What in the name of all that's holy am I doing blogging? Since Sunday night I've probably had a total of 7 hours sleep. I can't even see straight. Well, just got back from a GMSMA program, folllowed by dinner with Past President. My apartment is tidy, no dishes in the sink, and my bed is made. Today at work was productive. I'm not as pathetic at being GMSMA's treasurer as I thought I was.

Item: I made deposits for GMSMA today. There is this total hottie of a teller at the bank. He's about 5'8", pale complexion, steely blue eyes, built for days, and when he turned his head to ask a question, a tatoo peaked above the collar of his shirt. I'd prefer my boy to wear a leather collar as opposed to a chain collar, but I'd want him to wear a chain collar so his tatoo wouldn't be covered up. I had the most depraved and evil thoughts eyeing him while my teller processed my multiple transactions. I didn't get a look from him, but I'm pretty sure he knew I was clocking him. When he stood up and turned around, it became apparent that he has an ass on him that should earn him some manner of international recognition. I broke a sweat at that point. So when all was done, my teller said to me, "Did you know that on the second floor there's a special section for our business accounts? Next time you come, you should go there. You'll be in and out faster." I don't want to be in and out faster. I will never see the second floor of the Sheridan Square Chase Bank. Well, if I come in to make a deposit and teller boy isn't in sight, I'll happen upstairs to see if he's working there that day. Keep the money flowing into the coffers of GMSMA, folks. Give me lots of reason to stop in there. There are laws against stalking in New York State, so I need a reason.

Item: On the issue of my bed being made, my dog has developed an interesting habit. When I get home from work, the bed is trashed. This morning, I had a bright idea. I read somewhere that if you don't want your dog digging in your garden, you can sprinkle cayenne pepper around your flower beds. So this morning, before I left, I took some finely ground white pepper and doused my bed. When I got home tonight, the bed was unmolested. So I was all happy. And then I thought, "Hmmm... What's it going to be like sleeping in a bed with all of that finely ground white pepper?" I've got a bad feeling.

We now return to our story, already in progress.

So in all respects, I'm feeling on top of my game. And then I get home and there are messages on my answering machine. The first one is from the wacko who's going to be taking my dog this weekend. She seems to need maximum interaction. I just know I'm going to be running like OJ Simpson through the Terminal Six at JFK tomorrow because of her lunacy. And the second one ws from the Special Guy. He tried to call me on my cell phone today to see if we could have lunch (we could have) or dinner (we couldn't have). And then he said "lotsa love." Just like that. "Lotsa love!" When we've talked on the phone since The Dumping, I've sort of scrupulously avoided the L-word. And there he goes giving it too me. Lotsa. What is up with that? Hey, and how come when we were boyfriends I was always the one calling him and asking for time?

I am sore confused.