I'm blaming this one on the dog. I was all settled in to the Happy Chair last night, happily watching the Golden Globes and stitching away. You know...la la la la la...all is well with the world...I'm happy and content and haven't a care in my little brain. There was a cheery fire in the fireplace, my toes were cozy with some fabulous new socks Aunt Chrissy got me at the Targets, and I figured within a matter of an hour or two I would have my second FeeNee of the new year.
Alas, it was not to be.
At 11:01 exactly, Little Lord Fauntleroy decided that it was time to go to bed. First he whined at the back door. (I let him out promptly, just in case you were wondering if THAT might be the reason why he pees on anything and everything that isn't moving.) Then I went to the cookie jar to get him a tiny bone because he did, in fact, pee on the outside of the house and not on the inside as is his usual custom. Usually he stands right beside me as I reach into the jar, so when I looked down and didn't see him, I panicked a little.
"Stewey! Where are you, my Baby Dear? Come get your tiny bone!"
The reply came from the doorway to the bedroom. (It is here that you should note that he was not IN said bedroom because we now have a lovely baby gate that prevents him from going in there without express permission from moi.)
"Mo-ther. I'm standing here like patience on a monument waiting for you to open this ridiculous contraption so that I might go to bed."
(At this point he turned and gestured dramatically in the general direction of the baby gate.)
"Stewey, Mommie had to put the baby gate there so that you wouldn't go into the bedroom and decide to water my closet, my bathroom cabinets, and the big girl sleigh bed."
"How do you know it was me? Have you been trained in the scientific arts that would conclusively determine that I am the sole source of the problem? How do you know that you aren't waking up in the middle of the night and lifting your very own leg on your clothes, the bathroom cabinets, and the big girl sleigh bed, hmmm?"
(This is when the dumbfounded look came across my face as I contemplated the possibility.)
(And then I realized that I was getting gaslighted by a nine pound dog.)
"You know damn well that it wasn't me, Mister, and if you don't stop with this whole marking thing I'm going to take you back to the swamp where I found you. Enough already. I'm 45 years old and deserve to live in a house that doesn't qualify as a "before" situation on TLC. Now come over here and get this damn tiny bone so I can finish my stitching and then go post about it on my blog."
(With that, he peed on the baby gate.)
So that's why I didn't get the piece finished last night. I am determined to do so this afternoon, though. Right after I take down the Christmas decorations, do the laundry, clean the house, solve world peace, and finally determine why hot dogs come in packages of ten and buns come in packages of eight. If there's any time left over, I promise to go upstairs to fetch the eleventy-billion projects that I've started, organize every scrap of thread in my stash, and separate the ice cubes into categories according to size, texture, clarity, and shape. Finally, I'll watch all of the crap I've taped on the recording thingie, write pertinent and smart essays about each, and then, once and for all try to figure out why Jeffrey Dean Morgan hasn't returned any of my invitations to come over for meatloaf and Merlot.
Stay tuned, kids! I'm feeling inspired!