Free as a Bloody Bird

This weekend was, in many ways, the reverse of last weekend and, in many ways, a triumph of the proletariat. Jester took Daughter home to the H-town area for the weekend, which meant that Harley and I had the place to ourselves. Needless to say, shit got crazy. Actually, I should say, shit got weird. That's not a metaphor, unfortunately. Harley had been eating inconsistently the last week or so. I just figured it was probably some sort of silent protest of canine rights violations in Myanmar, but then she started shitting blood. (Again, not an metaphor.) When she is sick, our dog – who may or may not have a mild form of mental retardation – only pukes or expels liquid feces on carpets and rugs. Nearly our entire first floor is hard wood, but she decides to shit on the oriental rug my brother gave us as a wedding present and then go downstairs to puke on the cream-colored carpet. Bitch. (Again, not an metaphor.) Thursday, Jester took Harley to the vet and got some antibiotics and the canine equivalent of Imodium, the latter of which clogged Harley up for several days. At least I didn't have to spend my weekend attempting to appease people on my block by trying to pick up dark liquid off of their lawns with a plastic bag. And you thought that my first post ever was the last time you would have to hear about my dog's bloody diarrhea. Think again.

But enough about the combination of blood and feces. This weekend to myself was definitely needed, considering in the last 7 weeks, I've billed over 20% of my required hours for the year. To put that in perspective, I have essentially worked an extra month in the last month and a half. A weekend left to my own devices was exactly what the doctor ordered. My doctor is an alcoholic named Andrew, by the way.

I spent Friday night and most of Saturday sitting on the couch watching westerns while eating hoagies and drinking two-liter bottles of orange and grape pop. I also watched as two Chicago sports teams were dismantled by teams from, cough, Cleveland. Thankfully, Cleveland doesn't have a hockey team. Or a football team, for that matter. Zing!

Saturday night was the observation of the thirtieth anniversary of the birth of Tradd. A bunch of us (with one noticeable absence) went over to his place for some spirits and platonic companionship. As is the custom, Tradd did 30 shots of whiskey, one made in each year he's been alive (except 2010). After Tradd died, the party kind of dissipated, and things became a little awkward. Not wanting to get in Kara's way, Chris, Allison, and I grabbed some cake, stepped over Tradd, and headed over to the Burwood. I haven't been there in a while. It's still the perfect neighborhood bar it's always been, aside from the noticeable lack of John the Bartender behind the bar.

Amazingly, I didn't eat a single burrito this weekend. I did, however, have pizza for the first time since February. It's still good.