“Do you need to stand exactly where I’m trying to vacuum?” Yes, I do.
Irene booked her flight, which is excellent. But then as usual it all comes crashing down when my bath is a day late, exactly one day after I run into my Mr. Darcy at the park. I still have mange simulation holes from The Furminator Incident, which, combined with being not quite a Breck Girl, contributed to him blowing me off yet again. I am undaunted but you must admit, that’s terrifically bad luck. Then yesterday morning, Cesar Chavez appears on the deck. Literally on my deck. While I am out there. I nearly had him but he did an impressive action movie leap and made it to the roof. Meanwhile they’re sipping mimosas or something rather than building me a scaffold. And she wails about me impacting her convenience.
The new dog across the street has chow-ish elements but the staff over there apparently don’t know how to use scissors. He has overgrown feet of unparalleled hideousness. And a nylon leash. It could very well be a crack house.
Dr. Anne comes tomorrow to check my systems, and not a minute too soon. I am slightly itchy, likely from chronic stress. I don’t know when the nightmare will ever stop, perhaps never. And yet I continue to attempt to communicate the obvious: There. Is. No. Way. To. Disguise. Vegetables. In. My. Eggs. Why. Do. You. Keep. Trying.