First of all, someone has hijacked my car’s radio, because OH MY GOD: Katy Perry, Adele, Pitbull, Katy Perry, Adele, Pitbull. When you find yourself longing to rock out to some Ke$ha, you’re in sad, sad shape. (Never mind that I had Kid A in my CD player; the drive home from work demands mindless radio.)

I was in a nice mood when I got home, which is not exactly the norm, but then I started thinking about how I felt like I needed another tough workout (after last night’s boxing torture). I hopped on the stationary bike—which is actually a regular bike hooked up to one of those exercise bike stands sitting permanently in our spare bedroom in front of a spare TV hooked up to…pow: original Nintendo.

My first Tetris game didn’t go so well, and when I got off I realized I’d been riding for all of five minutes. So I got pissier and hopped on there for another bad game. (Basically, I usually get up around 150-190 lines, and I was only getting like 105, which cuts five or 10 minutes off of how long I’m riding.) (Oh yes, I’m a geek.) So at that point I was all, “YOU GO TO HELL, NINTENDO,” and started another game, getting all rage-cycle and downshifting to murder my legs. Then the cord to the controller kept getting semi-stuck in the brake doodad, and eventually I paused to try to free it, tugged the cord and just barely jarred machine—which of course sent the 25-year-old Nintendo into paralytic shock and my game was lost forever.

At this point, new strategy, I went outside and weeded THE BEJEESUS out of the garden—CCB was already out there getting his workout by hacking away at the carrotwood tree with the machete, and our garden had gotten crazy overgrown since…well, since the plants that were supposed to be in there died. But I’d recently transplanted some tomatoes out there, and they’re actually, like, still alive. So I dug up all the weeds and grass, and then covered the whole garden box—except for where the tomatoes are—with a tarp. Strangely, very very satisfying.

Also: dirty. Can’t delay the shower—even though it means I have to record the E:60 report about the Liberian amputee football team and watch it later. Since CCB discovered how to bypass the ailing soft water thing on the side of the house, our water pressure has been glorious.

Next up: dinner. My stated plan had been to fix something “simple and easy,” but that went out the door the moment I visited—next thing you know, CCB’s at the store buying arugula and a baguette. For dinner, bruschetta: one variation with fried egg and gremolata on top of wilted arugula and truffle-buttered baguette; the other featuring shrimp and tomatoes sautéed in garlic, white wine and chicken stock, with more arugula. Delish.

The evening’s entertainment was supposed to be the Braves game, but apparently Arizona/Philly makes more sense for the “regional” coverage? So random TV instead: Hell’s Kitchen, No Reservations, Master Chef…huh. Very foodie lineup. Could just as easily have been Intervention and Lockup: Raw, so make of that what you may. We also filled the time with trash talk over our multiple, continual online Scrabble matches. And folding clothes.

I like to end my evenings with a little Frasier on the Hallmark channel. You?

Pavlovian cat trigger: Turning off the TV means meal time, which means LOOOUUUD bitchy kitty. We’re in bed by 11, out cold by 11:20.

Tonight? I’m thinking happy hour, Burger King and something involving a dumpster. Sound good?