There has been a flurry of activity amongst my furry little captors. 
Starting at the upper left corner and moving clockwise:
- Godiva chocolates (only the tray they were packed into the box in was left)
- Partial packet of dried cranberries and raisins
- Tums (no explanation needed)
- A box of something called Nutty Pleasures that I don’t recall ever purchasing or receiving, and that, frankly, I didn’t know was in my house
- Vanilla yogurt (for digestive tract health)
- Part of a package of Nesquick, flung over the couch and floor
- Marshmallow Peeps in the shape of ghosts (I don’t remember how many there were in the package, but at least eight)
- Dried apricots
- Part of a stick of Crisco
- The label from a wheel of Brie, which is all that was left behind, including the rind and the wrapper
- The package that my dashboard hula doll had been stored in
- A package of Ghirardelli chocolate chips
This is only a partial display, limited to what I could find without walking all the way up the driveway. It also doesn’t include the shoes that were used to fill those empty moments between gorging on fatty treats and trying to predict just where I want to be and being there, prancing and wagging.
In other news, I have a condition called plantar fasciitis, which is a torn ligament in my foot, so I’ve been gimping around like a cranky old crone. I have to wear a big boot thing when I’m sleeping — which I expect to eventually turn into a $300 chew toy (see above).
On to other important epicurean news: Who will win Top Chef? The greggers thinks it will be Casey, which is a decent pick. After all, last year they gave the title to a big boob, so this year, why not give it to someone with big boobs? My money is on Hung, not because I think he will win, but because I think he should win. Dale seems like a nice enough guy, a self-confessed “big gay chef,” but so far I don’t remember seeing anything that I would lick the tv over. Brian is another big gay chef, but he is completely in denial, which is beside the point. Also never made anything that I needed to eat. And can Padma please take out her retainer so I can stop wanting to smack her.
It is a very good thing that I wasn’t blogging this summer, because it would have been 3 months of bitching about the weather. This was the rainiest summer in San Antonio since prehistoric times when dinosaurs (created by baby Jesus) wandered past the Alamo. It rained at least 3 days a week for months, causing the park to flood repeatedly. This caused a great deal of angst and negative emotions among my captors, as they had been in the habit of going to the park every morning. This initially began when I was unemployed, but was cemented as a tradition when Molly broke my arm, since I was askeered to walk them for fear of Molly breaking the rest of my bones. I took them every morning, religiously, until the rain began. Our usual park AND our backup park flooded — it was under 8 – 9 feet of sewage-filled poop water, so even after it finally drained, there was a layer of poopy mud and/or dust everywhere. The dumpster floated into the woods. The back-up park, aka the Hand Job Park, is a poor substitute, but it didn’t matter because it was flooded too. So I complained a lot, as much as usual, even.
So I’m tired and my laundry didn’t do itself. Damn laundry.
