This morning I was up at the butt crack of dawn to get ready for a breakfast meeting. The group, named The Networkers, meets at 0700 every Friday morning. As part of this association, each member makes an effort to become familiar with the businesses of other members and strives to get referrals for them from clients, family and friends.

My friend Beth is a massage therapist and urged me to come out as a guest to see what it was all about. They are certainly a fun group and far less high-stress with the referrals than BNI, the other group I looked into a couple of months ago. Add to that BNI's yearly membership fee of almost $500 and there was no way, man. The Networkers are an offshoot group and are mellow, mellow, mellow. It was enjoyable.

I wasn't three feet in the door before I was snagged by an amiable older geekish guy. He asked who invited me, then proceeded to sit me down at his table along with six others who all seemed nice enough. They told me Beth would sit beside me and would be irked because they had corralled me to sit at "the Bad Boys Table". It all seemed kind of Ross-esque, so I had to smile.

They stood me up and I stammered and rocked and tried to tell the story of my business in 5 minutes or less, including taking questions from the floor. It came out all awkward which is odd since I've won awards for public speaking; maybe it was the ungodly hour?

I came home to a puppy in a crate covered in shit. Lucky, lucky me.

Half an hour later, the mud room smells of Febreze, citrus floor cleaner and dog shit. Mmmmmm, homey.

No calls from the agency who just two weeks ago loved me and told me I was "Fabulous!" because I scored 92% on their marathon testing. I'm really going to get a complex at this rate, kids, I swear.

I feel as though I should be out in the laneway, hammering away at my ark. The amount of rain and the number of Severe Thunderstorm Warnings over the past four days has been staggering. I only hope my little grass seeds are able to weather these torrential downpours.

I don't feel quite as put out as the many, many (many) campers who booked their sites when holiday wreaths and twinkly lights still adorned their homes. With most of the conservation areas and campgrounds alcohol-free, it's doubtful they were even snapped enough not to notice. Shame, that.

My calendar today reads one thing: Bbq at the brother and sister in-law's. I am on the dessert committee (hell, I AM the dessert committee), so yesterday was spent poring over my many cookbooks and the scraps of paper in my Recipe Box. I finally decided on two offerings at opposite ends of the sugar spectrum:

Heavenly Pineapple Torte with Raspberry Sauce
and
Chocolate Fudge Cake with Chocolate-Frangelico Icing

In my attempts to please everyone, I suspect in the end everyone will try a sliver of both. I should have just made one honkin' great platter of Nanaimo bars and been done with it.

Also in the tote at the door, well away from the nosey doggies, is a ramekin of homemade hummus and some pita chips I made late last night. It's my first attempt, and for some reason it didn't do it for me like the hummus at the Lebanese place at the market. I'm going to have to fiddle with it, I guess. I'm taking it today to get overall impressions and comments. And let's face it, there's nothing wrong with there being more food at a gathering!

I need a round tuit. Anyone?

I simultaneously love and hate days when I have a million picky things to do in a row. If I can actually get my ass out of the computer chair and make a list, I find great satisfaction in checking one item off after another, much like Monica and Ross.

"Check!"

However, at the end of the day when I finally sit down with a coffee and a square from one of my Hershey's Special Dark bars (thanks, Belle!) going back over the day in my mind, it never seems like I've accomplished anything. Even though I've managed to rid myself of the niggling phone calls and dog hair tumbleweeds and bills crying out to be paid; I can relax my mind a few notches and all is good.

Today, the score is presently Computer Chair: 3 hours and 2 minutes, Meg's To Do List: 0. Bah.

The Boy pulled the pin around 9:00 last night in preparation for his final day on the continental shift at work. The alarm goes off at 4:40 and he wants to be able to hit the ground running, so I don't blame him.

The only problem was Murphy; he didn't want to go to bed quite yet. He is relegated to the mean, nasty crate overnight due to his penchant for chewing anything and everything when not supervised. Oh, and his immature bladder. It's the bladder thing that got him the nickname Mr. Peabody, one which he apparently understands and is shamed by. We keep him in there for the sake of our sanities as well, something that made me feel a little guilty until our obedience class instructor told me it was better to lock the bugger away than kill him and have the inconvenience of digging that great big hole behind the garage. Especially in this heat.

