Yoga

So, I'm supposed to be doing yoga right now.
That was my plan, come home, check. Stop by library? Okay, unplanned, but worthwhile, check. Got a phone message from my parents saying, "Call us back when you get home," so called them, check. Neighbor stops by, talked to him for a bit, check. Got him to leave, because the Pope has requested that I don't hang out with him alone, by saying I have to do YOGA, so, check. Then I stopped by the computer to check work email. No new emails since 5:11pm, so, check. Then I leisurely surfed the internet for an absorbing one hour, uh......check?

Now I'm really supposed to be doing yoga so that I can be fabulous in my wedding dress, but instead I am sitting here with a glass of red wine and blogging. Procrastination? CHECK.

I hate these days that the Pope works late. He hates them worse, but I feel adrift and lonely in my own house. I am surrounded by cats, who are on the shitlist, but all they want to do is BE everywhere that I don't want them. Leo curls up on the Pope's lap, and the Pope is so used to it that he can do almost anything avec chat. Lucy just stands in front of the monitor and bitches at me. You have to meet her to know it. She is so accusatory all the time. Love me right now and in the way that I want it. Right now, despite your procrastinating plans! RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE.

The cats are on the shitlist because they don't behave like civilized creatures. By civilized, I mean they don't behave the way humans would, or at least the way humans I'd like to live with live.
I bent down today and idly picked up a piece of black fuzz only to find it was a tiny piece of cat poop flattened out to look like fuzz. Bare hands and all. I have made this revolting mistake so many times in my cat parenting life that I don't even squeal anymore. I just sigh, throw it in the toilet and flush it down, and then wash my hands a hundred times. Hot water.

The poop fuzz isn't nearly as bad as moving a cat toy off of the floor heating-grate only to find it is a long dead shrew (a type of rodent-thing only smaller and freakier looking) that had lost its life in some sick battle when the heat was actually on. Again, bare hands, because I obviously can't learn my lesson.

Listen, this whole diet-like-mad-six-weeks-before-the-wedding thing isn't going to work. I'm going to be as fat as I am now, only slightly more toned, but I guarantee I will be infinitely bitchier because I haven't permitted myself to eat a Choco-Pie at work or even have my beloved half-n-half with my coffee. Our 2% milk just turns my morning coffee GRAY and makes it taste gray, too. I have a box of popsicles in the freezer that I won't eat for crying out loud. I truly love popsicles. I do. I can't help it.

Now I feel tremendously guilty, because the only way that anything works is if you actually do it, so I'm going to drain this glass of wine, put on my workout clothes, rock back the coffee table and get yogi with it. I think a bit of lubrication can only help with some of the more ridiculous poses. Like the one where you balance all your weight on your pinky toe and the palm of one hand. Yeah, that's my favorite.

p.s. Really good wine that you can't tell the difference on actually becomes fabulous when you let it skunk itself. This is good stuff. It means I can buy the cheap stuff and drink new and won't know the difference! Woo.