LET THE FESTIVITIES COMMENCE!

My mom can't come to the blog right now.  She is too busy prancing about the house with a leaf wreath on her head, chanting something about "Fall, Fall, it's here!  Let' the Festival of the Fall Futzing begin! Woo Hoo!".

We awoke to a cool and somewhat rainy morning today, which means that the old lady and my Aunt Chrissy will soon have the official disposing of the leg razors and the stubble will begin to grow.  I'm not sure where it's written exactly, but these two somehow think it acceptable to forego the shaving of the legs as soon as the peddle pushers hit the back rack of the closet.  I, for one, am appalled.

We will also have the ceremonial application of the flannel sheets, the concocting of something warm and hearty in the crock pot, and the burning of whatever latest Yankee Candle is on sale that doesn't smell like over ripe summer fruit.

(All in all it's not a bad festival, but I could do without the leaf wreath and the prancing.)

I hope that you had a perfectly swell weekend.  We were doing just fine right up until early yesterday morning, when I decided to upchuck all over the bed and a rather horrified mo-ther.  She was a real trooper, though, and had those sheets and whatnot in the washing machine before you could say Pepto.  The good news is that she has FINALLY come to her senses and realized that I am, after all, a nine pound dog and you simply cannot put eleven pounds of anything into me without some rather unfortunate results.  My Aunt Chrissy took pity on me and loaded the old lady up with a Ziplock full of tiny itty bitty little bones, which are, afterall, what I should be treated with in the first place.  Damn Mommie.

Enjoy your Monday, my dear and faithful friends!  I remain your true and devoted servant,

Stewey

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A note from Mommie (as in Dearest, don't you know): Before y'all write to me and say "Oh, Spinster Stitcher, you really shouldn't be feeding Stewey so many cookies and treats", may I just point out that I do so in order to get a little peace and quiet around here, and that the Cookie Dance/Stomping of the Feet and Showing of the Bunny Teeth Until I Get My Damn Cookies gets a little old after awhile.  Besides, sixteen years of Catholic school has had a rather unfortunate effect on my ability to handle guilt, and there's no way I'm going to look that little creature in his eyes and then not give in to his every whim. So, before you fret, please know that the tiny itty bitty little bones are indeed appropriate and seem to be working, so as soon as I can find a bra I will be heading over to the PetSmart to stock up.