- Cleaning my house, as there is clutter on every flat surface within it (and even some not-so-flat surfaces as well), and the layer of dust on my entertainment center is thick enough that the ghost who may or may not live here might start writing messages to me in it soon.
- Potting the tomato plants I bought this weekend, because the likelihood of me getting something I can actually eat to grow is slim enough, and probably becomes ever more slim the longer I leave the tiny seedlings sitting forlorn in a cardboard box atop my dishwasher.
- Continuing the big dig in my front yard that I began on Friday, with the goal of replacing the sad, anemic mismatched bushes that came with the place with something less sad and less suited for a "before" picture on the HGTV show Curb Appeal.
- Thanking the magical scientists who invented wireless connections for the still-novel-to-me ability to change my Facebook status and type a blog post from the comfort of my queen-sized pillowtop.
As for the first bullet point, I think my solution might be to have a party in the not-too-distant future. It's been a while since I hosted any sort of gathering, and it may be the only thing that forces me to clean this sty on any sort of deadline. Then again, parties cost money, and they also give me one more opportunity to fret about my friends seeing the much-mentioned duct tape that's still in my shower. The logic in many of my hair-brained plans seems a bit flawed lately, but flawed logic is usually the more fun sort of logic, so why should that dissuade me?
Regarding the third bullet, I am almost letting myself off the hook with the excuse that I worked hard enough on Friday to justify a day off today, but I know myself well enough to know that granting a free pass like that is an excellent way to ensure I have piles of dirt signifying a project in progress for the better part of the entire summer. I was determined to follow through on a goal in a timely matter for once. "Determined" is apparently a relative term for me.
I have, however, already gotten all three of the odious shrubs in front of my house dug up and removed, despite their best efforts to thwart me. They put up a good fight: the barberry stabbed me with its prickly branches so many times that I almost gave up and said, "Fine! You win. You can stay." And I pried so hard against the roots of another shrub that I actually broke my shovel right in two. That's right: I broke a shovel. Just when my stubborn lawn mower has me feeling like a wimp I realize I'm totally She-Ra. Yay me.
Let's see. What else have I been up to lately? Well, yesterday I meandered around Art-a-Whirl. My goal was to find something new to hang in my living room. What I bought instead was a pair of earrings and a new handbag, which, while they are lovely and adorable respectively, are probably not well suited to be wall art. Details.
On Thursday I went out for dinner with two friends, where I ordered a bacon-infused Manhattan despite the fact that I'm well aware I do not like Manhattans. (See sidebar, with its recent search engine note that is obviously not too recent anymore. Note to self: either remove that component or scour your stats for a replacement search hit post haste.*) I have to agree with Salon.com that bacon may have jumped the shark** only shortly after it started showing up in candy bars and on donuts, but pop culture peer pressure made me want to try it anyway. For my money, I'll skip the bacon cocktail next time and order another Jackson Pollack instead. My pal Carrie posted a picture of it here, but she neglected to mention that this strange looking cocktail was both delicious and moisturizing. Each sip left a trace of green basil oil on my lips, making me wonder if perhaps I'd need to reach for my lip balm a time or two less that night.
* Of course, when I do that, the reference in this paragraph will be lost, so I should note that the search engine phrase in question was "What is a Manhattan supposed to taste like?" to which my response was, "If the answer is 'battery acid,' I totally did it right."
** If you happen to click through to that article, you must read through to the second page, on which the author brilliantly reasons that bacon is the Arthur Fonzarelli of the meat world while Ritchie Cunningham is the skinless chicken breast of the Happy Days universe.
After dinner we high-tailed it over to the Riverview for a three-dollar showing of The Wrestler. This paragraph may contain some spoilers, so if you haven't see it yet and plan to, you might want to skip ahead right about now. If you have seen that one, tell me, is the ending open to interpretation, or are we all supposed to assume what we think happened actually happened and Mickey Rourke said goodbye not just to wrestling but to everything else in this life with his final body slam? Assuming it's the latter, who do we blame for his early exit? After considering Ram's daughter, the stripper, and his own ego, my friends and I finally decided it was actually the Potato Salad Lady's fault more than anyone else. "A little more. A little less. A little more. A little less." Frankly it would be enough to drive anyone over the edge, no?
All right. It's now well into the afternoon hours, which makes still sitting on my bed in a t-shirt and pajama pants seem less delightfully relaxing and more slothlike and lazy, so it's about time I attend to at least one of the bullets in that first list.
So what are you doing or not doing lately? Do fill me in.