really, really handy if I needed something hemmed or ingested.

But since that time, she has seriously come into her own. Her creativity has gone through the roof, but not in the way I thought it would, like making sweaters for her dogs or decorating cakes. She got all strange and wild and passionate and bizarre, and the more I saw it, the more I knew that this chick was TOTALLY ON to something.
She was the bright, independent, totally confident, slightly off-kilter individual whom I could only HOPE to become one day, if I played my cards right and didn’t succumb to the conformity of an office job.

And this wonderful personality is completely evident in her blog, which started as a way to track her progress while she and her husband (another dear friend of mine) renovated a bajillion-year-old house in Newark, NJ. She still writes about the renovations, but she has also added another dimension to the blog that displays her eccentrically wonderful tastes and reveals tidbits about the awesome person she has become.

Plus, she’s a hottie (as if you guys needed another excuse to go check her out…literally)

One of my favs:
All of the posts that proudly display her unique tastes are fun, but today’s post takes the cake.

Only THIS WOMAN would:
A) Dream of owning a vintage dress form
B) Find a vintage dress form and proclaim how beautiful it is
C) Take awesome pictures of said vintage dress form so that, when you’re looking at it, you’re all, Hey, I can kinda see it!
D) Walk away from this dress form, get in her car, and get on the highway only to TURN AROUND, GO BACK, AND GET IT.

This woman?
She LOVES her dress form.

And because of this, I love her.

[interesting aside: she also decorated a wall in her former apartment with giant gas station numbers and has a doll head mold collection. At this point, are you thinking, WTF?!?!? Good. That’s exactly what I thought when I saw it.]

So go visit her blog, and I promise you’ll be hooked. And you might learn a thing or two about home renovation in the process.
But you can’t be her best friend because that’s MY job, and I called dibs, suckas!


So that concludes this little love-fest. If you want a shot at becoming the next Friday Featured Follower, make sure you’re 1) a follower of mine, 2) have a great blog that you update pretty regularly, and 3) are not above blatant commenting and sexual favors.

Have a great weekend everybody!

Sunday Can't Come Soon Enough

Oh my god, you guys. This animal situation is getting completely out of control. Now, if you are a frequent reader, you know that Brian and I have enough furry animals in our house to assemble some sort of small, fuzzy, domesticated army (if only I could motivate them to do anything other than sniff each others’ assholes and ruin my life).

Our Cast of Quadrupeds:

Jericho: The wise old dog who knows everything about life, yet continues to take his morning piss on my euonymus plant, knowing full well that I will chase him down and scream in his face for doing so. Also known to poop in inappropriate places including (but not limited to): Petsmart, a crosswalk in New Brunswick (as the light was turning green), and center field at the annual Firefighter Turkey Bowl. But NOT at my wedding, and accordingly, is the house favorite. By a long shot.

Skittles: The deranged, serial killer cat who will cut you if you fuck with her, or even if she’s just in a mood. Known to be handleable only when her surface temperature reaches 3462346952234 degrees Fahrenheit after sitting in front of the fire for countless hours. Is anticipated to kill us in our sleep one day.

Tiger aka Pumpkin aka Fat Girl: World’s fattest cat. Can be found sitting on my laptop case 24 hours a day, exposing her lady bits and licking the fur off of her engorged tummy. Believed to be the incarnate of my Dear Aunt Peg (may she rest in peace), and as such, is alleged to speak with a throaty voice developed after years of chain smoking, and probably calls everybody “doll.” Also has a testicle-stomach.

Milo: The scourge of our house, and the bane of my existence. Is 11 months old, not yet fully potty trained, and 100% untrustworthy when left alone for even a second. Exuberance is matched only by his ability to digest anything and everything, including books, crown molding, antique chests, windowsills and window frames, shoes, bras, pillows, blankets, dog beds, bills and other paper goods, and various plastic sundries. Has been known to scooch his crate through multiple rooms in our house and run six miles at once without tiring. Will likely be the death of me.

