I’ve been feeling uninspired lately, like my life is stuck in a bit of a rut. To some degree, it is — it’s late spring and for the first year since 2002, I’m not gearing up for some massive summer project that is taking up my time and energy. I’m trying not to let it show in my blog posts, with the result that I’m going in long stretches without posting anything (which is OK, because most of the people stumbling on this site go directly to the page where I mention Christian Chavez’s gay wedding. He’s gay, folks, get over it. From what I can tell from being in the supermarket checkout line, it’s in every Spanish language tabloid known to man). I’m kind of sorry that I brought it up … but weirdly proud of the high readership it’s generated. I *so* need help.
I’ve started on the garden, but we’ve gone as far as we can without professional help (or at least a rented tiller to scour up the rest of it), and since it’s heading toward the end of the month the heart may be willing but the wallet is thin.
As a brief aside, we dog-sat for some friends this weekend — the same friends who take care of Mocha when we’re out of town. Ray picked their dogs up on his way home from work, and by the time I made it home they’d already broken off the jalapeno plant down to the ground, trodden through the oleander, and kicked the gravel every-which-way. Better still, one of the two guest dogs decided that Mocha’s hole wasn’t big enough, so he dug it down to the point where he could lay in it with his head poking out at ground level. He did such a good job of dispersing the dirt that we’re waiting for it to rain so that the hole will fill back in, because that’s the only way it’s going to happen. I created a makeshift fence out of tomato stakes and it kept them out for the rest of the weekend — that and my going ballistic every time I saw one of the dogs heading in that direction. Mutts.
Anyway. I’m also in this weird musical rut — this happens with me, where I acquire or two CDs and wind up listening to them over and over and over and over and over again to the exclusion of just about everything else. At the moment, my iPod is probably tired of playing Eros Ramazzotti’s album 9 (it was his ninth album, hence the title, and for the record I’m listening to the Italian version, not the Spanish), and my car is sick of The Damnwells’ Air Stereo and Keane’s Under the Iron Sea. The worst thing is that I can totally see what’s next: Per Gessle’s new album En händig man (A handy man) comes out on June 12, and that will be stuck on constant replay until well after the New Year. I have no plans to travel to Sweden for the subsequent tour, however, since Sweden is one of the most expensive countries on earth.
My TV viewing has gone down because everything I watch is on hiatus, which is a nice way of saying “not coming back” when we’re talking about Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. I’m growing weary of Lost — I just don’t care who dies in the next episode because it’s going to wind up being someone no one cares about anyway (my money is on Rodrigo Santorio’s character — whatever his name is — because he’s had about five minutes of air time all season).
Rome ends tonight for us in the US, and it should come as no surprise what’s going to happen with the big characters (Octavian wins — as much as we’d all like to slap him silly — whilst Antony and Cleopatra die. This is all basic history), and I have this sneaking suspicion that the two ‘main characters’ of the show — Pullo and Vorenus — are going to have to fight each other to the death for some stupidly contrived-yet-heartbreaking reason. I don’t expect this one to be as gut wrenching as the end of Six Feet Under, which had me depressed for days afterwards. I still can’t hear Sia’s “Breathe Me” without getting a little verklempt.
This evening is also the season finale of Battlestar Galactica, which isn’t coming back until January (!!), and great shocks and surprises are promised. (Entertainment Weekly had the following irritating description: “Of all the characters I thought would be a Cylon: him??” Ugh.) After The Sopranos ends, there won’t be anything to look forward to on Sunday nights anymore. I can’t go back to The Simpsons …
And so, it’s Sunday afternoon. The laundry is in the drier, the dog is tired from her now-departed guests (no walk today), and it’s still threatening to rain … but probably won’t.
Here’s hoping you’re having an interesting Sunday, wherever you are!
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