Next Time You Point A Finger I'll Point You To The Mirror

May has been an effing asshole of a month (sorry - I saw MacGruber on Friday and am now referring to everything as an effing asshole of something. This will never get old.)

It started with my mom's surgery, then we were all a little blindsided by my mom not doing so well after surgery (she's totally fine now), then I had my 2-night sleep study which was much more difficult than I anticipated (I get my results next week!), then it was Shawn's birthday (which doesn't count as a bad thing, it was just slightly stressful due to non-bloggable events), then Shawn went away for 4 days and left me alone with the monster puppies, then work kind of kicked my ass and left me reeling, and then I cut part of my fingertip off.

I'm ready for May to be over, is what I'm saying.

So. My finger. I didn't cut the fingertip off, it was more the meaty part - the fingerprint part - and I didn't slice the whole thing off, it was attached by a flap of skin, but it was disturbing and gruesome and I'm blaming in on Turtle because she is the one who taught me how to sharpen my knives.

Shawn was unreachable in the studio all day so I did what any mature, self-respecting 28-year old would do; I called my mom. I called my mom and I cried and I hyperventilated and I threw up a little and then I taped my finger back together, ate a popsicle, and went to bed.

So yes, I am ready for June.

Lost In The Music All The Foolishness Of Our Lives Speeding Out Of Control

Hypothetically speaking, if one were tasked with creating a fabulous playlist for various wedding-related activities (not actual wedding activities - just peripheral stuff like the bachelorette party and limo rides and getting ready before the ceremony) for a dear friend (who reads this blog - Cat, avert your eyes!), which songs should be included?

All suggestions are much appreciated; one is feeling a bit overwhelmed (and extra douchey, as evidenced by one's refusal to refer to oneself in first person.)

And How Eventually Our Hands Will Just Turn To Dust If We Keep Shaking Them Standing Here On This Frozen Lake

My long weekend did not start well. Stella spent Friday vomiting like I've never seen a puppy vomit. It was shocking (and a little impressive) how much liquid managed to come out of her 20lb body. By Saturday she was feeling better and my weekend was salvaged.

I was a bit of a hermit this weekend. I was meant to go to a birthday / going away party on Friday night but I stayed home to mop up vomit instead. It was really nice to just relax with the puppies and go to bed early. Apparently I am 70 years old.

On Sunday morning, the puppies woke me up obscenely early (it was my own fault - I forgot to close the curtains so the room was flooded with light at 6am. I fail at sleeping in.) I tried to go back to sleep but was unsuccessful, so I packed up the car and drove to the lake. It was sunny when I left but by the time we got to the lake it was raining.

The pups didn't mind too much, though.

I live in very a beautiful place.

My favourite part of taking the puppies to the lake is how sleepy they are afterwards. They spent Sunday afternoon napping. At one point Stella was snoring and had a drool puddle forming under her lip.

He kills me. He managed to wrap himself up burrito-style in the blanket and is actually resting his head on Shawn's pillow.

I thought that a staycation (punch!) would be boring. It's true that I did a lot of boring chore-type stuff but I also spent a lot of time relaxing and doing irresponsible things. Like eat ice cream and watch hours of tennis (because I am 70 years old, remember.)

Wolfie is also a fan of the tennis.

I thought I would be jealous of Shawn's fabulous roadtrip but when he walked in the door last night, sunburned and exhausted, I felt a little smug at how well-rested I felt. I'm a fan of the staycation is what I'm saying.

In This House No One Goes To Sleep For Days It's Like We're Working On A Mountainside Trying Not To Slide Into The Ocean

Oh look! Another photo of my dog!

In this picture Stella is trying to use the power of her mind to get Shawn's hamburger into her belly.