So, considering this menagerie, is it any wonder that the addition of another animal is seriously giving me a heart attack?

Enter Bandit.

Bandit: Beagle belonging to in-laws. Neurotic, spastic, clingy, and prone to baying that will make your ears bleed and your eyes pop out of their sockets when he is left alone. Has a serious Napoleon complex and thus, splits his time between staring down and attacking Milo and running from Milo with his tail between his legs. Designated “Weirdo” and habitual shedder. Not even that cute, to be perfectly frank.

Bandit is staying with us through Sunday while my In-laws go on vacation somewhere in NY.

Oh, joy.

When he’s at his home, he sleeps in my In-Laws bedroom room on the floor (I think). Sleeping arrangements are already tight in our house, so you can imagine that adding an additional…eccentric…animal to the mix is not conducive to sleep. Or sanity.

At first, Bandit was determined to sleep on the bed with Brian and I. Unfortunately, that piece of prime real estate is already monopolized by Milo and trust me, there ain’t room for one more. So Bandit jumps up and theres all kinds of whining and staring and a few snarls as Milo and he negotiate the terms of his lease.

When the grumbly growling doesn’t stop, I make an executive decision to boot Bandit to the floor, and would you believe it? He GROWLS at me. Like, seriously snarls. I saw teeth and crazy-eyes. So Brian shoves him to the ground and then…
The pacing starts.

Back and forth across our wood floors. Bandit is trying to figure out where to sleep.
*click click click click
Like the Tell Tale heart, but VERY MUCH NOT MY IMAGINATION.

And for the record, I was seriously considering burying him below the floor boards at this point.

But finally everybody settles down for the night.

Unfortunately, Milo decides that 2:00am is a GREAT time to wake up and stare down Bandit from the top of the bed until they resort to fisticuffs.
So there’s more growling and snarling and you know what?
Don’t fuck with my sleep, you little hairy bastards!

Milo gets the boot out of the room, and I crawl back in bed and try to sleep.
Thing is, I keep imagining all the stuff he’s getting in to out in the living room.
So I sleep, fretfully, until Milo throws himself at the bedroom door, barking, around 3:00am.

So in Milo comes and he’s back on the bed, but he’s all squirmy and wanting to play and I had to beat him...er...pet him until he acquiesced to stay still and “go the fuck to sleep,” as I so tactfully put it.

So that was my night.
And we have three more to go.

Bandit is also unable to regulate his food intake.

In other words, he’s a fat, greedy bastard.

So Milo and Jericho’s food, which is usually down 24 hours a day, has to come up. And Bandits food has to be measured and put down twice a day, without allowing my dogs to eat it.

It’s fucking retarded. So what if he want to eat himself to death? I say sit back and let the process of natural selection occur.

Brian put down Bandit’s food this morning while me, Milo, and Jericho were sleeping in the bedroom. Sure enough, it’s still on the floor when we emerge, and as soon as Milo gets a whif of it, he runs to the kitchen and FLIPS THE ENTIRE BOWL OVER.
Then he starts eating it off the floor.

(I hate this dog).

So I clean it up and put it back in the bowl, and I have to watch Bandit eat to (slowly, nugget by painful nugget) make sure Milo or Jericho don’t sneak a bite. And then I have to put Milo and Jericho’s food down to make sure that Bandit doesn’t eat it, and they’re all, “What is this shit?” Because they’re used to eating at their leisure.

Ugh.

So I’m pretty sure Jericho didn’t eat at all, Milo ate half of Bandit’s food, and Bandit ate the other half of his food this morning.

I seriously don't have time for this when I'm struggling to make it to work by 8:45 am.

So if anybody needs me, I’ll be at a hotel until Sunday.

Brian,
If you’re reading this, Bandit gets a cup of food twice a day. Oh, and Milo’s shock collar is in the closet.
Have a great weekend!

Way Off Target

Just in case anybody was worrying that Target was too good to be true (and let’s admit it, we were ALL thinking it), allow me to alleviate your fears:
No.
Target is NOT too good to be true.

