The InStyle magazine that went into the tub with it also cannot be resurrected by hanging it over a chair on the porch. The pages are permanently stuck together ensuring you will never, ever know what cover girl Charlize Theron drinks to look that way after age 35.

It matters not how many times a Westie throws up the mulch he ate earlier that day. He will continue to chow down on said mulch.

Only when I am starting to feel like I’m coming down with strep throat and could really, really use 8 hours of sleep does Husband choose to spend the night snoring. All night.

It also is only when these 8 hours are necessary that said Westie throws up mulch in his crate at 3 a.m. making his mommy believe he is choking to death and she will need to deliver the heimlich maneuver holding a flashlight so not to awake (for the 100th time) snoring Husband.

Begging does nothing to make Husband roll over to stop snoring.

People at work do not care how much sleep you get. They still want their press release, white paper, case study, report, brow soothing, blog posts, and whatevahs.

You really can spend more money in 7 months with a puppy than you ever did on your first car.

The weekend does always finally come around. If you can just be patient. Just be sure you have some back up reading.

What have I been up to, you wonder? So glad you asked.

You haven’t heard from me in a while because I was too busy turning another year old. I tend to celebrate my birthday for no less than 2 weeks with friends and family dinners, outings and other frivolity. A photo pictorial of one particular birthday dinner thrown by friends Jacob and Tracey are forthcoming. Here is a preview. This was only 1 of 5 courses. (I count the welcome cocktail as one course, BTW.)

All the partying has me a tad fuzzy headed. This morning, instead of writing “Got it” to my client I wrote “Go tit.” Yeah, it’s gonna be a good day.

What has Callum been up, you wonder? So glad you asked.

I have learned from taking His Royal Cuteness to puppy class that puppy class has nothing to do with training said puppy and everything to do with training their owners. And, the owners of the pit bull who keeps trying to put Callum into wrestling holds aren’t getting it. I give it one more class before I begin to beat said pit bull with a chair squeaky toy until the owners get that Callum running away from one end of the training pod to the other has nothing to do with “playing” but rather “escaping.” (No pictures or video were taken of stated encounters because I wanted both hands available to strangle said pit bull at any moment.)

Also, why is my dog so obsessed with my dirty laundry, and why, in particular, does he insist on dropping my underwear (he is partial to thongs) and bras at the feet of my stepson when he visits? Shutting the laundry room door and putting the basket Way Up There does nothing to deter this habit. I think he might be pissed about puppy class (even though he comes back so bloated with treats that his puppy class rivals my birthday dinner of 5 courses).

End of today’s rambling.

For instance, today I go to the gym, but don’t stop to have my card scanned at the front, which is really, really hard to do because the desk is huge and you have to go AROUND it to get to the locker room. The aerobics lady had to call after me all a few times to get me to even stop and turn around. I was clearly already in the zone.

Then, I stop by 7-11 after the gym to get a diet coke (which I really shouldn’t be doing anyway). I go inside, get my cup of artificial-sweetener, pay for it and then I can’t find my keys. They aren’t on the counter, they aren’t by the drinks and they aren’t in my purse. Where can they be? I think, could I have left them in the car? So, I go outside to look. Not only did I leave my keys in my car, I left the car RUNNING. Thanks God I live in a small town where grand theft auto is the exception and not the rule.

I hear the Internet is ruining our brain. We don’t remember things anymore because we can Google anything in a second. So, why bother to try to recall anything from our heads? Given how much time I spend at a computer, I am beginning to believe it.

This is because the next day you open your door to this:

And, only then do you remember logging on at all.

Once I opened the box it all came back to me in a rush. A hazy memory of sifting through 28 pages of new shoe inventory.  It’s kind of like Christmas when you don’t recall everything you ordered. Layer one.

But, look there’s another layer!

And, another!

The fact that I don’t need any new shoes was not at the fore front of my mind as I lovingly lifted out each shoe box. I mean, I had to at least see what I was thinking, right? Clearly I had “espadrilles”on my mind.

