It’s a rainy Sunday in LA. It’s the perfect day for staying home and making a big mess of bacon-wrapped food.
The sky is a deep gray, both of my Boxers are asleep, and I’m listening to country music while waiting for my grocery delivery.
I realize the confluence of country music and an urban indulgence like grocery delivery is a bit of a contradiction, but I see it as a perfect microcosm for my identity. While I have somewhat of a redneck sensibility, I am also a spoiled urbanite, and I can’t bear entering a grocery store on a Sunday. The parking lot situation alone is reason enough to stay home — never mind the LA drivers who are blinded by a bit of rain on their windshields.
That leaves me over-spending on Sauvignon Blanc and prosciutto so I don’t have brave the “elements” (read: a light mist) to make dinner.
I recently declared 2019 as the year of productive creativity, so I’m going to get back to my novel outline while I wait for my groceries to arrive.
It’s not nearly as cool as goat yoga, and it involves a pose George invented called, “Barking Dog.”
It’s so relaxing living with Boxers… but I wouldn’t change it for anything.
My boys are everything.