from staying up until way, WAY past my bedtime to watch the finale of Lost. I. LOVED. IT. I cried about forty billion times. I honestly can't think of a better way for the show to wrap up and I don't really get the whole "OMG WTF" wave of responses. Considering what a letdown it could have been, I think they pulled things together nicely. I found it WAY more satisfying than the Sopranos finale.
I spent most of yesterday running errands -- it had been a really, really long time since we'd done any real grocery shopping, so it was an expensive couple of trips. Wegman's, Target, Costco AND Petsmart...by the time I was done, I was ready to jump out of a window somewhere. Sundays at Costco are a special level of hell, what with everyone milling around aimlessly with their ginormous carts, stopping in the middle of an aisle to try a sample of some kind of nasty potato salad or whatever...it's like a freaking obstacle course.
I'd love to wear a blood pressure monitor while in there, just to see what happens.
I left the house around 9:30 with my trusty reusable Starbucks cold cup filled with Via. A couple hours into the trip, I scarfed down a Clif Builder's Bar between stores. Needless to say, when I finally got home around 1:45 or 2pm, I was starving, and as soon as we were done putting away the fifteen thousand pounds of groceries, I made myself some scrambled eggwhites with spinach, mushrooms, peppers and olives.
Later on, I headed out for a six mile run along the river. I intended to run ten-minute miles -- conserving energy and going easy on myself and all that.
I always, always do this. I set out to go slow, and my body finds a "comfortable" pace -- about 30-40 seconds per mile faster than it should be. This wouldn't be a problem, except for the fact that I'm not in that kind of shape right now, and so I run out of gas at the end. I had to walk for a little bit in the middle of mile 6, and it took every ounce of energy I had to keep up my shuffle back to my gate.
But -- see that little .16-mile nubbin there at the end? When I got home from my run, I came inside and called the dogs down to me so I could take them out. See, Sophie's something of a wanderer. I've always wanted to put my Garmin on her and just kind of let her go, just to see where she'd head to. So, for kicks, I turned it back on when I took the dogs out, and I let her take the lead so I could see where we'd go.
That, my friends, is what happens when you let a thirteen-month-old dog who regularly gets herself stuck under the couch be in charge.
(When she was a baby, she fit very nicely under there. Now, she can still manage to squeeze herself in, but can't ever seen to get back out. Usually, when she starts making pathetic little whining sounds, we know it's time to head into the other room and lift up the couch so she can bolt out of there. Saturday night, I heard the familiar pathetic whimpering, and headed in to see that: little tiny pathetic puppy eyes. Obviously, I ran back into the other room to get my camera. I'm a great person.)