|PIGGLY AND I SPEND A JOYOUS HOUR ON THE FRONT PORCH|
waiting for passersby to mistake me for her mother.
It's just one of the many fun things we do when Glama visits.
It's been an unheard-of two weeks since I last saw my little honey bundle of thigh rolls, and I don't know if Piggly Wiggly Withdrawal is a medically recognized condition, but if it isn't, it should be. Because I suffer from it and it is no joke. If more than a week goes by without an infusion of her baby cuteness, I start to feel wan. If more than 10 days go by, I start to have nightmares. (In the last one, Piggly walked up to me on her fat little seven-month-old legs and barked, "That's not really coffee in that cup at all, is it?")
So when I opted to visit her during my precious days off last week rather than staying home and cleaning my slatternly household — it's more of a habitat, really — it was basically a medical emergency and therefore I have no reason to feel guilty about it. Even though I implied I was coming over to help out and then did nothing but sit around drinking "coffee" and cuddling my adorable little plumpling.
However, because I am nothing if not a