My commute to and from work takes about two hours. It could take 90 minutes, but then I'd have to sacrifice a cappuccino at Alen's. Meh. It's light here before 5 am. What else should I do but ride to the city to catch the train?

Also, I work a 10-hour day. I used to bitch a lot about that, but since we get pizzas every two to three weeks, barbecues, exercise sessions, and permission to talk up a storm, hey–I'll stay until the house is renovated.

Let's do some math: 2 hr + 10 hr + 2 hr = 14 hours. Add to that 8 hr for my booty sleep. 22 hours out of 24. This leaves me with two hours to read, stitch, play with the dogs and cats, talk to the contractual spousal unit with the added turbo sex package. I can't ever do just one thing or nothing will get done.

I spoiled myself with a laptop purchase so that I can be online while on the floor with the dogs or in bed with Steve Buscemi the cats. One of my favourite games is looking over dog videos (I'm tragic), especially ones with greyhounds rooing, to get my guys going. In between moments of torture, I film moments of love. I must remember that looking down is not attractive. Where did that turkey neck come from?

 Fabian and Peppa are obsessed with each other; however, I'm not sure that Fabian understands that a lick with a nibble means love. 

The dogs had some missed YouTube moments recently. Manboy and I went to Melbourne for the marathon. He had to downgrade to a half. I had to upgrade to "Not going to watch–been there, done that–Melbourne's a town for playing" status. We took the dogs to the Mothership, where Tamale and Fabian came from and where Fabian's mum still lives. Taking the boys to the Mothership is great fun. The captain and first mate have Priscilla (Queen of the Dessert, no sic), Bonnie, Flash (aka Mum), Jelly (a toothy grinner), and Elmo–all greys–and to that mix Hamlet, Harry, another one I've forgotten, and Chastity the hyperactive turbo slut–all JRTs. The Mothership is in Coominya, an hour and a half's drive from our place. 

My city boys love it there. They get manky and stanky. They always come back with a scratch from playing. 

When we left for Melbourne, the clouds came into Queensland. You can see photos here and here. We had some notes from Camp Mothership's Captain. It seems that although my guys willingly peed and pooped outside in the downpour, one didn't hold it through the night and piddled in their livingroom. Naturally a house in the country with critters has lino floors. When the First Mate Ron got up and walked through the living room clad only in a towel, he slipped on the pee puddle and landed on his back and wrist right between my boys, who then shot up, pissed from fright and ran outside. Fabian stayed under the house until Captain Cathy carried him back in.

Fabian craps himself if you drop a feather. A 100 kg man landing next to him while he sleeps would have taken years off his ticker. Bless. That was a missed YouTube moment. 

Unfortunately for me (fortunately for the dogs), the roads to the Mothership were flooded. The boys got to stay 10 days instead of four. 

They're home now, bruised and scratched from playing, running too close to bushes, slipping in puddles. You know–bragging scars. When I went to pick them up (I traded them for cupcakes), Omo did me proud by lying in any puddle deep enough to cover his back. I squeezed them into the Suzuki, where Omo–a very large greyhound–found a new favourite place to ride (on the floor behind the driver's seat), and brought them home to sleep off the experience. Bless. The boys didn't wake for days.

So while everyone else was hopping, I was shopping and sopping, and the boys were running, funning, and sunning. In the meantime, baby got Internet back. 

Hop to it. Here are the rules. Here are les peeps qui hoppe: