There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Is OCD a rap group from the 80s?

My belly hurts and it's making me cranky!

My dogs are going to be so mad at me when I get home. It will be months before Katy makes eye contact and stops chewing on my shoes.

I am not a naturally neat person, which you may have inferred from the number of rat-in-the-house stories I have. But this living alone, no pets, no talking toaster, is starting to change me in odd ways. For example, for the last two nights before I've gone to bed, I have washed all of the dishes and cleaned out the sink. What the...?? I am a lifelong soaker of dishes, the sort of person who only washes dishes when there are no more clean dishes available. I have also gotten my clothes for the next day chosen and ironed. You know, that hot, flat thing that makes your clothes hot and flat? I have made my bed before going to work in the morning. I have checked my purse to make sure I have my bus pass, my Blackberry, my umbrella, my work ID (complete with scary picture!), and my keys. This is not me. The changes all sound like they should be interpreted as positive steps toward living a less stressful life. But I'm finding them a lot scary. Like I'm turning into David Sedaris (only less funny!). If I catch myself licking doorknobs, then I'll know it's become a problem.

I met the chief operating officer of the company yesterday, but I couldn't remember exactly who he was. I knew I'd heard his name a lot and that I should know who he was, but I just blanked. He asked me if I would extend my stay here and I told him that it would only be possible if I didn't have to pay British taxes. I didn't tell him that it would also include demands of a large supply of Skippy Super Chunk reduced fat peanut butter, my own personal data analyst (you know, for sexual needs and companionship), an end table, and a floor lamp. I didn't want to push my luck.

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