Because the same people who brought us reasonably priced pajamas and papyrus greeting cards and that adorable bull terrier with the target around his eye have...apparently...brought us THESE find clothing selections:

I call this first piece The Ricky Ricardo:

Hey Ladies! Ever have one of those days where you’re in the mood to marry a feisty yet submissive ginge and sing at a Latin dance hall? How about those days when you look in your closet but just can’t find an appropriate outfit to wear to your local Pimp Convention?
And what about those cold winter mornings where you’re thinking to yourself, hey, it’d be great if I could sling a skinned otter around my neck to battle that winter chill?

Well, allow Target to answer your prayers. Pick up this coat for the low, low price of $39.99 and be the envy of every pimp, I Love Lucy fan, and frostbitten person you encounter.

And what about these beautiful skirts, which I refer to as The Courtney Love Collection?

FINALLY there’s a skirt in which I can go from giving BJs in a back alley for 8-balls to my ballet recital without having to change. Throw in some Lindsay Lohan knee-pad leggings and you’ve got yourself a highly versatile outfit that will have your next appointment behind the dumpster begging for more!



Here we have The Lumberjack Special:

What else can I say about this vest? The plaid proudly communicates “Resident of Montana,” yet the faux-fur-lined hood screams “playboy bunny.” And sleeves? Who needs them when you’re ensconced in layers of flannel and fake dead animals? What you got here is a vest that allows every aspiring pin-up to express her inner mountain man..until her arms freeze and fall off.

…and speaking of Mountain Man…
Nothing brings out your inner wild animal like The Yeti:

The Yeti is made from 100% recycled Yeti fur, skinned from only the finest Himalayan Yeti. Ever need a vest suitable for howling at the moon? Ever wonder what it would be like to wear a muppet? Than The Yeti is for you. Impress your friends! Intimidate your enemies! Spread your fleas! For the ultimate animal experience, The Yeti can’t be beat.

And finally, we have The Night Fever:

Perfect for those nights out at Studio 54, this leopard-print gem will make you the envy of everybody at the roller disco. Start your own “night fever” in this classy, stylish shrug that in no way, shape, or form makes you look like a prostitute.

Just make sure not to give anybody directions on the street while wearing it. You know…just in case the cops drive by.

A Post About My Vagina, As If Your Day Wasn’t Weird Enough Already

I’m in a bad mood today.
A REALLY bad mood.
Fucking dismal.

There are a lot of reasons for this mood, many of which I can’t disclose, but the primary reason involves my inevitable date with a speculum at 6:30 tonight.

Ladies, you know what I’m talking about…
And men? Well, maybe you don’t want to continue reading today, and I wouldn’t blame you one bit.

Honestly, there is nothing worse than a visit to your ob/gyn. I mean, where else can you experience all of the awkwardness and discomfort of sex with none of the fun parts?

You go into this little room and take off your clothes, and they give you this weird paper mumu (open in the front, of course), and a thin paper “blanket” that’s supposed to help you maintain some sort of dignity but really only highlights the fact that you’re essentially dressed in a paper towel.

And then the doctor comes in and is all, “Spread ‘em.”

…and not in a sexy porn way, but in a strictly utilitarian way that involves elevated stirrups and instructions to “scooch your butt towards the end of the table.”

And then they tell you to relax.

HAH.

Hey, I’m as liberal as the next guy, but any woman who can relax whilst spread eagle in front of her ob/gyn (and nurse ‘witness’) should probably be checked for drug use.

Because there is NO WAY that a woman can relax when her bits and pieces are on display in that manner.

And then they get all up in there. Like, real close, face-to-face time with your vajeen. And they try to make small talk about the Phillies while digging for buried treasure in your woman area, and part of you kind of appreciates the distraction, but the other part of you is all, “it’s kind of hard to talk sports when you’re elbows deep in my crevasse.”

And then a third part of you is like, “maybe you should be paying attention to what you’re doing, seeing as you’re squeezing the bajesus out of my uterus and at some point, I may want to have children.”

