These are a few of my favorite things...

Hasselhoff cheers on the Mavericks at the American Airlines Center ,

The garlic fries at Ameriquest Field in Arlington

And Dave.

This morning feels like my brain is rotating in the reverse direction of the earth, and no, I didn't get drink myself to sleep last night! Everything is just crappy this morning. I wish I was snug as a bug in a rug, back between the blankets in bed...

... I'll tell you what one of the best things in the world is... When I'm half awake and I get a chill, I roll over to get deeper into the covers on the bed when I find a nice warm boy, and he finds me, and we wrap ourselves up in one another. And then, back to sleep...

... Work hours should be subjective. I wonder how much more work would be done, or how much happier workers would be if the system allowed three different start and stop times. you can go to work at 8 a.m., 9 a.m. or 10 a.m., and leave at 4 p.m., 5 p.m. or 6 p.m. That way, you can make sure to wake up at a reasonable leisure because being half asleep and infront of a computer forces people to be like I am today: completely and unequivocally unwilling to take part in society. This, as I'm sure you've already inferred, is bad. Very bad.

I pine for bed.

I think...

... therefore I read Dave's poetry every time he deems the world worthy enough to be glorified by a new post. See for yourself...

On another, equally impressive note, I will be sewing, hemming and hanging curtains this weekend. I hope to get the issues with my digital camera resolved and grocery shopping will commence after yoga tomorrow. Until then... I bid thee adieu!

xoxo!

Added injuncture from across the pond...

This weekend was great, and Dave and I did almost nothing. Well, if doing "something" means a scheduled outing or an event with friends, then we did nothing, but in actuality, we gardened, planted, I cooked and laundered, and we laughed. Oh, did we laugh!

I sat on my front porch this weekend at our lovely New Orleans-style bistro set, and I sipped iced tea with the Sunday news. There was nothing more glorious than gazing at our freshly groomed front yard, our newly potted plants and a breezy Spring early afternoon, a tepid 85 degrees in the shade, which is cool by Texas standards. I clipped coupons, breathed deep and I lazed, soaking up as much spring air as I could before my week of mandatory cubicle confinement.

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I made a breakthrough in my Vinyasa class on Saturday morning. I've always been a bit of a klutz, somewhat unawares of my limbs as they plod and swing. In yoga, you're told to focus, to dive inward and understand the deeper movements of your body. You're to open your senses to every contraction, every shift in minutae. I'll be honest, and in the one year-plus I've been doing yoga, I've never really "gotten it." I've gone through the motions, and while moving from "tree pose" to "dancer I," more often than not I lose my footing, get frustrated and continue to make matters worse until we go back to mountain, and then subseqently to the floor. But during our salutation on Saturday, Greg, my teacher, asked us to dedicate our practice, which is something we do every session, but I took it a little deeper. I dedicated my practice to focus and then I dedicated myself to patience.

Now, the word "focus" for a long time has been somewhat vacant to me. I've always countered it with "focus on what?" But I finally figured it out. In yoga, I have to focus on myself, literally. I have to be mindful of my movement because it effects every bit of my poses, my position, my concentration and the attainment of peace, the essence of "Om."

It was so uplifting. Even the biggest klutz eventually has a point of grace.

Try if you like...

... poetry.

My opinion, worthless as it seems, is that my darling has put to paper (or pixel) some of his best and most inspired work yet.

Check it out here.

What's black, white and a big whiner?

Somewhere between sleep and awake there's a huge lump of fur and fat. This morning it's sitting on my chest, meowing the equivalent of the cliche rooster at the ass-crack of dawn. Dawsey, she's the black-and-white feline terror that cannot be right with the world if she doesn't climb upon our bed and perch on a slumbering sternum and force one of us awake.

I prefer my alarm clock, thankyouverymuch.

And so starts a weekday morning. It makes me wonder if Dawsey has some divine understanding of calendars because rarely does her episodic meowing take place on a weekend. From her jolting pleas in felinese, one of us rolls out of bed to then rouse the other. This morning is a damp and dreary one, with leftovers of last night's cacophony dripping from the weighted branches and cascading from our gabled roof.

Coffee. Toothpaste. Scone. Climb into the Jeep and off we go.

Dave drops me gently at the train station.

"Have a good day, sweetie. I love you."

(Incoherent mumbling)

"Okay, have a good day now. I love you sweetie."

"I'll try," I slowly return, trying my best to come off as misanthropic as possible despite this mornings bittersweet adieu.

I'm being ripped from the womb when I hop out of the Jeep in my skirt and heels. It's like being a toddler alone in a big, cold grocery store when he pulls away from the station. At that moment I'd do anything to go back, but I know that it's temporary. I know I'll be safe and loved in a matter of hours.

Summoning energy previously just a mystery, I jot down the escalator to the patient train and hop aboard. The scent of rain, cologne and newsprint tickles my nose. Sip the coffee, turn the page.