Oh. My...Do I Really Have To Do This?

Okay, so Happy 35 years to me...the washing machine broke. I've been spending my last few weeks looking for places to wash dirty knickers and researching washers because that's just what a woman wants. A new washing machine to clean more messes she didn't make. I am convinced that the reason June Cleaver wore pearls and heels while she cleaned wasn't because she was on TV. It was because she was drunk from her bridge club's secret drinking game: a shot for every pair of streaked boxers you find. She lived in a house of men...d-r-u-n-k. So, the velvet shirt is dirty. The jeans are the same. I am in Target not my dining area, but I am still hot so it counts. Thanks to the food journal, I discovered that I don't eat much AND I don't drink either. I mean, I should be wasting away but no. My body should be on an episode of Hoarders. "Here is some baby fat I found from some other woman's pregnancy. No sense letting good baby fat just disappear. It should be displayed on Jen's badonkydonk for all to see. Over here is my neighbor Mr. Danish. If any other Danish enters Jen's body, he lets them stay with 'im right there on Jen's inner thighs. Lumpy ain't it?" Conclusion: I really do need to eat and drink more so my body with lose weight properly. Does that sound Twilight Zone to anyone else?

Enough about why I'm fat and on to today's drama. It involves me and a dead thing. (Insert your favorite dear-me-I-am-so-grossed-out sound effect here)

I call the dogs in from the yard. Chloe the older dog comes. Tinsel the puppy does not. I go searching. I take about five steps, look down and scream. There is a body in the yard...a bunny killed by dogs body. I do what every girl does. I take out my cell phone and call Bear. (Yeah, he's in the house about 50 feet from where I'm standing but this kind of freak out can only be done over the cell in the back yard....obviously.) It should now be noted that Bear hurt his foot and might possibly need to go to the doctor if it's not better tomorrow. He says "Get the shovel." Thank you Sir Galahad. I, the squeamish over scraped knees girl, will pick up the dead thing. No problem. (Understand that he really can't walk. He really cannot help me, so he's not being a donkey. Men should note that this doesn't matter to girls. We still want you to pick up and dispose of all things dead no matter your physical state. It's not right, but it is what it is.) So I'm miffy now. I get the shovel. How can this get worse? It's already dead, right? As I start to dig under the little guy, it becomes clear that he's not in one piece. Technically, he is. I mean, there's that piece of whatever bunnies are stuffed with holding the two pieces together. Oh the joys. I'm trying to dig without looking. I finally get all of him on the shovel and over the fence he goes.

But he's not gone.

He's stuck on the wisteria vines growing over the fence and I CAN'T KNOCK HIM OFF! I just start laughing. It's really gross and hilarious at the same time. I mean honestly! What else can I do? So this is the bunny. My hilarious horror for just for you. The brown, fluffy horror....now I really can't eat anything.