Fat Tuesday

"This is a shell building with no restroom or interior water. Previously occupied by Handley Feedstore. Please check potential use - with current regulations or requirements. Directions: Historic Handley, adjacent to Red Rooster Lumber Co."

I am fat.
It is Tuesday.

Fat Tuesday will be followed by WTF Wednesday.
I am sure I will still be fat on WTF Wednesday.

I baked a cake on Mind Melt Monday and proceeded to consume the chocolate monstrosity in its entirety.

BY MYSELF!

When you fall asleep with a mouth full of cake and wake up five hours later convinced that your not so welcome furry four legged house guest took advantage of your reluctant hospitality by using your face as a potty pad-- I think the experts would agree that this a warning sign. A referral for treatment to a twelve-step program for frosting addicts will probably follow.

Admitting that you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I know these things because I watch Intervention on television while eating cake and congratulating myself for not being addicted to cough syrup or slot machines,

I think the events of Holy Shit I Killed the Dog Friday would have forced anyone to bake. (Addicts always have excuses).

Holy Shit I Killed the Dog Friday was the day the stupid dog that I agreed to baby-sit while its owner went to Mardi Gras jumped off my bed. I was nice enough to let him sleep with me (even though Viv the obstinate poodle warned me that he was trouble). He re-payed me by hitting the floor like a five-pound brick of semi-sweet baking chocolate, and then proceeded to flop around like a carp. It was a horrifying sight I assure you.

A frantic trip to the Doggie Emergency Room ensued. $250, a diagnosis of a fractured pelvis (Apparently a freakish occurrence that will require specialty surgery that could total many thousands of dollars- I am not even kidding), and three prescriptions including one for liver flavored Morphine later, the dog acts as though nothing in the world is wrong with him. He runs, he jumps, he chews shit up. I hate him.

I do not know if Fido has made a miraculous recovery, or I just imagine he has because I took the Morphine myself (It is not so bad once you get past the taste). Either way, I still feel terrible about the poor weasel's plight. I hold the ratty little beast all the time, even though he leaves hair all over everything, including the black turtleneck sweater I was wearing on Ghetto Saturday.

Ghetto Saturday was the day that I was stuck with Realtor Djour because Mr. Fussy Pants (My boss) announced on Are You out of Your Mind Thursday that he had found a shill buyer for our current office (I was unaware that he was looking for a buyer!--Nothing like job security, or lack thereof to make a woman break out the hand mixer). I was charged with the duty of securing new offices by March 1, otherwise known as Just Fucking Shoot Me Sunday.

Anyway, Realtor Djour could not resist pointing out that I had furry boobs. Ironic considering that she herself was wearing a frock adorned in chicken feathers as we stood in a feed store (SWEAR TO GOD) with no indoor plumbing. Clearly, the realtor needs treatment. Not me.

Yes, more excuses! So what?

Now it is Fat Tuesday. Tomorrow is WTF Wednesday, the day I have to tell my former loved one I broke her dog.

Before you know, it will be Just Fucking Shoot Me Sunday.
The day I have to show Mr. Fussy Pants our new office, but first I must find a company that rents his and her Porta-potties.

I.
Need.
Brownies.
Stat.

Out-T.