Sounds like a stripper name, doesn’t it? Except it would be spelled “Summer Rayne”.

Anyway, the morning started out unreasonably hot and humid as I sat on the side porch smoking and watching the squirrels play tag, when all of a sudden one huge dark cloud covered the entire sky and it began to spit down rain.

I quickly ran inside and began my rain ritual, which is to grab towels and stuff them along the perimeter of my bathroom floor; since not doing so causes animals to march two by two into the basement and nobody wants to have to deal with camel shit.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. It was a drive-by raining, if you will, and now I can see the last few drops dripping off of the orange tiger lilies outside the window.

I love little weather anomalies like that.

So recently, I fell off of the motherfucking treadmill. I didn’t pass out or have a seizure or anything, I just misstepped and fell right on my knees, and of course I didn’t have the little safety string clipped to my clothing so the motherfucker kept on going, ripping the skin right off of my knees and legs. Finally I was able to reach the idiot string and pull it, and my nightmare ended.

There was actual visible skin on the treadmill, people. It was seriously gross.

So now I look like a kindergartner, sporting these giant band-aids all over my knees and legs, and a few days ago the motherfuckers got infected, probably from treadmill germs, and green shit was involved (I spare no gross detail), and now I am pouring peroxide on those damn wounds like five times a day and using more Neosporin than anyone has a right to.

So let me just say this: Be careful on the treadmill. Especially if you’re uncoordinated like me.

I’m just lucky I didn’t skin my whole face off or something. And you can bet I clip that safety string to my clothes Every Fucking Day now.

So, there was that.

In other, decidedly less disgusting news, we have talked my father into coming and feeding the cats, hamster, and fish while we are on vacation next week.

To say I have trepidations about this arrangement would be an understatement. My father is not what you would call an animal person, and our animals are what you would call people animals. The cats and even the hamster like to be petted, and even the fish will swim to the front of the tank when people approach.

We live with some attention whores.

I wonder where they get that from.

Anyway, I think my dad thinks he’s just going to walk in, throw down some chow, scoop the poop, and boogie on out of here; and that, dear friends, will not be the case, for he will have four cats attached to his calves and a fat hamster in his hand.

My father, the stoic animal-ignorer, is going to have to dole out a little lovin’.

I’m still nervous about this vacation in general. I think my stepdad’s going to be a stressed-out maniac in the car with all the damned kids and a downright crabby grouch in the cottage with all the damned kids, thereby dampening our spirits (I love how a couple of you in the previous entry suggested I drink copious amounts of liquor, and John, pain pills are always good, but I can’t necessarily share…). He seems to have gained a modicum of interest in the trip, even checking out the website for the place, so maybe I’m just being paranoid. I hope so. I just know that historically, he doesn’t mix well with small children.

But then, neither do I.

I kid. I love those crazy kids like fire.

Lastly, I am without my iPod, Lamont Sanford, since I left him at Guy-I’m-Dating’s house over a week ago. Agony! Despair!

I sleep with Lamont every night, so this has been a difficult week. I can’t sleep very well without my tuneage, for Lamont doth soothe the savage beast that is my insomnia.

Guy-I’m-Dating lives sorta far, so we see each other only on weekends, and we didn’t this weekend, so no Lamont.

After another week of this, my eye bags are going to be hanging down to my bloody and bruised knees.

Happy Monday.

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