Good lord, is it really 10:30 on a Monday night? I honestly don't understand how this happens... dinner is done and cleaned up and the garbage and recycling are down by the curb and the cats are fed and the pots of little ornamental pepper seedlings that got knocked over by some evil Bronx forest creature and then replanted and that look cold and vulnerable in the 49˚ night are safe and warm in the basement. The bunch of basil I had sitting in a pitcher of water but that was starting to shrivel up anyway and even worse kept making me think I smelled cat pee every time I walked by it -- and in a house with three cats one is verrrry sensitive to the concern that it could smell like cat pee at any given time -- is safely ziplocked (I know there's no "k" in that but it looks worse without) and in the fridge. The Mexican chicken that we are realistically not going to eat this week is wrapped and frozen. I have put up my daily blog post at Readerville, because although I always aspire to more, one a day will stave off generalized blogger's guilt. I broke up a cat fight. I walked the dog two miles around the reservoir at 6:30 this morning and will do it again at 6:30 tomorrow morning. I am finishing the last of the wine because there's nothing sadder than coming home to a bottle with half a glass' worth in it. I did NOT clean the bird poop off the back door, even though I had said I would, but there's part of me that enjoys wondering, every time I go in and out, just how a bird would have to fly extremely close to the house and shit at the same time in order to hit the door so squarely. I answered all my email except one. I had an endless phone conversation with my mom about the teeny tiny minutiae of her life, which since she's 81 years old I don't begrudge her at all. I made chicken tikka marsala for dinner, not completely from scratch because the sauce came premade, but I added my own mushrooms and peas so it wasn't totally lame, and I made rice too. I still don't understand how people say they can't cook rice -- isn't it a step or two up from boiling water? Well, I guess that's a bit presumptuous of me to say, considering I've never changed a flat tire.
I've had a really serious earworm of Neil Young's "For the Turnstiles" going on all day -- I literally woke up with it playing in my head. Usually I have a pretty good handle on my emotional barometer but today I've been unable to tell if I'm in a slightly bad mood or an OK mood. Which in itself can be disconcerting, but for some reason doesn't bother me right now.