It only kind of worked a little. (Dear Shawn, the dogs beg because you feed them when they do cute shit like rest their heads on your knees while you eat. Seriously. Stop it. Love Hillary)

Oh hey, so I guess I don't really need to point this out but I'm still punchy. Like, really punchy. Like perhaps I should actually do some punching so that I stop shooting lasers out of my eyes and speaking in my bitey voice. I had big plans to become a runner last night so I could run out my stress, but then it rained and got all windy so I ate some ice cream instead. It seemed like a good plan at the time.

My new plan is to banish my bad mood with a long weekend of selfishness. Shawn is going on a boys'-only-road- trip from Friday morning until Monday afternoon and I am really looking forward to having some alone time. I love my husband and I love spending time with him blah blah blah I am going to sleep diagonally across the bed and eat ice cream for dinner without his judgey eyes. This weekend will include a lot of mac & cheese and puppy cuddles and Law & Order reruns and I don't even care that every single person I know (including my parents, who never go anywhere) is heading out of town for the long weekend. I am going to staycation my ass off (because I am a douche who says "staycation" punch punch punch.)

Fools In Their Madness All Around Know That The Light Don't Sleep

This is how I feel right now:

Very tired and a little annoyed. May is kicking my ass. I have nothing to say that isn't whiny or punchy so it's probably best if I just keep it to myself.

Thank you for all your birthday wishes for Shawn; he had a very nice birthday weekend and is busy making music with his new toys (he managed to snag a new electric guitar and keyboard. Our home is never quiet. *sigh*)

Go Ahead Be Gone With It And Get Your Sexy On

He has a pair of long underwear for riding his motorcycle in cold weather. When he gets home from riding, the layers of clothes are too warm so his jeans always come off, leaving his skinny legs and nonexistent butt clad only in saggy, white cotton long johns. I called them his "sexy pants" once and ever since then he sings "I'm wearing sexy pants" in a raspy Justin Timberlake voice (to the tune of "Sexy Back") every time he dons them. My favourite part is his Timbaland-esque "yey-ah" that follows.

He denies that his habit of leaving his socks on the ground has anything to do with how holey they get.

sock! from Hillary W on Vimeo.

I beg to differ.

He eats peanut butter and bacon sandwiches. He calls them cowboy sandwiches. This may be one of the reasons I married him. (Cowboy sandwiches! How can that not melt your heart?!)

He is a very skilled musician. Sometimes I feel excluded from his rockstar world but mostly I just swoon at his talent.

He sings silly songs about the dogs to make me smile. (Think "they call me Stel-la! That's not my name!" sung to the tune of the Ting Tings' "That's Not My Name!") (I'm sorry if that song is stuck in your head now. If it's any consolation, it's totally stuck in mine.)

He stubbornly (and incorrectly) maintains that crunchy is superior to creamy. Therefore, we are a two peanut butter household. We're both okay with that.

He was born in Montreal and says "poutine" with a proper french accent (erm ... sort of like "puh-tsien" instead of "poo-teen.") This means that I now say "poutine" with a proper french accent. It's dreamy when he does it and quite douchey when I do.

It's his 32nd birthday today.

I love this guy.

And I Don't Want To Disturb What We Keep Quiet

I'm having a quiet day today. A head-down, plow through the day so I can get home as soon as possible, concentrate on numbers so thoughts can't creep into my brain, type of day. So clearly it is a puppy kind of day.

She loves to hang out on her crate rather than in her crate. We had to put a blanket on top so her tiny puppy toes would stop falling through the gaps. She took that to mean that it is now her official hangout. Wolfgang jumps up from time to time but he doesn't last long before Stella knocks him off. It's her perch. No boys allowed.

I bought the Hipstamatic app for my iPhone. The above three photos are a very small representation of the shots I have taken in the last few days. I might be a little obsessed with Hipstamatic.

Stella would like the record to show that she really really likes pizza. Just in case you were wondering. Or just in case you have any extra pizza laying around. Stella will happily take any pizza. (Oh and Shawn's beard? Really is that nasty and beardy in real life. It's his playoff beard. I don't want to talk about it.)