Mixed Bag Weekend

Mixed bag of a weekend. Friday night was Bridget Jones Diary with my sister and Miss Emily, much laughs and scoffing down of snakes. Nice to discover that Mr Darcy still butters my muffin like no other. Ooh er. What a tasty treat he is.

Saturday the Mothership touched town. I guess we've been lucky, she hasn't been for about six months. She arrived early, right in the middle of our mad housecleaning preparations. During her mercifully brief stay she managed to squeeze in the following complaints:

The kitchen windowsill. "Urrgh! grotty!"
The kitchen floor. "Don't you own a mop?"
Just about every other thing in the kitchen. She prowled with a chux and a bottle of Jif generally pissing us off. Many sentences beginnning with, "When was the last time you cleaned the....?"
My bra. "You're flopping all over the place. I think you need a smaller size."
The front door step. "Don't you own a broom?"
Rhiannon's sheets on the clothesline. "Shouldn't we go out and bring those sheets in? It's getting cool, they'll get damp." Well Mumsy, little do you know that those sheets had actually been out there for a week, they'd survived three frosts, torrential rain and Harry nipping at them.
Our peg bucket. "Don't you bring you bucket of pegs inside? Oh god! There's leaves in the bucket! You haven't brought this inside for months, have you? Have you!?"
Harry's water bowl. "Good lord! Don't you ever fill that up?"
Harry's coat. "He's filthy! Don't you ever bath him?"
Harry's toenails. "They're too long! Don't you ever clip them?"

Also got to hear about her upcoming Quilt Til You Wilt Night, the organic vegetables craze sweeping the town, the crooked church pew she bought for her hallway, and thorough recaps of the past weeks Oprah episodes.

The rest of Saturday and Sunday I spent either crying or sulking because I somehow managed to aggrivate my stupid shoulder, despite being good and sitting up straight and gentle stretching and yoga-ing and pilates-ing and left-handed-mouse-ing. Note to self: find new, non-computery job.

Last night I sat on the back step hand-feeding Good-O's to Harry in an effort to get him to sit still long enough for a huggle. As soon as Good-O's were gone he took off. Dumb mutt. Why does everyone else get those doting, loyal companion types and I get a insane little bastard who only wants me for the food. It's true. I asked him. "If you only love me for the food, bark twice." Woof Woof! Little shit.

During moping watched a lot of crappy cable music videos. Men in lipstick and eyeliner, oh those were the days!