Today feels like it should be Thursday. Strangely, I’m glad it’s not. But my brain doesn’t know that—I cannot concentrate on anything.
It wasn’t until I read Dooce today that I realized it’s 6-6-06. That’s supposed to be bad, right? Like fake Y2K bad or astrology bad? All I’ve seen is everyone being in a touchy mood and they’re not driving particularly well, which could translate to potential traffic badness.
Last night I fell on my face in yoga. Hard. We were doing a standing preparation for bhujapindasana and over I went, my cheek hitting the floor so loudly that the two people next to me looked up and then fell over, too. My face hurt in down dog for the rest of class. Another day, another down dog.
I am in love with salad right now. Not like Richard Simmons loves salad, but then his salad was designed by Jay McCarroll, so it's trendy. If I could eat salad every day for lunch and dinner I would. But when Lunchboy is home we tend to eat larger, heavier meals. He doesn’t understand my addiction to baby spinach. We went to a BBQ over Memorial Day weekend and he looked at my quizzically when I cut up my chicken sausage and ate it on salad with some yummy sesame miso dressing from Whole Foods. Maybe it was weird but it was GOOD.
Last night a fly got into the house. Bugs of any kind (unless they’re ants—for some reason they aren’t into ants) cause Griffin and Cringer to go into full hunting mode. They jumped in the air and tried to catch the fly. They sprinted from one end of the house to the other, skidding on the hardwood floors, their tails waving through the air. They hunt as a pair—it’s indescribably adorable. Scully watches from the couch, with a look on her face that says, “No bug is interesting enough to get up for.”