I really ought to be doing all kinds of things instead of writing this post. For instance, I should be making dinner. We may or may not be having company. I invited a friend and her husband, but the plans were never finalized. I’m pretty sure they’re not coming, but on the off chance they are I’m going to cook a nice dinner, which will hopefully supply Liv and myself with leftovers for a while. I plan to make pot roast and bake fresh bread, both things which require starting hours ahead of time. I really ought to be in the kitchen setting yeast to proof in warm water and searing meat in the large, heavy-bottomed pan. But I’m not. I’m sitting cross-legged on the futon in the living room, typing this post.

Speaking of the futon, I also should be cleaning the house. Liv’s friend is coming tomorrow to stay a few days, and she’ll be sleeping on this futon. This means that I need to launder the sheet which serves us as a futon cover, freshen the pillows, and clean off the coffee table. It’s currently littered with piles of random magazines, one reusable grocery bag, junk mail, my last crochet project (waiting for me to weave in the ends of the yarn before it can be really finished) and the DVD boxed sets of TV shows that Justin has been lending me (Buffy seasons One & Two, and Veronica Mars season One). Most of this stuff really belongs in other homes. The magazines will go underneath the table, and the crochet needs to go up to my room. All of this would be simple and easy to do. But instead I’m writing this post.

There’s other housework I should be doing. Upstairs in my bedroom the floor is half covered with piles of books. A while ago my extensive library, which had been organized on a specially installed shelf system, had to be taken down. It’s been a long and arduous process getting things put back together again. I should be upstairs sorting out the books (poetry in one section, fiction in another separated by genre, history and sociology over there, theology in its own place, etc.), weeding out the books I’m at last ready to get rid of (I hope to reduce my collection by at least a third), and putting things up on the shelves again. This would mean I wouldn’t keep stubbing my toes on books as I kick over piles stumbling my way towards the bathroom in the dark of night. That would be wonderful, but instead I’m down here on the couch, writing this post.

There’s homework I should be doing too. I haven’t done any of the reading for my philosophy class in, um, a very long time. I’ve been sick a lot lately, plus taking trips, and it’s too easy to participate in the discussions without doing the reading. This means that I’ve missed out on Dostoevsky, Kierkegaard, some of Emerson and Thoreau (I actually did some of that reading), Peirce, and who knows what else. I really enjoy philosophy, so this has been a sadness to me. I love this class, and I wish I were able to give it the attention it really deserves. But I’m not. I’m on the couch, writing this post.

At least I don’t have to worry about the garden this weekend. It’s a chill and blustery spring day, overcast and threatening rain. I wouldn’t want to work outside even if I had something I wanted to do. But I got all my big work for the moment done a while ago. For now I just need to sit back and let things grow. The biggest job is thinning the lettuces, which I can take five minutes to do tomorrow. Of course, I could be getting the composter in order. The mix is off – far too many kitchen scraps to far too little other material. If I felt like it I could be out there right now, shredding old newspapers into the compost bin. But I’m not. I’m on the couch writing this post.

There’s always dancing stuff too. Because of sickness, I haven’t been to ballet in far too long. If I cleared off the coffee table I could push it out of the way to do the NYC Ballet Workout, which could help me get back into things. Then maybe I’d be ready to go back to my ballet class on Monday. And then there’s the solo jazz routine I learned in Boston. Last Sunday at Practice Session I got Chiara’s notes on the steps. I copied those into my own notebook and worked on it. I also taught it to Shel, one of the Swing Club kids who had come with me. I figure that when you teach something you learn it yourself twice as well. We’ve got it mostly down, but it isn’t perfect, and sometimes I forget what comes next. Plus, that windmill in the middle… yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever get that move down. I could be practicing that too, or my swivels (which need work), or doing my lolly variations from Bal without losing my balance. All of these things would be good to do, and fun. But I’m not. I’m writing this post.

But now it’s 2:15, and I think I’m done. The couch is comfy, and the house is quiet (Liv has been at the dinner table all this time, intently doing something on her computer with her headphones on). I’m starting to feel a little restless, like it’s time to get off the couch and move. I’m starting to almost smell the fresh bread, to taste the buttery crust when I crunch through it. The pot roast will be good too, and smell wonderful as it simmers all afternoon. And it would be good to have the house clean. I like it when things are clean and tidy, a place for everything and everything securely in its place. I think at last I’m done writing this post.