Two 3.8-mile city rides. This morning, a truck turned right on no-longer-red without noticing that the light's having turned green meant that the cyclist going straight in the crosswalk had the right of way.
I put a coat of paint on the new beams of the porch as soon as I got home. Just as I finished cleaning that, RDC had dinner ready (dorado, which is the new, Spanish name for the dolphin fish since its English name had obvious problems and its Pacific name, mahi-mahi, never caught on, with sun-dried tomatoes and wine and pine nuts, and yellow squash, and brown rice), and after I cleaned up that and cleaned up myself, I was done. A hint that I haven't been getting enough exercise: cramps really hurt.
Blake and I retreated to the living room with Westword, Ms., Harper's, and Crime and Punishment. The first three were fine but in the novel people were speechifying about whether commission of crimes is ever justified and I wasn't paying enough attention. So I resorted to television. I had recorded, heaven help me, some unreality shows, "Trading Spaces" and "Queer Eye" and a new one, "Clean Sweep." They are why TiVo was invented, but I hope even if I had 'flu (why is it given an initial apostrophe, for the in-, but not a final one, for the -enza?) I wouldn't watch these start to finish. I do like make-overs, but to see those all I need is the last five* minutes, muted. This is true for "What Not to Wear" as well. The process in Queer Eye, unlike that in the others, is still vaguely amusing, and it is the only one on which I can see a drinking game based: you drink every time Carson says "pant" instead of "pants." Didn't I already say this?
* Edited two days later: I first wrote "last final" because of final and five peskily sounding alike, also because I clearly have been tainted by Spirit Airlines announcing its "last and final boarding call."