time flies when you're doing nothing

This is actually true. I did so little this weekend and it was gone in a flash. In short, I catsitted a variety of cats (Lalo and I have bonded thoroughly), lay out by the pool, re-read the entire ouevre of Madeleine L'Engle (regressive, but fun and, yes, I'm exagerating a bit. I didn't re-read everything she's ever written), had dinners (Guadalajara Grill is the jam. If you haven't gone there, go immediately and order Camarones a la Diablo) and did approximately 20 loads of laundry (laundry situation was out of control). It was a huge effort to just do nothing and made me realize (for the 300th time) how bad I am at it. It takes more effort for me to do nothing than it does for me to run around like a crazy person. Forcing myself to chill out does not come easy. I am like that character in The Tao of Pooh (which one? The one that runs around all the time). After the world's most restful weekend I had insomnia last night (my Sunday night tradition but, in my defense, anyone who could sleep after watching last night's episode of Six Feet Under is clearly dead inside) and finished Ann Patchett's Truth and Beauty, a wonderful and sad memoir that I had picked up solely because Patchett's novels are so good I wanted to read something else by her.
OK, I guess that's more than enough detail about an entire weekend of doing nothing. What I really want to know is where's my copy of John Grubesic's official apology? Jeez.