Lots of updates. Three, to be exact. (Unless I forget one before I finish this entry.)

Update #1:
I recently went to an interview to get a volunteer job at a hospital near my house. There were around 120 applicants, and 80 open spots. Four people were interviewed at a time. Two of the people being interviewed with me, named stupid kid #1 and stupid kid #2, were a few years younger than me. Their [ridiculous] answers made me wish I could pull out a notepad right there and write everything down for TailboneLust. Obviously, I couldn't. I did remember a few things, though. ("Did you read Pancake's last TailboneLust entry? She said she remembered something from a couple weeks earlier!" "Oh my Lordy, are you serious? Swear to God? Shocking!")

For your reading pleasure (and for my currently i>deflated ego), here they are:
Question: "What are some of your hobbies and extracurricular activites?"
My answer: "I've volunteered for two women's organizations. I can't volunteer for them on a regular basis though, since they don't always need volunteers. That's part of the reason I'd like to volunteer here: There are more opportunities to volunteer, and there's a set schedule."
Stupid kid #1's answer: "Well, I like to hang out with my friends and have fun. We like to go to the mall and...have fun. And, like, we like to do fun girl things."

Question: "Do you have any experience with children or the elderly?"
My answer: "I have experience with the elderly. I have a job at Caton Merchant House, which is an assisted living facility, so I work with them on a weekly basis."
Stupid kid #2's answer: "Well, I take care of my little brother. He gets cuts and stuff, and I put Band-Aids on him, and sometimes I can just kiss his 'boo-boo' and he'll feel better!"

To help you get a better image of how pathetic stupid kids #1 and #2 were, they were both swinging back and forth furiously in their swivel chairs. They spoke in low, hushed voices and didn't make eye contact with anyone. Stupid kid #1 had a freakin' pink ribbon in her hair, along with a shiny pink blouse and a too-short-for-an-interview shiny black skirt. Even my mother made fun of her. (My mother calls herself Bitch, and calls me Baby Bitch.)

I got an acceptance letter from the hospital last week; I'm hoping stupid kids #1 and #2 didn't. Then again, they might consider themselves lucky not to have been accepted: We have to buy uniforms. What the hell? "Congratulations on being accepted into the auxiliary program! We appreciate all your help as a volunteer! Now give us fifteen bucks, you naive little girl."

Update #2:
Irby's quickly learning his role as Family Dawg Dog. Last night, though, we had a little setback as far as his potty training goes. Walking into the foyer with him, I turned away to pick up his food bowl. As I turned back, I saw him defecating on the floor. I quickly swooped him up, cupped a hand over his nasty bottom, and took him outside. I plopped (no pun intended) him on the lawn (no pun intended, again) and waited. And waited. Fifteen minutes went by. He hadn't laid anymore brown yet, so I figured I caught him late, after he had already finished emptying himself. Since he hasn't yet mastered the stairs, I carried him upstairs into the foyer, set him down and cleaned the carpet. Coming back from the closet, where I replaced the carpet cleaner, I saw him soiling the carpet. By the time I caught him, there was already a nice log on the carpet, so I decided he was done (yeah, it's up to me to decide when he's done) and crated him for the night.

Update #3:
The first time Irby urinated and I picked him up afterwards, I noticed he had really long penis hairs that allowed urine to drip off of him and onto me. For about a week, I considered trimming them. The thing was, though, that I really didn't feel too good about dirtying up our scissors with canine penis germs (or any penis germs, for that matter). Last Saturday, however, that all changed. Seeing the scissors glinting in the sunbeam coming in through the window, I knew it was time.

I cut Irby's penis hairs. I forgot what I did with the scissors. I know I didn't wash them. All was fine until the next day, when we had guests over for a barbecue. A girl asked if we had scissors. Forgetting what happened the day before, I pointed her towards The Scissors. As she picked them up, she asked,"Are these food scissors?" Remembering what happened just 24 hours before that, I hesitated, not knowing what to say. I mean, what was I supposed to say-- "No, I cut my dog's penis hairs with that?" Someone chimed in with a "yes" to her question. She proceeded to cut bread with The Scissors. Walking away, I chuckled evilly to myself thinking,"I'm such a gross little girl. Bah-ha! Good thing I don't eat bread!"