You know how it is.

You know how sometimes, your 80-pound labradoodle gets a hotspot on his hip? And then he chews the shit out of it? And it ends up being an open, oozing sore about the size of a big ol' chicken breast?

And you know how sometimes your husband is working 24/7, and you've been out of town, and you come home to Massive Side Wound Doodle, and you dope him up on Benadryl and only by the grace of God to you manage to clean the wound without barfing? And then you put a cone on the dog in the hopes that he won't chew his hip off in the night?

But you know how sometimes dogs freak the eff out about cones? And refuse to sleep? And keep you and your exhausted husband up all night, until you have a brilliant epiphany at 4 a.m. and trade the cone for one of your husband's t-shirts, which you don your labradoodle in backwards, with hind legs through the armholes and tail through the neck, and you tie a knot to keep the shirt around his waist, and then he falls asleep without gnawing him some oozing sore deliciousness?

You know how sometimes you take a day off of work to give your oozing-open-wound-having, 80-pound dog a bath, and he manages to get you and your entire house wet, even though he's actually the only good dog you have? And then you get ready to take him to the vet, but then you step in a gallon of pee, because one of your other dogs is pissed that Massive Side Wound Doodle is getting all the attention, but you only realize this discontent when you step in urine in your sock feet? But you manage to get your skanky, sweatpants-wearing self to the vet, mostly urine-free but smelling of wet dog? And the vet says that usually, they have to sedate dogs and shave around their severe hotspots, but you have done such a superior job of carefully cutting the hair around the hotspot that such tomfoolery is unnecessary, and you decide in your sleep-deprived stupor to change your potential pageant talent from eavesdropping to trimming hair around massive oozing sores?

Yeah. That's been my day.

Adventures in junking. And being a bad neighbor.

I'm heading home this weekend to flea market it up with my mom. Junking has been in the air as of late - I hit quite a few estate sales last weekend. It occurred to me that all estate sales feature the same thing: one of those portable toilets.

Yeah.

They never seem to sell, either. I mean, that's not really the sort of thing that you buy just in case. What happens to the portable toilets? Is the landfill chock full o' portable toilets? Or is there a secret society of used medical supply dealers who hit estate sales at the very end of the last day and buy the toilets for mere pennies, then resell them for a tidy profit?

Also, if you're setting up an estate sale and you don't have a portable toilet, do you have to go get one to add to the sale items? If you don't, do you incur the wrath of some sort of estate sale governing board?

One of the estate sales last weekend was 2 doors down from our house. It was interesting to go inside a neighbor's house, and I got the inside scoop that the house is going to be rehabbed, not torn down. Huzzah!

However, getting back to my house from the estate sale was an exercise in selective blindness. See, Creepy Chuck was taking advantage of the estate sale traffic on our street. Yes, my scary-ass neighbor set up a garage sale in his driveway.

Keep in mind that Creepy Chuck and his equally pedophillic-looking buddy set up the sale in the driveway the night before. Then, they covered all the goods in tarps. Creepy Chuck then sat in a lawn chair in the driveway, protecting the bounty from would-be prowlers. And probably staring at our house the whole time.

It was dark. He didn't even turn on his Christmas lights. He sat out there all night.

So, the next morning, when I was walking back to my house from my early visit to the legit estate sale, I passed Creepy Chuck's sign that screamed, "Estate Sale Here!" He'd attached American flags to the sign. Nevermind that it wasn't an estate sale - it was a driveway sale of what appeared from a distance to be some tired-looking crap. And, he didn't appear to have a portable toilet. He did, however, have a wheelchair for sale. In fact, it was the prominent, closest-to-the-street, hey-this item-makes-this-sale-look-promising, showcase item.

Again: who buys used medical equipment at random sales? Isn't there an opportunity to return this stuff when people die, or at least a friendly suggestion of what to do with it?

Anyway ... Creepy Chuck didn't appear to do a lot of business. I'm not sure what it was - the multiple "No Trespassing" signs, the general unkeptness of his house, the strong aura of creepy that surrounds him at all times - who is to say? But he held on to the bitter end - way after the bitter end, actually. He finally drug his unsold bounty back into the house at about 8 p.m.

I am a firm believer that it's a better deal to donate stuff and then take the tax deduction - you assign the value of the items and you don't have to deal with organizing your stuff or the interesting people who shop at garage sales. But, you know, Creepy Chuck didn't ask me - probably because I run screaming whenever I see him.

Seriously. If he's around, I avoid checking my mail. I am such a wuss. A judgmental wuss.

If I'm ever in a pageant, my talent will be eavesdropping. And being crazy. And projecting that crazy onto other people.

I do love eavesdropping. I just can't help it.

Tonight, My Guy and I went out for pizza. There were 2 very excited little boys across the restaurant from us. They were eating with 2 mom-types, and evidently, there were a lot of super crazy things to discuss. I guess when you're 5 years old, shit just got real.

We didn't catch much of their conversation, but my favorite gems?

"It was so late! It was, like, 40 o'clock!"