I think the one on the right makes my foot look smaller. Naturally, it’s the more expensive one. Ralph Lauren. You gotta love Ralph. I also ordered the one on the left in blue. Not a good look. Not worth a pix.

Ooo, but look at these. Anne Klein. Sigh. But, they made my feet hurt.

I wonder if I can just keep my legs up in the air the whole time with them?

These fall into the category of “what was I thinking?” Hello, Miss Daisy.

Oh, and by the looks of these, I clearly have no taste on percocet.

Good Gawd, look at these.

Thanks be to God I have no need for brown patent leather. Or, these below. I don’t even know what to say here.

And, do you ever see a pair of shoes and you can’t decide if they are cute or not? Yeah, like these.

I decide not cute. Ooo, but these below I am keeping.

All in all, I’ve decided to keep two pairs. Okay, maybe three. Both espadrilles and the pair above. One pair of espadrilles can be worn at wine festivals this summer because nothing survives that scenario well. The other, cuter Ralph Laurens will be saved for non-field activities. And, of course the last pair above just because they are cuter than words. Lord knows my size 10s could use some cuteness.

I wouldn’t change being a girl for anything. Except, now that I’m over 40, being a girl means all kind of fun hormonal things like perimenopause (pre-menopause for the uninitiated). This means when we grow up, our female parts start to break open like the gates of hell rebel. The pipeworks begin to have a mind of their own, doing all kinds of crazy things like waking you up at 2 a.m. for no particular reason and making your hair fall out and giving you periods that last, oh, 20 days or so – all at once. Yeah, it’s great to be a girl.

So, I finally gave into my ob/gyn’s advice. Russell said it was time for a tune-up – a permanent tune-up. (Yes, I call him by his first name. After all, we’ve been together for 23 years. It was time.)

Earlier this week Husband and I drive up to Washington, DC where Russell does his surgical wizardry. Yes, I still drive from Central VA to DC for these things. I used to live there, and prior to me turning 40 it just didn’t seem that big of a deal to drive up once a year for a check-up. But, since all hell broke loose things started, ahem, changing. Suddenly finding someone closer to home seems like a good idea. But, later. After all this nonsense is over with.

Anyway, we drive up the night before. I stuff myself at Maggianno’s before the no-food cut off at 10 p.m. and we stay in a very nice Marriott on Wisconsin Ave. The next day we get to Sibley Hospital a full two hours early, where they tell me Russell can “do me” early. This sends the nurses into a frenzy. Three nurses buzz around me asking me dozens of questions – including my name and what surgeries I’m having (ostensibly just to make sure I’m the right Suzanne) and sticking me with IVs and putting quite unfashionable hair bonnets on my head.

(I now take a moment to praise nurses. They are wonderful.)

The nurses give me some “relaxation drugs,” which I am now a BIG fan of. Apparently the first thing I say when the happy drugs kick in was, when this is over I want red velvet cake. I don’t remember much after that.

We drive the three hours home to Charlottesville a few hours later, during which I apparently snore the whole time, to fall bloated belly first into bed.

Husband – now fully in charge — goesto the grocery store to get me my red velvet cake and dinner. Guess what he picks up for dinner? No, really. Guess. I’ll wait. Just remember that seven hours earlier I was under anesthesia.

Did you guess sushi? Under normal circumstances, I’d be all over the little slabs of raw fish. But, somehow raw tuna and wasabi and soy sauce rubbing against my sore, previously-tubed throat and queasy stomach just didn’t seem to work for me. Husband actually argued the point.

It’s light.

It’s raw fish. I counter.

It’s easy to digest.

No it’s not. And, did it not occur to you that soy sauce would burn my throat?

No. It’s light, he repeats.

I end up having soup. Oh, and the red velvet cake. In the end, there was nothing to forgive, really. He brought home two pieces.

More later on the adventures of Suzanne’s surgery. Loads of fun.