And then a FOURTH part of you is making your grocery list, because you’ve kind of been there, done that and really, at this point, who in the tri-state area HASN’T seen your vagina?

Or am I alone in this?

So your ob-gyn is finally done with the “getting to know you” phase of the exam and breaks out the big guns.

He or she holds up a speculum in one hand a giant tube of KY in the other and says something like, “this is going to feel a little cold.”

And before you know it, you’re being violated by a metal duck bill that’s been slathered in goo.

So you’ve got the cold, slimy duck bill in your nether regions and you’re thinking to yourself, hey, how much more uncomfortable could this get? And then, just to prove you wrong, your ob/gyn OPENS the duck bill and suddenly you’re all, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, want to open that thing a little wider, doc? I can’t QUITE fit a basketball in there yet”

Because when your vagina is flapping in the wind for all to see, sometimes sarcasm is your only friend.

And then they stick a long Q-tip up there, and you don’t know exactly what they’re doing.

But your uterus knows.

And it objects.

But finally. Finally. Your doctor is finished.
The speculum is removed and they leave you to deal with the KY-slathered aftermath, and they never, EVER leave you enough tissue.

Because they want you to suffer.
Because they hate you.

And that, kids, is what is going to delay me from getting home until about 8:00 tonight.

Is it any wonder why I’m kind of in the mood to punch babies?

WonderBread Ted

So, we got a new car last week.
“New” as in, new to us. Not “new” as in, nobody ever had sex in the back seat of it and it still smells like leather.

It was actually Brian’s brother’s car (and now that I’ve mentioned sex in the back seat, I think I need to go throw up. Awesome).

Brian’s brother recently went to Afghanistan for a year on a contract position with an engineering company. He had a car that he needed to sell, and Brian needed a car whose shocks weren’t about to desintegrate at any second, undoubtedly causing the car to careen out of control and plow into a gaggle of schoolchildren.

Volkswagen: the “Hitler” of automobiles since 1933
(and I’m not even kidding about it. Read the Wiki entry here)

So I guess the timing was ideal. Two DMV visits and multiple calls to various insurance agencies later, we had ourselves a new to us car.

Sure, it isn’t the car we ideally hoped for. Brian had his eyes set on a new Jeep Sahara hard-top for off-roading fun, and I was daydreaming of driving around in a new Nissan Frontier (Because I’ve always wanted a pick-up truck. Because I’ve always wanted an excuse to wear a cowboy hat that doesn’t involve Halloween or riding a bull). But sometimes life doesn’t work out like that, and despite your best intentions, you end up with…something else.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you:

WonderBread Ted:

So yeah, we have a Focus. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. It has decent pick-up and an MP3 connection and a moon-roof.

It’s just so….I dunno...white-boy.

And I know, I know. Last time I checked, Brian and I are white (with the exception of some sort of suspicious activity with my great great great great grandfather and a woman of African descent, according to my half-crazy grandmother, which might explain my badonkadonk and killer moves on the dance floor)

But this car.
It’s just not us.

This car belongs to a recent college grad who wears button-down shirts and slacks and works at Inatech and owns a condo and spends his weekends playing beer-pong with his friends on his Ikea dining-room table.

This car belongs to a guy who wears just a little too much gel in his hair and listens to rap (but turns the volume down when a black guy walks by) and drinks Heineken to impress the ladies with his taste for “imported” beer.

This car belongs to a guy who replaces toner cartridges and spends his vacations at the jersey shore and spends his cash on the newest plasma TV and Playstation games involving guns and those little headpieces that allow him to curse out his 10-year-old opponents in Dusseldorf, Germany.

This car DOES NOT belong to a hip, adventure-seeking firefighter and his equally hip and adventure-seeking writer wife and their two dogs, two cats, and disgruntled beta-fish. I mean, where’s the roof rack for the kayak? Where’s the hatch-back to fit our camping gear? Where are the heated seats to soothe my bruised backside after a day of snowboarding?

