Oh how I suffer.

Last night Basho got a wee bit rowdy and ran full barrel toward me--no final swerve at the end (his favorite pastime: dog playing chicken, or something). Instead he smacked his head into my nose. Blood was involved. And now I believe my face is more asymmetrical than ever. Could be the general paranoia talking though. But my nose IS officialy 50 percent larger. OK. Unofficially.

The real insult: He did this after I bought him the largest bone ever. Bathsheba made me put it in the bottom of the grocery cart so as to distance it from the boxes of food at the top of the cart. She said, "is that from an ox?" I think, Bathsheba, maybe it is.

Took him about an hour to drag it outside (I thought he was going to tip right over going down the steps--that nasty thing seems to weigh more than he does) and hide it sufficiently. This is his great pleasure in life. Hiding things. Which is why we get along so famously (except when he breaks my face, of course).

Just having my first cup of coffee now and realizing how stupid this fact is. I've been lethargic as all get out (is that possible? I mean, can lethargy be attached to such an enthusiastic phrase as "as all get out?" I'm being ridiculously meta here aren't I?), rolling around on the bed, too tired even to sleep. I'm checking my email every 10 seconds in the hopes of something really great. I'm staring at all these fucking beer bottles and worrying about what this means. And I'm reading all of this journal because I love it so so much. What I'm not doing: grading. Ooops.

In the upbeat column: My mother finally, FINALLY got her ultrasound results and there is no aneurysm. How? Wha? Yeah. I mean YEAH! She's going in for more doctor poking and prodding, but, for now, all seems fine. We chatted for a long time yesterday--great conversation. Because she, oh mother of mine, is a great conversationalist.

OK. Time for more obsessive emailing checking.