WHEN YOU DO NOTHING, YOU GET NOTHING

I did not leave the house all weekend long.

THAT is a weekend to me.

The furthest I went was the mailbox. The rest of the time I wore these ungodly tank tops, cotton shorts, didn't shave and just laid around on the couch all weekend.

"Can you help me put some boxes in the attic?" Susie asked on Sunday.

"No can do," I replied with a mouthful of Bugles. "Sleep apnea. Feeling sleepy. No energy. Must eat Bugles."

I was asked very politely to store up enough energy to help the wife put boxes in the attic and then take the boxes in the dining room and shuttle those to the playroom closet.

It took a while, but I finally felt like I had about ten minutes of energy stored up in order to do some manual labor.

Those ten minutes turned into an hour. Which I kinda knew it would because my wife is about as anal retentive as a wife can get when it comes to stacking and storing boxes.

"Is this one heavy?" she'll ask. "It needs to be on the bottom."

I know this. It's a common fact they teach you in Grocery Bagging 101. Don't put the milk on the eggs. Heavy stuff on the bottom. Don't forget to exhale. It's one of the simple rules of life.

But my wife says it like it's a revelation. Like it's the secret to her amazing packing skills. Heavy stuff on the bottom is the key to a successful life.

Anyway...the dining room is now void of any boxes which is the first time that's happened since we moved in.

The only room with any boxes that still need to be unpacked is the guest bedroom.

And it's FULL of boxes.

We're getting there. Slowly but surely.

Shit.

It's Monday.

Arrrrgh.

I hate Mondays.

Tomorrow I go to my sleep clinic "consultation".

I have no idea what this means. I guess some nurse will ask a lot of questions and I'll try to answer them without nodding off.

"Do you like to sleep?"

"Sure."

"Why don't you sleep?"

"Becauuuuse....I'm choking in my sleep and every two minutes I wake up and then have to try to get back to sleep but I end up choking again and it's a never-ending cycle that lasts 5-6 hours before I finally give up and go write a diary entry??"

"Uh-huh. Do you masturbate?"

"Yes. I'm masturbating right now."

"What the...(drops clipboard from in front of their face) OHMIGOD! What are you doing?"

"Getting ready for bed. Fantasizing what it'd be like to have sex with you in a doggie-style position. Why?"

"SECURITY!!!"

When I got up this morning, the dog was lying still on the floor of my side of the bed, just like normal.

She wasn't moving.

I lightly ran my toes across her belly to let her know that she could get up now and I'd let her outside.

She didn't move.

Naturally, when this type of thing happens, I'm hoping she's dead. But I've learned not to get my hopes up. As she's gotten older, she sleeps more soundly. So just as I'm about ready to trot to the garage, grab a shovel and start digging the dog's grave, she'll come bounding out to me, jumping up on me and demanding her first of several dozen treats throughout the day.

But I've been out of bed for 30 minutes now. And I haven't heard from her.

Maybe she didn't need that second jug of antifreeze last night after all.

I caught bits and pieces of a David Blaine special last night.

David Blaine is a magician whose big thing is that he can make himself levitate off of the ground.

That's a pretty impressive feat...

Okay...I've sat here for ten minutes trying to think of something smart-assed to say about a guy levitating ... but man...I'm dry. Can't think of a thing.

For those of you just checking in...I did update here yesterday.

It's nothing earth-shattering or life-changing. It was just a simple update, bitching about setting my clock back an hour.

I still haven't gotten that extra hour of sleep that the f'n weatherman has been promising me since Saturday night.

But hey...you don't wanna get me started on that.

Alright...this is one of those worthless diary entries that didn't amount to crap.

My fault.

The dog's up and alive.

Time to wake the rest of the family.

Peace out.