the Dalaverse

What the hell. This was supposed to be the weekend for doing fuck-all, the first chance I could take some time to myself and breathe in what feels like months, and what do I do? Go marathon shopping in various malls and Georgetown (with its hills and cobblestones and Metro stop too far away). It's not that I didn't have fun, because I did, and also I have a pretty butterfly dress and a fabulous new bra and two jars of McClure's Pickles. It's just - once again I need a weekend to recover from the weekend. I can't even be vertical right now. I need to get up and make some dinner, but I cannot bring myself to get off the couch. I might just scoot into the kitchen on my butt to save my sore feet the trip. Doesn't help that my back is killing me from lugging giant jars of pickles for fifteen blocks (we completely cleaned Dean & Deluca out. These pickles are worth $14 a jar, I promise you).

It's Fourth of July next weekend and I don't even CARE. I am going to stock up on wine, make chili, and stay home for the ritualistic viewing of "1776" and "Independence Day." I managed to drag my ass downtown to see the fireworks over the Monument last year, that'll keep me for awhile. Especially considering I then walked two goddamn miles into Dupont. Ugh. No more walking. I shall walk no more.

At least it's finally time for "True Blood." Alciiiiiiiide.