This morning I have a dream that George Zimmerman is keeping track of my contractions on Facebook.
Midway through my rare sleeping hours I wake up starving, groggily make for the kitchen. I eat two organic pop tarts, a bowl of grapes and a glass of orange juice. Please note that the words "Organic Pop Tarts" are hilarious to me. At one point I drop a precious chunk -- I'm eating these with a fork -- but catch it between my knees before it lands it in the cats' water dish. Sticky knees. Meanwhile, I read about the dead "Glee" actor and think of how he is someone's River Phoenix.
I write a book review of a parenting book for Minnesota Reads, then I write an apology to Jodi for reviewing a parenting book for Minnesota Reads. I'm either making the site so punk rock that it can totally host a review of a parenting book, or I've done irreparable damage to its street cred.
Yesterday I was on the highway next to a car with a teenaged boy in a scouting uniform sitting in the passenger seat. They were pulling a trailer with bumper stickers from, I assume, scouting events. The boy looked miserable, which could have been the weariness of a long day of do-gooding and stick whittling or the weariness of spending every weekend doing this. Not even taking the time to slip out of uniform and into a T-shirt after an event. Hearing his khaki-clad dad say over and over and over again: "I'm so proud of you, son," interrupting thoughts about skateboards or girls.
I put away a load of laundry. I change the water filter on the kitchen sink. I futz with baby things like carriers and onesies and tiny chairs. I watch our neighbor mow his lawn and wonder if that's really our neighbor or if that is someone related to the neighbor helping out our neighbor in a pinch. I brush my teeth and floss. I drink ice water and think about how Sundays hold no special power when you've no place to be on Monday. Correction: On Monday I'll go to Target.
My new hobby is to completely zone out and watch vintage episodes of "Law & Order: Criminal Intent." It's like a satisfactory level of yoga. This show is almost good. Almost. Each episode lasts just about 15 minutes too long and each plot is just about interesting. There are some curious design decisions in the show: The lack of romantic chemistry between the lead characters. Neither is unrealistically attractive, they could be your relatives. Eight episodes in and I don't know either of their names, though. The male lead, a savant, is always right and his boss, not a savant, is always wrong. The woman really brings nothing to the table aside from a wall to toss hypothesis at.
The "It's (Insert Day of Week) and I'm Boring" is a series that Jodi and I do to pay homage to the beauty of old-school blogging.