High-maintenance pooch

So, I discovered somthing this month, much to my surprise, all my old buddies from high school and college now have their own blogs. Now this fact should be a good thing but it is in fact a very bad thing. I am now pouring over each of them, and there are about a dozen daily. I feel like a spy. And not just a spy but a pathetic nose to the glass type of spy. So here's a little peek into my life. Just to even the score.

Yesterday we took our dog, Patsy, to our vet to get some moles removed. Andy dropped her off and when I picked her up the vet mistakenly called Andy (my husband) my son. Twice. Was that just one of those things, or does he really think that I am in my forties? I am 25! And Andy is three years older than me . And as if this wasn't enough of a slap in the face, Andy is twenty pounds overweight and I am in the best shape of my life. In conclusion, if the vet thinks my husband is my son then he must be high or I must really really need a makeover.


Holy crap what a cute dog. And is that a smile I
see on her already awsome face? Wow.