So, he's barking. And barking. And calming down. Then whining, then barking. It's loud and shrill and there are these little tweeting noises incorporated which makes it virtually impossible to ignore. Every time The Boy would begin to drop off, Murph would start up again. Once 57 minutes of Murphy's barking and The Boy's violent curses had elapsed, I was more than ready to offer my assistance. I approached the crate carefully, trying to keep my fingers away from this mental dog who was clawing and scratching to get out and lick the hide off me. Once I got it open, he raced the up the stairs and waited at the door to the kitchen, his tail smacking against the ironing board and sounding like a wicked drum solo. After pinning him on the livingroom floor and explaining quietly in his ear that I was only allowing him to sleep in his bed tonight as a special favour, he calmed down, grabbed his B00da and hit the sheets. I hit the couch and laid there, listening in the dark for either pup to get up and try to pester The Boy. It was my job to nip that in the bud, but quick. Murph got away from me since he's so frail and light he doesn't even make the floorboards creak like pudgy Bailey. He didn't get in the door, but shook his head so violently beside it, it sounded like I was knocking. I would have laughed, except this roused The Boy and I feared his wrath as he glared at the three of us in the livingroom then made his way to the kitchen for a sleeping pill.

Eventually, everyone nodded off until Murph woke me around 1:00. I was going to kick his ass and send him to bed until I realized it would probably be in my best interests to let him out for a quick pee. I wasn't wrong; it was one of the longer pee sessions I've ever heard. He finished, came back to the door, up to his bed and slept through until the alarm went off. No mental antics this morning either, since I suspect the crate makes him think of all the places he'd been locked up before he came to live at Shangrila.

I unfortunately woke up with a wicked headache, one I've been unable to shake all day. I'm dangerously overmedicated and the damn thing is still banging away. My plans for some serious shoe and MP3 player window shopping have gone up in smoke, so I'm the tiniest bit cranky. We'll see if the recipe I've just downloaded for Crab Linguine soothes my savage beast.

It's a rainy Sunday today. We celebrated Mother's Day yesterday, here, but my sister wants to take Mom out to eat today since it's the actual day. Our family is very big with the "actual day" celebrations.

I've been dozing on the couch for most of the day, slug that I am. The Boy got up at 4:40 to get ready for work, so I've been dragging my ass out of bed at that ungodly hour as well to get the dogs into some sort of schedule. Plus, it takes two to feed them since Bailey must eat first to establish dominance. Bailey must go out the door to pee first for the same reason. Murphy isn't dealing very well with either situation, so it takes a second person to physically pin the damn dog down on the kitchen floor to get him to understand. Heaven help us when he has a growth spurt. This might actually be one time when carrying a few extra pounds will be helpful.

Obedience class begins Wednesday: whee!

My new (brilliant) ad for the business is up at Dogster. My friend Aimee was instrumental in making the actual banner ad, but I almost drove myself into an asylum coming up with a seemingly casual tag line. I now see why people pay companies lots of moolah to do it for them.

The Little Black Dog Bakery. Check it out.

In eight hours I am hosting an early Mother's Day get together. My old china cabinet was hauled away last night by a previous work colleague so now the new sideboard dominates the room. This was an excellent revelation, so I then gilded the lily by adding bamboo which I placed in a vase with some pretty lake stones and placed slightly off-center, very shi shi.

The menu is as follows: Mustard-glazed pork loin roast, passionfruit chicken breasts, vegetable bake, caesar salad, herbed roasted potatoes, Portuguese buns and for dessert Tiramisu and a White Chocolate Lemon Tart.

Before then we need to bathe the new dog Murphy as he has earned the nickname Pee Dog. I wish we had time to steam clean the rug, but I guess Febreze will have to suffice. I'm pushing for a hardwood floor that we can just adorn with throw rugs, but that might have to wait until later on in the year.

Have a great Mother's Day, whomever you are!

I caught the series finale of Dawson's Creek yesterday morning on TBS, watched all the Friends hoopla last night and ER on tape this morning. I haven't cried so much in ages.

At one point I got up to get more tissues from the washroom. As I reached for the box, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; I looked awful, all red eyes and blotchy skin and runny nose. The interesting thing is, I actually liked what I saw. I derived pleasure from the general shittiness of my being.

There have been a number of rotten events in my life of late, and I haven't been able to cry about a single one of them. Maybe there's a piece of me deep down that's grateful for the release, even if it has to happen in front of the television?