So I got in my first fight with my future roomies (which is even more questionable at this point than ever) last night. The fight involved the one thing that, if you knew me, you don’t mess with. My dogs and, namely, the fact that the “man of the house” thinks that he’s going to be leaving them outside in the yard all day while we’re all at work. The incident ended with my telling him that I don’t tell him what to do with his daughter so he needn’t tell me what to do with my dogs, me bursting into tears (a rarity, to be honest), and me storming out of the restaurant.

I don’t even know where to start, really, with exactly how angry this makes me. “They’re just dogs!” one might argue. Here’s a clue: that argument won’t work with me. Find a better argument.

This whole thing has blown up into something that I never wanted it to be. Originally, when J and J broke up, when I was sure that she never wanted to get back together with him, I proposed that Jess and I live together so that she wouldn’t have to live with her parents and we would both same some money. Then, they get back together and decide, without my input, that all of us are going to live together. Then the two of them decide that they don’t want to, ahem, “throw their money away on rent” and so they want to buy a house rather than rent (because, apparently, it’s ok for me to throw MY money away renting from them and helping them make their mortgage payments and gain equity).

So, the house hunt begins, and due to Jess’s absolute refusal to look outside of her desired community (which also, coincidentally, happens to be my most undesirable community), the necessity of having a ranch (apparently stairs are the antichrist), and the absence of any money for a down payment, we’re looking at houses the size of the ones they use in the Monopoly game.

Now it’s my dogs that are on the chopping block.

What I need to do is tell them to fuck off and find my own place, but I feel a bit guilty about agreeing to this (well, agreeing to something that has since morphed into something entirely different), knowing that it will be difficult/impossible for them to do this on their own (which is ridiculous, really, as they’re both capable adults who should be able to take care of themselves), and wondering if, as undesirable as this whole scenario is, my other options are really all that much better.

Enough, I can’t think about it anymore. My stomach is in acidic knots.

In other more annoying news, I need to let another friend know whether I’m bringing a date to her rehearsal dinner and wedding in June. This has to be one of the most annoying situations for a single person. I can’t even tell you what I’ll be doing next month, let alone in three and a half, and I’m supposed to predict the future. It would be easy to do if I weren’t in the wedding, I could just say that I’m bringing a date and drag an available friend if there’s no dating prospects in the picture. But taking someone to a wedding, making them sit amongst strangers while I jump through bridesmaid hoops, is really a lot to ask, to be honest. I know I wouldn’t want to go. I don’t care how much free champagne there is.

Though, I suppose, there would be plenty of entertainment for said date/friend. I’ll be wearing a dress for one, a true rarity. There will be high pointy shoes involved, making way for much tumbling on the ground and embarrassment. A plethora of cameras will be available to document the occasion. Opportunities for future blackmail exist. This is, after all, a “Cinderella” wedding. I will be wearing baby blue. Me. Wearing baby blue. Dancing in front of people. It’s already haunting me.

On to the weekend. Tonight I will be with the family for my mother’s birthday celebration. I had a great talk with my sister last night for over two hours, which was nice, so I’m looking forward to going. Tomorrow I’ll be there again for the “official” celebration as my Dad won’t be home tonight, and then I’ll head downtown to see Goldfinger. I would normally be looking forward to a concert, but I’m sort of annoyed with the girl I’m going with because apparently the entire night has to be structured around her getting high before the show, and it’s a pain in my ass. What the hell is the point of seeing a punk show, a loud, bouncy, punk show, and being stoned off your ass? There isn’t one. Drink a beer, for crying out loud, and quit nagging me about your habit.

Sunday I will probably continue with the same sunny attitude that I’m displaying today. I blame it on two days of bad Pepsi caps.