And, of course:

"He ate a crayon. And he had to go to the muhmergency!"

This stuff makes me laugh. And it's a little easier to focus on that as I reflect on my day instead of considering my new boss, and how he gushed for a solid 15 minutes about his daughter. She is a dancer, and he is obviously so, so proud. It was delightful.

And then, my new coworker gushed about her son, who is a large-and-in-charge football player. She, too, was busting with pride. It made me love her.

And then they asked me if I have kids. And I said, "No, I have 4 dogs."

I'm sure there are parents out there who would be offended by my response, charging that I was trying to equate dogs with kids. While I will admit that My Guy and I refer to the dogs as "The Babies," I don't mean to suggest dogs are the same as kids. For one, I've heard that you can't keep kids in kennels.

The thing with today's workplace getting-to-know-you session is that I was deflecting. Moving the conversation from kids to dogs was so much easier than saying, "No, we found out we can't have kids, and I'm truly thrilled to a) see your authentic enthusiasm; and b) learn about your awesome kids; but it just kind of hurts to a) not have anything to add to the conversation; and b) imagine the wheels turning as you wonder WTF is wrong with me since I don't have kids."

I know, right? Project craziness much? It's not a muhmergency, but it's still something that I'm processing.

So much untapped potential.

Today, the second day of my new job, brought a lot of introspection. Which is a fancypants way of saying that I didn't have crap to do.

I got to work at 7:45, which is basically a world record for me. I got there early for an 8:00 meeting. When I went to said meeting, the room was dark. And empty. Turns out the meeting got cancelled, but nobody bothered to tell me. It was like I was living in an alternate universe.

So, I settled in to read everything in Globotron's Sharepoint site. It was mind-numbing. So I also did a fair amount of daydreaming. A sampling:

• My cubemate talks to herself. She just said, "Raffle tickets? Sounds good!" What am I supposed to do with this? What are these raffle tickets for? Do I need some? Why can't she either engage me in conversation or keep her inner monologue inside, as it is an inner monologue?
• What if today's super boredom is a sign of things to come? What if I am truly just not meant to work in the corporate world and will be bored and die a slow, horrible death in any environment that involves cubicles? I could be home doing laundry right now. At least I would be productive.
• I need to chill the eff out.
• Banjo is definitely on to something with her suggestion that I combat the uncomfortable toilet seats by bringing my own in a roller bag that I take to and from the ladies' room. I always feel weird taking my purse to the bathroom during, you know, that time. But instead of shoving a tampon up my shirt sleeve and making a run to the ladies', maybe I could just pack a roller bag and completely flaunt it. Like, I'd have my smaller roller bag for regular days, a big roller bag for days Aunt Flo is visiting, and a jumbo, I'm-traveling-overseas-for-an-extended-period suitcase for those days that require the super-mega lady products, if you know what I mean. And I could design suitcases for these uses, complete with self-cleaning compartments for your grab-n-go toilet seat, and sassy designs that scream, "I'm a woman! And I'm dealing with my woman parts with this fabulous and stylish carry-all! Deal with it!" And then I could build an empire of pyramid marketing, like Mary Kay, and women could have home parties to sell the suitcases and personalized toilet seats and pretty soon I'd be hailed as a self-made millionaire who escaped Cubeland but also as a post-feminist charlatan who convinced women that they needed all these accoutrements to deal with their bodies, and as a women's studies minor, I'd be deeply conflicted, but conflicted in my beach house, not in Cubeland, so I could probably work through the guilt.

Back on the corporate horse.

Thanks for the good thoughts about the job and the boobs.

The boobs are OK, as, too, is the job.

Today was my first day at Globotron. I am pleased to report that people actually talked to me, the boss took all of us newbies out for lunch, and I actually have a desk next to a window.

This, of course, is in stark contrast to Mega Corporate Behemoth and The Cube of Despair. And on my first day at Mega Corporate Behemoth, the boss invited me to lunch with her and Crazy Coworker. They talked to each other the entire time and blatantly ignored my attempts to join the conversation.

My Guy mentioned that it's like I'm getting back into the dating pool after having a really horrible boyfriend. He's so right. And my first date with Globotron was pretty OK.

So far, the only thing that gives me pause about Globotron is that the toilet seats are uncomfortable.

Seriously. It's not like I was camped out there for more than a quick tinkle, but in that 30 seconds, I thought, "Damn! This was not ergonomically designed with my ass in mind!"

But I think I can live with it.

Boobs and jobs. But not boob jobs, because that isn't how I roll.

I start my new contract gig tomorrow. This weekend has been like a giant Sunday-night-before-school ball of ick. Because I am a spoiled brat and don't want to go back to work.

Many of my friends are all, "Ooh, congrats on your new job! Aren't you excited?" And then I just sort of look at them.

Maybe tomorrow, I will wake up, excited to dress like a grown-up. And this will translate into being excited to start my new contract. I kind of expected that this week, I'd get excited. But mostly, I got freaked the fuck out.

See, I found a lump.

