When I woke up today (notice that I didn’t say “when I woke up this morning”) I was groggy and cranky and feeling woozier than usual. My disease (I have a diseeeeeease) was manifesting itself big time, and my eyes weren’t working right and my knuckles were bleeding because I bent them typing and they were covered with diseeeeease things, and the muscles in my arms (just because they’re flabby doesn’t mean they’re not there at all) were painful and I couldn’t lift them high enough to even fasten a bra so I just didn’t wear one (don’t look, Ethellllll) which tells you all right up front that I wouldn’t be leaving the house at all today.

Bra. Up front. I’m so witty.

So I didn’t leave. I did some laundry and made a few dozen grilled cheese sandwiches and fried eggs (guess who’s home again this weekend?) and read a little and watched a couple of old movies in my kitchen (“Dave” and “Gigi”) and blogged a little and was very grateful to be able to do so again, and thought about getting my briefcase out of the car so I could grade some essays but I never got around to it because I was busy doing frivolous important things like spinning eggs because the boiled ones and the raw ones got mixed up, and cleaning stew off the kitchen floor because someone (not me) picked a bowl of simmering stew up out of the microwave without a holder and flung it into the air from shock. Now there’s a big patch of clean floor which really makes the rest of the floor look bad. I’ll clean it later; the weekend’s not over yet and somebody’s bound to spill something on it.

Zappa has a friend who’s a landlord and he decided to check out the crawlspace under one of his units the other day. He discovered that landlords have apparently used the crawlspace for storage for the past million years or so and it was crammed full of a combination of weird junk.

The landlord friend had distributed hundreds of old cd’s among his friends and had found an owner for all but three, and did I want them.

Heck yeah. Amadeus, the soundtrack. Enya. Harry Connick Jr. Why didn’t those young people want them?

My hands are a mess, I can’t see the monitor very well, but I’m still online.

“Thank heaven for little girls” always struck me as a creepy kind of stalker-perv dirty-old-man song, and I’m assuming you all knew that Gigi was being trained in the art of pleasing a man so she would be a suitable mistress for a rich Frenchman.

But golly, it’s just so pretty.