*sigh.

So yeah.
We have a Ford Focus.
And for all intents and purposes, it’s very nice.

I’m just not sure where I'm gonna put the damn kayak...

Friday Featured FRIGHTENER

HAPPY HALLOWEEN (observed)!!!!!
I don’t generally blog on weekends, so today is my official Halloween blog.

BOO!

I don’t have anything really scary to post on here, except for the fact that the Yankees won Game 2 of the World Series last night.
Frightening, I know.
(In all honesty, I only watch baseball as an excuse to drink beer. Do I care who wins? Not that much…)

BUT –
Let’s see if we can’t squeeze some Halloween out of this here blog anyhow, shall we?

And it being Friday, I should probably do a Friday Featured Follower.
So, on account of it being both Halloween (observed) AND Friday, today’s featured follower is:

Wait for it…

SATAN.

Now, he’s not a traditional Friday Featured Follower in that he doesn’t have a blog. I DID find a blog by a so-called Satan, but I gotta tell you – I don’t buy it. Maybe it’s because he only has 23 followers, and last time I checked, there are more than 23 Nazis and Republicans out there, so, right off the bat, I’m suspicious. Plus, he hasn’t posted since June 29th, and I know he’s busy and all, but something tells me the REAL Satan would update more regularly, if only for his fan-base.

We all know the KKK get cranky when they have nothing to read while eating their Cinnamon Toast Crunch in the morning.

However, due to the nature of my posts (let’s not talk about this one. And this one. Aaannnddd possibly this one), I can only assume that Satan follows my blog. Not publically of course. But he’s there.

Can’t you feel him?
He tells me to burn things.

Anyfireandbrimstone…

Why I want to do sexy times with him (good lord did I actually just write that I want to do sexy times with the devil?!? Well if I wasn’t going to hell before, I CERTAINLY am now)

Because he’s HOT (yuk yuk). In all seriousness, I’ve always been attracted to the bad boys. There was Phil Diamond in highschool – the senior who skipped class and who I’m pretty sure showed up to school intoxicated at least twice a week. And there was my ex-husband who…well…was a bad boy in a number of ways, and taught me a valuable lesson about WHY DRUG DEALERS DO NOT MAKE GOOD HUSBANDS (is there anything as stupid as an infatuated 22 year old?). But Satan? He’s the ultimate Bad Boy upon which all other bad boys are compared to. Skipping class and selling pot are KID’S STUFF compared to famine and war.

Plus, I feel like he probably rides a motorcycle, which is pretty sexy. I heart bikers.

One of his most memorable deeds
Wow, so many to choose from!
But I think I’m going to go with the Black Death.

According to Wikipedia (ahem…)

The Black Death was one of the deadliest pandemics in human history, peaking in Europe between 1348 and 1350. Usually thought to have started in Central Asia, it had reached the Crimea by 1346 and from there, probably from black rats on merchant ships, it spread throughout the Mediterranean and Europe. The Black Death is estimated to have killed 30% to 60% of Europe's population, reducing the world's population from an estimated 450 million to between 350 and 375 million in 1400. This has been seen as creating a series of religious, social and economic upheavals which had profound effects on the course of European history. It took 150 years for Europe's population to recover. The plague returned at various times, resulting in a larger number of deaths, until it left Europe in the 19th century.

Wow.
I mean…wow.
I just...wow.
That’s old school. I can only dream about inflicting that kind of mortality rate on this planet. At best, I’d be able to pick off a handful of people from a clocktower before I got nabbed by the po-po. But 30% to 60% of Europe’s population? Well, I bow down to the master.

(Okay, I’d like to take this opportunity to point out that I am NOT, in fact, a devil-worshipper, and Tapdancing In The Dark does in no way, shape, or form promote mass-murder. Excluding Republicans, whom I think we can all agree should probably be wiped off the face of this earth. Nor does Tapdancing In The Dark actually desire to pick people off from a clocktower, although the though has crossed our minds, usually during the morning commute.

