All that is going to be accomplished today is laundry and swim. At least I got a lot done yesterday. Sundays are black holes of no motivation, apparently.

Gracie just climbs up on my fucking head. And she can't really retract her claws anymore. So that's fun.

Cortez's intense hair-licking was his wake-up notice for us, and it was a little disturbing.

He was a really well-behaved, polite guy, but every once in a while when he was clearly bored, he would sit on the counter and push things off. Keys, sunglasses, your phone, whatever.

Today is non-productive to the max. Not even in the mood to hit the farmer's market. I do have a massage appointment but I want to watch baseball after that, so back home to the couch.

The cats tag-team me in the mornings if I don't get up when they want me to. First Gray Cat wails in the hallway, and wails under the bad, and wails and wails until drag myself out of bed to feed them. If I don't get up, he gets bored and goes downstairs, and in a minute Leo the Ginger Cat comes up and walks all over me and PURRS really loudly, like real loud, how does he do that, and starts playing with my glasses. If THAT doesn't work, he leaves and Percy the Emo Cat comes in and mews in his precious little loud voice and jumps on the bed and sits on my shoulder and FARTS. Sometimes it happens in a different order, but they never do it all together; they take turns. They know what they're doing, the intelligent little wretches.

The drugs have kicked in, by the way. My head still hurts but I care less.

I was only productive before noon, and even that was just laundry and zucchini bread.

OK, House Hunters is in Las Vegas and the realtor just described something from 1989 as an older home in a more established neighborhood. It is different out there! (NB: I think my parents' house is not that old, and it's possibly 100 years old.)

I had a weird conviction this morning that I needed pie.

The fuck? Where am I going to find low glyemic pie before the nurse shows? Hell, even a recipe? I bolted out, grabbed apples and extra butter, came home and decided that maybe I can't do low but I can certainly do lower by cutting out the cane sugar and making whole wheat crust.

Why this is supposed to help my mood I have no idea. Failed pie crust has driven me to tears before, and it will again. I have never made whole wheat pie crust before, and I also decided to shoot for the vodka option, so that's two unknowns.

I'm going to try rolling it out now. If I can't line a pie pan, I won't make the filling.

(NB: I think my parents' house is not that old, and it's possibly 100 years old.)

I know that feeling! Where I grew up there were hundreds of homes from the 1800s, so when someone says, "Oh, this is an old home, probably 1970," I'm startled. OLD is pre-1900, people.

OLD is pre-1900, people.

There are a number of people who consider y'all too newly minted to even be quaint, y'know.

Alla y'all.