POTTER, GEORGE, WHATEVER. HE DOESN’T ANSWER TO EITHER.

ppan1I thought I would try subscribing to the twitter feeds through google.reader so I can keep up on the oh so funny things you all are saying and not feel like Bucktooth Betty up on the bleachers in my peter pan collared dress and puffy sleeves.

As my mama would say: It don’t work so good. I can’t even describe the slight feeling of either motion sickness or schizophrenia I have when reading the updates, which include ALL of your replies to many twitterers that I don’t subscribe to so then I feel like I’m eavesdropping on conversations and then I start wondering if it was all code for how you were making fun of me. Because I’m paranoid like that.

See? My eyeballs were softening just enough to allow brain matter to ooze out.

Today I had to unsubscribe. I like by brain matter. And my eyeballs. Both right where they are. They keep my head from looking like a deflated grapefruit.

I got invited to my first GNO last night (GNO = Girl’s Night Out. I didn’t know, either).

Yes, it involved a combination purse AND happy chef (or something) party, but it also included margaritas! Alcohol! In someone ELSE’S house!

Alas, it was a bust. Why? Because Mr. DD had to work late and I had to clean out a rabbit hutch and feed my two rug rhinos.

Rabbit? What rabbit?

georgeUh, yeah. I volunteered to take my brother’s rabbit, who was housing it on behalf of his grandkids who no longer wanted it. I was told when we went to visit the quads that they were going to turn it loose this spring. One fat, brown, bunny, hand-raised by four rambunctious kids wouldn’t make it an hour in the “wild”, and since I have a soft spot for widdle bunny wabbits and “sucker” tatooed to my forehead, I am now the owner of an utterly useless pet named Potter who I was able to get onto the property under the guise of being Xbox’s pet in spite of Mr. DD’s vehement protests, “Don’t ask me to take care of it!” and “You’re not putting it in the shop this winter!”

When he’s not looking, I just roll my eyes and make the yak-yak-yak motion with my hand.

Did you know rabbits can be housebroken? Too bad Potter has been housebroken to crap in his covered hutch and not out in the open area because now I have to lift the damn thing out (the hutch that is, not the rabbit) and carry it out past the yard and dump the contents of poop pellets and urine-soaked sawdust in the field, all the while trying not to gag when the smell of ammonia hits my sinuses. Meanwhile, ZGirl is screeching in protest in the playard that I had to carry downstairs and set up without screaming “motherfucker!” when I pinched my finger, and XBoy is wrinkling his nose in distaste and poking Potter with a piece of straw.

Once the hutch has been scraped out and freshened with new bedding, I have to carry ZGirl back upstairs; come back downstairs, curse some more under my breath some more while I try to break down the playard; and then carry that back upstairs.

All I can add is that rabbits were much more fun and cuter and didn’t smell as bed when I was a kid and my mom took care of them for us; and I don’t get nearly enough GNO* to make up for the fact I have to clean up rabbit poop for the next five years or so.

* Maybe it’s just me, but do you read that as “gyno”?