An Evening at Home

Rob and I cleaned our apartment tonight because we had a potential renter coming over and we wanted her to think that we are clean people. Actually, I just wanted her not to kill us, because I have this strong reaction to people who respond to my Craigslist postings, which is that I assume they all want to come over and kill me.* So far, this has not happened.

We also moved a bunch of extraneous containers of clothing and dishes (and cat litter) into our neighbor Eric's apartment, and that really made the place look (and smell) extra clean. Almost like no one really lived in it and it was just a show home. I've never seen Rob happier. "I'm so bummed that it doesn't always look like this!" he exclaimed after she left. I don't think he enjoys that whole "lived in" feel.

After we brought all our stuff back in from Eric's, we sat down to have dinner and were interrupted by a knock at the door. No one ever knocks on our door, so we were confused. I got a little freaked out that the renter was coming back and would see that our cats actually do have a litter box. But it was Michael from down the hall. "You have a cat, right?" he asked. We confirmed. He then gestured to the hallway, where Smokey was having a little field trip, inviting himself into other people's homes. When we caught him, he was in 5A clawing up JD, the guy who lives there, in an attempt to escape. We brought him home, his little heart hammering away, and he is now passed out in bed. I hope this isn't an indication of how he's going to handle leaving the state and flying to California in a cat carrier. I mean, it was brave of him to attempt the adventure, but I think he lost his confidence somewhere near the elevators. We're going to have to get him some good drugs for the ride.

*This is not a new development brought on by that guy who actually was killing people he met on Craigslist. This particular affliction has been going on for years.

Who Ran?

This seemed relevant today.



If it doesn't work, the relevance shall remain a mystery. And let that be a lesson to you. We don't always have the answers. Or the necessary technical skills to run a blog. Or our lives. Wait, who are we talking about?

*A Note: I don't mean to make light of the post-election events in Iran. I just really like it when Adam Levine pops up in the middle of that song. But it's scary and disheartening that people are being beaten in the streets and could potentially be executed under Islamic law for protesting the alleged victory of Ahmadinejad. My small act of subversion is a Deepish homage to them.

The case of the missed yoga class

So here's what happened. I ate a nutritious dinner of red snapper with zucchini and black olive tapenade, cleaned up the apartment, did some laundry, showered, packed my yoga bag, set out my outfit for the next day, and went to bed. I was determined to start the week off with a 6:45am yoga class before heading to work.

Because you are allowed to shower at my yoga studio, but you are not allowed to wash your hair, and I had a benefit dinner to attend tonight, there was rather involved preparation the night before. But I was ready. So, I don't know what it was...the fact that the snapper was actually perch? The 2 glasses of wine that I had with dinner? General Sunday night confusion? I changed the alarm to 6am, but, like a total doge, I forgot to turn it on.

This morning, I woke up at 6:20am, far too late to make it to yoga across town. As I stood by the bed, halfheartedly contemplating going to the gym instead, Rob walked back from the bathroom, bodyslammed me, and wrapped me up in the blankets. I fell back asleep for an hour and a half.

It is entirely possible that I am not a morning work-out person. But as I am clearly not an evening work-out person, and I have no time during the day to work out, I may just have to come to terms with reality. I am actually a bed pillow.

The Tao of ADD

How much stimulation can the human mind take? I understand that there are doctors and researchers in the world who believe that multi-tasking is a myth. That it doesn't really happen. I'd like to invite them over right now. They can feed the cats.

Rob and I are planning our Italy trip--I am reading Rick Steves' Venice 2009 and sharing tidbits such as what to do if a pigeon poops in your hair while you're in Venice (advice that I assume can be transferred to any other location where you might find yourself the target of such aerial attacks.) The trick is not to smear it into your hair. Let it dry and then it will flake off cleanly.

"Great advice," says Rob. "How long does it take to dry?"

I am also intermittently checking email to determine whether we have any more RSVPs for our wedding reception.

And we are watching the Bears/Colts game and I am asking all the normal questions that I as when we watch football, like, "What just happened there?" "Was that a fumble? "Is Peyton Manning married?" "How old is he?" "Does he have kids?" Rob answers some of these questions and rolls his eyes at others. Then when he gets really excited about a play in which a really big guy slams into another really big guy, he time travels back to 1952.

"That Bob Sanders...he carries a wallop!" I look over at him to see if he is suddenly wearing a little hat and smoking a Winston. He is not.

At random moments in the game we switch over to the US Open to watch the match between Serena Williams and Jelena Jankovic and we talk about how some people think Jankovic is attractive (we like her body but her face sort of reminds me of Scottie Pippen, not that there's anything wrong with that.) Rob asks if she is wearing glitter in her hair.

However. In 13 minutes we will begin watching Entourage, at which point, if everyone knows what is good for them, all sound and thought will cease and we will spend 30 minutes really, really not doing anything else.

And the researchers can rest easy knowing that sometimes they are correct. But I bet they'll be too busy to appreciate it.