Also, henceforward, Tapdancing In The Dark will refer to ourselves in the first person plural. Because we think that sounds very official and kind of bad-ass)

So that was today’s Friday Featured FRIGHTENER. Want to be in the running? You know what to do. Click the ole’ follow button and commence with ego stroking.

AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST:
I’d like to acknowledge this very awesome and sexy award I got from Adrienzgirl over at Think Tank Momma:

Awards are ALWAYS appreciated, and I have to say that Adrienzgirl is one of my newest and most favorite bloggy buddies. Her blog is awesome. And sassy. And a little bit wild.
I love her. You should love her too.

Anyhoo - THANKS, THINK TANK MOMMA!
I’ll be sending you a picture of my own home-made post-it outfit soon. Just a little sumthin-sumthin from me to you *wink wink

(make sure you have a bucket on hand for the vomit when you open the file. I haven't shaved my back in a while.)

Okay ghosts and ghouls, that's about it for me. Have a safe and happy Halloween, and I'll see y’all on Monday!

I Have A Very Sarcastic Fish

Me: Hey! Wazzup homes?
BlueFish (BF): Oh HEY THERE. Wow. Haven’t seen you in a long time. How’s life? What’s new? Oh, and by the way, did you know that fishes are living things that need to EAT once in a while?!
Me: Okay, okay, I get it. I haven’t fed you in a while. Sorry about that. But look! You’re still alive! Hooray!
BF: Barely.
Me: But alive, none the less.
BF: I guess. Well, at least more alive than that cricket-looking bug floating at the top of my tank.
Me: AAAIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!
BF: Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction. Did you know that fish can scream? Just ‘cause you can’t hear them…
Me: HOLY SHIT that’s disgusting!
BF: I know.
Me: GROSS!
BF: Tell me about it.
Me: How did that even happen?!?
BF: I don’t even remember, seeing as fish don’t have much long-term memory and it happened FOUR DAYS AGO
Me: WHAT?!?! Four DAYS ago?!?
BF: Yeah.
Me: You mean to tell me that thing has been floating at the top of your tank for four DAYS?!?
BF: You got it.
Me: Geeze, dude. That’s rough. I’m SO SORRY about that.
BF: By the way, I’m going to need therapy now. Thanks a lot.
Me: Christ. That’s terrible.
BF: I hope you weren’t planning on having kids any time soon, because you obviously need some skills in the whole “raising and nurturing” department.
Me: Well, that’s a little harsh.
BF: So is watching a cricket-thing drown to death in your tank and then having to stare at him for four days.
Me: Okay. Point taken.
BF: I’ve had nightmares ever since…
Me: I get it.
BF: And I think he’s starting to decompose…
Me: I’m actually surprised that you haven’t, like, eaten him or anything.
BF: WHAT?!?!
Me: I dunno…I kind of figured that fish aren’t exactly picky eaters. He’s made of protein…you EAT protein…
BF: That’s disgusting.
Me: So is the stuff you NORMALLY eat.
BF: It’s entirely different.
Me: Okay, whatever. I’m no expert.
BF: Clearly
Me: Jesus, I SAID I’m sorry.
BF: Not as sorry as he was.
Me: Yeah, yeah. Okay. Listen. I have to go to work now…
BF: WAIT…WHAT?!? You’re LEAVING?!? What about the cricket situation?!?!?!?
Me: I know. It’s awful. And as soon as I get home…
BF: AS SOON AS YOU GET HOME?!?!? What the HELL, man?!?
Me: Dude, I’m late. He’s been in there for 4 days. 8 more hours isn’t going to make much of a difference.
BF: You are the worst owner in the world.
Me: I know. I’ll make it up to you. Okay, I’m running late now, so I’ll talk to you later...
BF: WAIT! What about my food? Weren’t you going to feed me?
Me: No time. Gotta run. See ya.
BF: I’m going to murder you in your sleep…

Tomorrow:
Awards!
For me!
What could be more fun than that?!?
Stay tuned...