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My house has been quickly falling into a shameful state of disrepair bordering, at times, on utter lower levels of hell disgusting.  I have finally convinced myself that it *really is* the best thing to keep the puppy crated for stretches of time during the day because she *needs* alone time and besides, everything I read says that if you cannot keep an eye on your puppy, she should be crated to prevent potty accidents, chewed {insert anything here} and getting into mischief.  Really.  They (animal behaviorists, internet pet enthusiasts, anyone else who doesn’t have a pet nanny) say that it is *critical* that the puppy learn to amuse herself in her crate.  And this sounds just like the kind of rationalization that I can buy into–wholeheartedly.  So today, I’ve been ‘allowing’ Rosie to go into her crate “for her own good” so that I can get a few things accomplished.  Because the filth of the house has officially reached a level that grosses EVEN ME out, people and that’s SERIOUS.

I am only a leeeetle bit ashamed to tell you that I washed-folded-and-put-away somewhere in the neighborhood of 6 loads of laundry.  We had been dressing ourselves from the ‘clean pile’ for the past few days but when the ‘clean pile’ starts mingling with the ‘dirty pile’, I realize that I probably need to spend some good, quality time putting clothes away.  It was with a HUGE sigh of relief that I hung up the last of the clothes.  Bryan’s, actually.  And as I turned to start on my next task, the shelving rack literally bends and gives out under the strain of the load.  Which dumps every.single.item of his onto the floor–you know, the ones I had just spent countless amount of time hanging up.  Now, this event can tell you one of two things.  Either my husband is mostly gay and has WAY too many clothes in his closet OR that shelf rack has NEVER had to hold the total weight of all of his hang-up clothes; as in, I have never had all of the laundry done to such a degree that every item of Bryan’s was hung up on the shelf.

I’ll leave you to decide which is the case.  But, my shelf is holding up fine.  Just sayin’.

I had SUCH a GOOD TIME at my sister’s bachelorette party.  I really did.  And I am NOT just saying that because she reads this.  Her friends were super nice, funny and…endearing, I suppose.  They were So Amusing.  And not in a derogatory way.  Just in a “Wow!  These girls are so CUTE!” way.  We had her little lingerie shower at the Marriott–which I was worried would be weird because…hello, my LITTLE SISTER receiving negligee she’ll be wearing for her FUTURE HUSBAND–AWKWARD.  But it wasn’t.  And she got some really cute things.  We then went to The Strip at Atlantic Station.  Steak, Sushi, Girly Drinks.  We laughed a lot, talked a lot and giggled a lot (alcohol helped, obv.)  I have not heard what happened after my SIL and I left but I am sure they had a blast.  It *almost* made me regret not having any single, carefree times at that age.  *ALMOST*  Especially when the dog made her debut at YOU GUESSED IT! 5:30 AM!  The only time I truly hate that dog is at that unGODLY hour.  At every other hour she is mostly just annoying.  Have I ever mentioned that I HATE PUPPIES?  HATE!  HATE!

I *would* show you pictures from the bachelorette party but my SISTER hasn’t uploaded them yet and I refused to take my Big Honking Camera to the party because I can be quite annoying with it and I wanted to just enjoy the evening.  But I HAVE to post one because…I WORE A DRESS!  And MAKE UP!  Hell Hath Officially Frozen!

I haven’t had anything remarkable to write about lately.  Would you like to hear the story of the dog who woke up the family at 5:20 am?  It’s the SAME DAMN STORY DAY AFTER DAY.  The only variety is whether or not she wakes up lonely in the middle of the night (as if 5:20 isn’t the middle of the night enough already) and if she does (which she usually does), how much she howls, barks, whines, yips and is cacophonous (either I made up that word or I am a vocabulary genius).

I have taken to drinking Vodka.  With calcium-fortified orange juice, of course.  Gotta be healthy.

In other news, my little sister’s wedding is two weeks away.  I KNOW!  And I just realized that I probably should have ordered my dress one size smaller.  I KNOW!  It will be FINE, JUST FINE but a little gape-y.  Grreeeeeeat.  There’s a Vodka drink for this situation, I am sure.

I tried to get a decent pre-wedding picture to illustrate the gape-yness but then noticed that I am in DESPERATE need of some tan line intervention so I was distracted and horrified and deleted all of the incriminating evidence of my dual farmer tan and thick tank-top bathing suit strap tan lines.  Is it even possible to have opposing tan lines?  Evidently, yes.  My skin is the sort which tans easily.  I mean, I can be outside with 50 sunblock smeared liberally for just a little while and I come inside with lines.  I suppose it is my Indian blood.  When I was reckless and cancer/wrinkle-fear free, I enjoyed this aspect of my genetics.  I *always* had a beautiful, even tan.  Now, of course, it just makes it difficult since I cannot step outside without wondering if my outfit will leave a semi-permanent impression on my skin.

Speaking of tans…when we went to Fripp Island back in June, I got a lot of sun.  We slathered up and avoided peak sun hours but it is almost inevitable (especially for me) to instantly develop bathing suit tan lines.  Malyn was in the shower with me (we shared a bathroom with approximately 50 other people and took showers together to save time) and she peered up at my chest and said, “Whew, Momma, your boobies are getting WHITER!”  I tried to explain that the skin around my chest was getting darker and my…aherm…chest was staying the same color but she just looked at me and declared, “I hope my skin stays white like this when I get older.”  Let’s hope she still maintains that line of thinking when she hits middle school.

So, I am going to have to seek advice from people regarding getting rid of tan lines.  I am hoping to do this without having to suntan.  I would rather use self-tanners or even spray tanning.  With all of the skin cancer scares and realities in my family, I just don’t feel comfortable adding to the damage I have already done with my devil-may-care attitude about the sun in my earlier years.  And I don’t want to add to my already-high wrinkle probability rating.  (Truth be told, wrinkle factor is just a squidge below cancer on my list of concerns.)

Speaking of socially awkward, I am attending my little sister’s bachelorette party tomorrow.  Typically, planning and throwing a bridal shower/bachelorette party is the responsibility of the Maid/Matron of Honor–which is my role.  But, instead of doing that, I decided to surprise her with a trip to Las Vegas, which I wrote about here and here.  Her friends, however, wanted to do something for her and planned a bridal shower (which I attended last weekend) and a bachelorette party (which is tomorrow).  Now, Dawn is about 8 1/2 years younger than I am which puts her and her friends smack in their early 20′s.  I NEVER was a party girl.  I prefer a good book and a 9 o’clock bedtime to drinking and dancing and always have–even in my earlier years.  And I never had a swinging, single life.  I was married practically as soon as I was out of diapers.  Dawn is, for the most part, the perfect blend of Fun Loving 20-ish Young Lady and Chill Out, Watching TV and Drinking Wine Coolers with Her Older Sister.  So it should be interesting to see her in the 20-something element.  I had the good grace/social savvy to decline the clubbing/dancing part of the party (har.) but will happily attend the lingerie shower/Nice restaurant part of the evening.  It’s sad when getting up the next morning and determining how long my puppy can hold it’s pee is enough of a concern to warrant my early departure from this event.  Bryan’s band is gigging it that night so he can’t be on puppy patrol.  That’s okay, though, my other SILs are leaving after the dinner.  One of them is in my exact age/life station situation and the other is Under Age and couldn’t get into the clubs anyway.  Now that’s just irony right there.  At least we KNOW we have a designated driver.  Another dose of calcium.

So, onward to Wedding.

HAHA!  Did I say TWO WEEKS?  I MEANT ONE WEEK TILL WEDDING!   AAAAAAACCCGHCGCJCKKKK!

WHERE’S THE STOLY???