Yep. In my boob. In the same place as my 2 previous fibroadenomas, Ramon and Antoine. So, I knew from the get-go that I'd need a mammogram and sonogram, then to see the boob surgeon, then to hopefully schedule a vacuum-assisted biopsy and not a surgical biopsy. Hopefully.

I know from experience that I am down for the count for several days after any sort of biopsy. Because I am Queen of Boob Mishaps. So, I was thinking about the timing of all of this, and wondering if I shouldn't just push my job back a week or 2, because God knows I was not looking forward to a "So, let's talk about my boob!" conversation with my new, male boss.

I had a mammogram and sonogram on Friday, at the same breast clinic where I always go. The woman checking me in took a look at my face and said, "This is your first mammogram." She didn't ask - she assumed because I look like I'm 12. So then I was all, "Bitch, please."

OK, maybe I was more like, "Uh, no, look at my extensive records. They are in your computer."

And then the mammogram tech argued with me that I didn't actually have a fibroadenoma vacuumed out - that it would have to have been done surgically. Again, I was all, "Bitch, please."

OK, maybe I was more like, "Uh, yeah I did, and I had it done here. Look at my chart." What is with people not reading the effing chart?

But when it came time for the sonogram, my sweet, favoritest tech in the entire universe was there. And she remembered me, and we reminisced about the giganto cysts I had last year. We joked about how the radio in her room was playing Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing," which is probably the least-appropriate soundtrack for a breast sonogram. And then, she told me that the hard little lump I was feeling was yet another cyst, feeling all hard because it was pressed up against glandular tissue - like a skinny little white kid, acting all hard on account of puberty and general suburban angst.

I have never loved the term "glandular" more in my life. Ever.

So, no surgery, no vacuuming, no cyst aspirations for now. I go back in 6 months. The sweet tech found 2 other spots that are most likely small fibroadenomas, but we will watch them. I can live with this.

I'm so relieved. And that's totally an understatement.

I'm relieved and I'm so glad that I don't have to tell my hi-I've-met-you-once new boss about my boobular adventures. But I'm also so fucking mad.

I am so careful. I eat right. I exercise. I gave up caffeine in 1998, for crying out loud. And still I get all these cysts and bumps and shit. It's so not fair.

However, if My Guy and I ever for once doubted our decision not to move forward with the gajillion drugs and hormones and hideous procedures in The Infertility Olympics, we have a sign that we made the right call. All those hormones that I was all jacked up on this summer more than probably contributed to my new harvest of cysts and lumps and crap. So, sayonara, reproductive endocrinologist!

It's a lot to process.

So, I'm not quite ready to start my new job. But I will, and it will be fine. Or, it will be terrible and provide lots of great blog fodder. Either way.

Slightly unhinged.

I have a bit of a headache today. I guess that's what happens when you drink half a bottle of Moscato.

I needed the Moscato because I was putting away groceries late yesterday afternoon. And when I got ready to load canned goods into my lazy susan, I noticed spilled coffee grounds. Coffee grounds that had spilled out of the side of the bag because the bag had been chewed open.

Yes. The mice had gotten into my lazy susan. This, after 3 days of constant cleaning, steel wool placing, mousetrap setting and general profanity. When they couldn't get into my silverware drawer, the mice expanded their horizons.

I needed the Moscato. I needed it so badly that I was not thwarted by my malfunctioning corkscrew. I was not thwarted by the fact that I ended up with half the cork in the bottle. And I certainly wasn't thwarted by the fact that Moscato is traditionally a dessert wine. No, I was completely comfortable drinking it out of a juice glass at 5 p.m., long before any sort of food.

I don't drink a lot. But holy crap, I needed something to take the edge off. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or just move. Why do the mice hate me so much? What sort of karmic debt am I paying here? I like Jacques and Gus Gus from Cinderella. But I'm pretty sure that the mice in our house are less Disney and more al qaeda.

It's hard to concentrate on much of anything when all you can smell is Pine-Sol, all of your canned goods are stacked in a lovely pyramid on your kitchen counter, and your silverware drawer - yes, the drawer and all of its contents - has been on the kitchen counter for 3 days. Like you're a hillbilly. With some can't-put-stuff-away version of Tourette's.

I'm starting to feel like Chuck Norris: I don't sleep. I wait. I wait for the mice to come and bust their way through the steel wool and aluminum foil fortress that I have crafted in my kitchen cabinetry. I will be waiting, armed with a surly attitude and a half-empty bottle of wine.

I guess I come by this vermin vendetta honestly.

My dad's pride and joy is his yard. When I was growing up, there was a mole that tunneled all over the yard - definitely without my dad's permission. My poor papa tried everything - bait, traps, all of it. But you know how he got finally rid of the mole? One morning, my sweet daddy was starting off on his morning constitutional, and he noticed 1 of the mole tunnels ... moving.

And then you know what my mild-mannered daddy did? He ran over and stomped the shit out of that tunnel. Dad + vexation at vermin + Adidas = a mole that tunneled no more.

That's how I feel about the mice.