Screwing Off

Some mornings, it’s all I can do to get going.  I do, of course, because that’s what I do.  Get going.  But, like this morning, and despite the fact Gina had her 60 pounds and two front paws firmly embedded in my chest as she let me know in her typical subtle fashion that it was time to go out, and it being the first morning fully free and unfettered to do whatever I want, I found that I couldn’t even muster the energy to bend over to pick up the dog bowls and fill them.  Finally, the stamping of eight furry feet made me anyway.  The things I have to do for the ones I love.

I’ve decided that I could, with the proper training, piss away endless days by just screwing off.  I think this is a good sign. 

On my list for this last few days of time off I hope to:

1.                   Figure out the freakin’ iPod at last.  I’ve done things with it before and somehow it has music on it, but I don’t have a clue how it happened.  I’ve been playing the same music over and over and over again until I can’t take it anymore.  I can’t replicate it, despite the fact trained monkeys can even figure it out. 

2.                   Update my resume.  I’m considering a career as a trained monkey, but I don’t think they’d hire me until I figure this whole iPod thing out.

3.                   Reflect upon my year.  That won’t be too difficult because those challenges I met are for the most part, still hanging around, little bastards.  I think I will do this with a bottle of 20-year old Port. 

4.                   Clean Em’s bedroom before she gets back.  That should eat a full chunk of an entire day – I dared open the door and was nearly sucked into the vortex, despite the fact she swore that her room was clean before she left.  This isn’t exactly screwing off, but it’s going to allow me to sleep tonight.

5.                   Get reacquainted with HMW.

6.                   Read the three Vanity Fairs I have stacked in various bathrooms.  I just haven’t felt the same about the magazine since Christopher Hitchens became such a pompous ass.  Oh, wait, he always was a pompous ass, I just don’t tolerate it as well as I once did.  So, it must be because Dominick (“While I was dining at Le Circque with Queen Whosit and Archduke Pumperwhatsit last week, we were discussing the Saffron murder…”) Dunne, who isn’t writing regularly for them anymore.

7.                   Go talk to my new garbage can and tell it how much I appreciate it joining my household.