Something alarming happened over the weekend.
I exhibited such an unnatural state of laziness that I almost do not deserve to be labeled a human being.
Slug. Slug would be more fitting.
A slug in fat pants (covered in dog hair and stained with cheese dip because are there any other kind of fat pants?)and fuzzy slippers, armed with a supply of necessities available at arm’s length.
Not shown: i-phone, which sat at my lap so I wouldn’t have to reach if it chirped. Also, laptop. I ran it out of battery and was too lazy to plug it in, so I set it aside.
And there I parked myself.
Almost all weekend long.
Along with my trusty canine slug companion.
Who kept watch over my fuzzy slippers.
Because somebody needed a task this weekend.
Mr Quirky held his disgust when he returned from a weekend away and found the house and his wife exactly how he left them. Neither clean, neither kept, neither altered.
Aside from the slight lingering smell of duck and the empty wine bottles on the counter, there was no sign in the house that life had existed all weekend.
But I read two books. And I raided the fridge. And I caught up on all the Housewives. It was glorious.
In an effort to stage an intervention, he asked if I wanted to go to Target with him around 7 on Sunday evening.
I looked down at my fat pants and my fuzzy slippers and said, “no thanks. I’m good.”