This weekend has been one long exercise in procrastination. Yesterday started out badly and degenerated; I just couldn't get myself upright, dressed and fed long enough to accomplish anything. I did manage to pick up my horn and blow on it for an hour, but it was just fundamentals, the stuff I can do while watching bad movies on Netflix. Today was the opposite: I had a bizarre dream that I was pregnant and my husband was, too--we went for our ultrasounds together. When I woke up, I just laughed, and posted it on Facebook. It was a great way to start the day...but I still managed to not really accomplish anything for several hours.
Even then, I had to promise someone that I would start on my essay immediately after lunch, and then I didn't eat lunch. I did finally get to work on it, pulling together all the ideas and notes that I've been collecting and texting to myself all week long. It started to go well, and I got cocky and walked to Starbucks, making the excuse that the caffeine would push me through the rest of the essay and everything else I needed to get done. Instead, the extra shot made me squirrelly as hell, and I called people, emailed other people, petted my cats, cleaned up the kitchen, doodled and went out for chicken curry with a friend. Now I'm looking at this almost-finished essay and decide to write a blog entry instead.
I had five minutes of sheer panic today. Before I went for the coffee, I opened the windows in the bedroom to let in the 70-degree breeze and let the cats sniff the outside. I walked to Starbucks (it's about 100 yards from my front door), walked back, and went to see if the cats were enjoying the open windows. Went to the bedroom, and there's not a cat in sight...but the windows are wide open, and one of them doesn't have a screen. I must have left it off the last time I forgot my keys and had to climb in the window.
I put the coffee down, closed the window to just a crack, and immediately ran outside. Neither cat was anywhere to be seen. Strange, because Fleck doesn't usually go far when he gets out. I knew he'd be right around the house, and I hadn't even been gone 20 minutes. Lily, on the other hand, has a history. Last fall, she got out once when John accidentally left the door open. She bolted from John when he saw her, and she was gone overnight. The next day we searched for her all day before we had to go to band rehearsal. When we got home that night, we spotted her, but she ran away from us and hid under the neighbor's boat. We had to trick her out, and when I caught her she was feral, scratching and biting at my arms as I ran into the house with her. Within ten minutes, she was acting as though it hadn't happened, but we don't dare let her out again.
So I was a little frantic this afternoon. I ran down the length of our condo and back up the front, calling both of them. When I got to my own back door again, I thought I should go inside and make sure Fleck was really gone; there's no sense in searching for him if he was just hanging out in the house, so I went back in. Both cats were sitting by the cracked window in the bedroom, looking at me like I was crazy. I suppose they could hear me calling them from outside that whole time.
Great story, but I have to get back to this damned essay, and I really should do some playing before bed.
Oh, I almost forgot: I was really careful not to get any dairy in my soy-extra-shot-grande-caramel-light-frappuccino today. No whip! I was at Starbucks again after dinner, and--very carefully--got caramel apple cider. Forgot that it comes with whipped cream on it. And I DRANK IT. Sue me.
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