Doooooode.

I start my new job on Monday, which is, like, in less than five days.

Five days is kind of my default "Oh shit, this is coming up soon" measuring stick.

Anyway, I'm very much looking forward to it because although I quit my job that was boring as fuck, I discovered that Unemployment...it's nothing but a new boring job.

No joke, my house is torn apart, I have new pets, I rearranged our bedroom, I made beef pot pie from SCRATCH. Except the crust, but fuck making crusts from scratch.

Unemployment is boring as fuck.

So it seems I'm starting a job and seem to vibe well with management, which means all of my coworkers will all be fun. I can only assume the entire department was hand-selected to be super awesome like myself.

Or, super insane/brain injured like myself.

Could go either way.

Because part of unemployment involved selling all of my work clothes, business casj, as they say, my fairy godmother Veronica treated me to lunch and some mad Elite Repeat consignment clothing swag. This place is so fun because they have a wide range of sizes and styles, all in pretty exceptional condition, many brand new or with dry cleaning tags, and very well made brands like Tahari silk tops, Banana Republic khakis, and tailored wool pants, satin-lined, and made in Romania. And all of these items are reasonably priced. And they're soft like bunnies.

It was so nice to see Veronica and have a happy afternoon, because it was after I attended a memorial service for a dear friend's fiance. That was tough, for a lot of reasons. But it was lovely, and there were peacocks and balloons, so basically it's the kind of memorial service I want, except at mine there will be kegs instead of ministers.

Irish style.

I also scored big at Goodwill on Thursday, several pairs of like-new business casj pants and lots of tops that are both A)Work Appropriate and B)Cover my "Fuck" tattoo.

Good luck I'm having, right?

HA.

Today, I was out in the yard and I was smoking because I was walking Scary, so basically it was selfless smoking. (I resolve to tackle my resolutions in a REASONABLE time frame. That is why in lieu of smoking cessation in 2012, I set a more reasonable goal of Learn to Smoke with Left Hand.)

Anyway, I was outside with Scary and a big dog charged at Scary like WHAT, and there was screaming and kicking and biting and people yelling.

It was like watching UFC, if Brock Lesner (big dog) was fighting Papa Smurf (Scary).

In that case, someone DEFINITELY forgot to weigh those fuckers in before fighting commenced. The big dog had her in his mouth, and at one point I was terrified she was a goner.

Fortunately, she's gonna be fine, one trip to the ER Vet later. She's just bleeding all over my house and stoned on doggy drugs. And half bald. And terrified of her own yard so won't go potty.

She's refusing to eat. And I'm not talking dog food, I'm talking slow-cooked beef roast. This fat girl has gained a lot of weight this winter, and let me assure you it's because she bases her entire life motto around somehow earning or stealing a tender, juicy cow muscle.

In the fray, I got bitten.

Once we FINALLY got her out of Scary out of his chompers, I scooped her up and tried to get to my back door - granted, I was straight up panicking by that point, partly because I was having Cujo flashbacks, and also because I saw my mother nearly get mauled to DEATH by a dog she knew once, and partly because I thought Scary was dead or dying. She screamed at first, but towards the time we got her away from big dog, she'd stopped making much noise.

So I started foggily towards the back door with her in my arms, and immediately, the big dog charged me, lunging up to the level of my outer biceps, trying to get his teeth on Scary. I was bitten on both upper/outer arms, and while the punctures were more "scrape and bruise" than "House of 1000 Corpses, I can assure you that they still hurt like a motherfucker.

Fortunately, I know the dog's shots were current, so as long as I keep my wounds clean, I can continue boldly on into the Land of No Hospitals in 2012.

Hopefully, the soreness in my arms abates before I report to duty on Monday. Accounting departments are extremely arm-use-centric kinds of places, thanks to the modern marvel known as a ten keypad.

Wish us luck and non-infected puncture wounds!