If it seems as though all I’m doing lately is watching television, that’s because I am. It’s been so freaking cold in Florida for the past two weeks, I can’t thaw out long enough to do much more than hang with dog on the couch. I tried to read, but my manual dexterity when wearing gloves isn’t up to turning the pages of the books I’ve been meaning to read for years…
And so, I’ve been catching up on shows I’ve never been meaning to watch with surprisingly good results.
If you haven’t caught it, look for the “Our ‘Cops’ is On” episode of “My Name is Earl.” I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. Nobody does trailer trash like Jaime Pressly.
Dog and I ate edamame and sour dough toast for breakfast.
We took a well-deserved “my job sucks and I’m not going in” day and spent most of it lazing about and haphazardly cleaning the house for the would-be buyer coming by tomorrow morning.
Because Dog is super-sized and gets overly excited whenever someone comes to see him, my realtor and I have to schedule carefully orchestrated viewings which double as trips to the park with Dog. These viewings are immediately proceeded by frantic sweeping of Dog-hair coated floors, liberal doses of Febreeze on my Dog coated sofa, and multiple trips to the Volvo with baskets full of Dog toys.
I hate selling houses. I got off easy when I was leaving Jersey. I knew a guy, who knew a guy. I never even listed my place. I don’t remember it costing me a dime, either. So not the process I’m going through this time. After this, I’m renting until I die.