I figured a new blog title was in order as there is nothing deep or philosophical about my ramblings and I would hate to give anyone the wrong impression.

I get to go to work soon where I'll hear such genius questions from shockingly old ladies, like my favorite from yesterday, "Are you...are you your mother's daughter?" No lady, I'm Charles Barkley's daughter. I've got his eyes, don't I? In all honesty these people crack me up, but it is rather disturbing how much they know about my life. That's the price I pay for working at the same place as my mother, She Who Cannot Keep Her Mouth Closed.

Alas, I must beautify for my big day, as word has it a certain adorable 12-year-old has had his eye on me. But before I go I would just like to say that Miller Lite is definitely kicking Budweiser's ass in the beer war (I apologize to anyone that war comment may have offended, like any good overpaid NBA goon would). I mean, seriously people, I'm not just biased because of my preferences.

I've realized there are a few very important happenings that I've failed to mention in my blog.

The most important of which is that I got new socks. Anyone that has seen me with my shoes off knows what a big deal this is. And best of all, Darren bought them for me. My oh my, is this man perfect or what? I should probably just skip all the formalities and drag his ass to the courthouse next time he's here and force him to take me as him crabby, nagging wife. Well hell, it's like we're married already!

Another matter of importance was a certain cat at the humane society down in Golden Valley. He's an ugly little guy that makes weird noises that may or may not be considered meowing and I'm beginning to have my doubts that anyone will ever adopt him, but none of that matters. What matters is his name. Morley. Someone named their cat Morley, which I think is really quite unfortunate, but I was so happy I almost peed my pants. Turns out Morley was living with nine other cats (and a cat lady, perhaps?) before his transfer to the humane society so I assume his caretaker ran out of names and clicked on the TV just in time to see Morley Safer's face flashing across the 60 Minutes intro, thus deeming her newest feline Morley.

I was just thinking (yoses!) and I've decided that if Darren thinks new socks aren't reason enough to get hitched and refuses to say he does (get it? like "I do," ... "he does" ...), I'm going to marry Ron Weasley. I'll work hard to buy him pretty things and I'm pretty sure they'd have to accept me into the Weasley family, what with my hair and all. I could even feign a really bad British accent if it were necessary. What I don't understand is if his parents were so bloody poor to start with, why did they spend that money Arthur won on a trip to Egypt. What kind of magical shit does Egypt have anyway?! They would have been much better off coming to Minnesota. Because, you know, there's lots of magic here and all. I just hope Ron's a better money manager than his nutter parents.

This whole not working thing is giving me way too my time to mentally transplant myself into alternate realities. It's also giving me way too much time to blog. Alas, do not fear, as I return to that shitpile of a gas station today.

Ah, and I forgot to mention that I kicked Darren's ass at yet another game of mini golf last week, only to be dethroned by my dad on Saturday. It was painful, but I think I took it quite well.

That's all, folks. Come back for another helping tomorrow, because I'm sure there'll be plenty more to go around.

I just want to tell whoever fed my dog speed before bed last night (and I have no doubt you're reading this, person) to go straight to hell.

At about 12:15, after I had witnessed her sleeping soundly in the basement, Lucy, a.k.a. The World's Fattest Dog, came bounding into my room, crashing through the closed door, tail wagging and feet seemingly attached to springs. I had no problem with this, as I was finishing reading about Harry's fourth year trials and tribulations. (Crouch's son - who the hell would have guessed it!? This Rowling lady is a genius!) However, when I was ready to go to be 15 minutes later and Dog was rammy as ever, I got a little grumpy. I brought her outside. I gave her a treat. I gave her fresh water. She didn't want any of that though. She just wanted to sleep on my head.

I will never - NEVER - again complain about a ten- (okay, maybe thirteen) pound cat resting one soft, furry leg on my face while I try to sleep. It sure as hell beats The World's Fattest Dog with a wagging tail and dripping panting tongue. Why was she panting anyway? It was 35 bloody degrees outside! Sure, I pushed her off me, but she hopped right back on my chest, inched higher and higher, pretending to get comfotable, nearing my head with her painful elbows and lethal, unclipped claws until my face was either covered with dog or pillow and I couldn't breathe.

Finally I threw up my arms and took her back outside, where she stood on the deck for about a minute and then I let her back in. She stood in the rain and enjoyed it, which she has never done before, came back in, dragged ass downstairs and went to sleep, as if to say, "Oh, okay, it's raining. I can sleep now." What in the hell?

I didn't think much of it and quickly fell asleep. It was, after all, past 1:30. I slept like a dead person until 2:51 (I checked the clock), when I heard, and no doubt incorporated into my dreams, the sound of a large dog barrelling through my bedroom door. I tried to ignore her, which was easy at first considering the sleepiness I was dealing with, but before long she was on my bed again, flopping her big, dumb body over my face. It wasn't funny any more. I had laughed at first, two and a half hours earlier, but now any and all humor value had faded away. I got up, let her outside where she AGAIN stood on the deck looking in the house for a couple of minutes. Then she came in and went downstairs to sleep again.

When I came out of my room at 10:30 this morning, she was lying on the floor in the kitchen, looking at me with her ears perked and her tail wagging. Bitch.