And thus we enter the completely and utterly dead spot in my normal workday, that hour and a half from 2-3:30.
I leave work at 3:30 every day. This is a good thing.
Usually by 2 or so I've finished the equivalent of 2-3 days of expected work and have killed as much time as I possibly can. This is a bad thing.
I'm basically completely and utterly dead in the water. Sitting here. Clicking refresh on the Yahoo home page, praying that someone will at the very least send my a spam mail promising either huge junk or a mortgage that I never asked for.
Played a goodly amount of poker this weekend, wedged between much website work. Played a lot of 15/30, which was interesting. I seemed to always dump chips early but usually managed to claw my way back. My overall impression was that I didn't do that well for the weekend as a whole, around break even, maybe even losing a couple hundred bucks. Looking at PokerTracker, though, I finished up a little over $300. Again, it's that whole getting used to the perspective thing, as it was just a profit of 10BB, reasonably close to break even, but a nice little profit when you step back and pay attention to the size of the chips. Which I, umm, probably shouldn't do, and just keep my head down, keep playing.
I'm about halfway through stage 2 of backyard renovation, which basically involves weeding out existing flower beds, building up new beds with limestone blocks, mixing in much compost, buying many new plants, planting them, and mulching the hell out of everything. So far I've been good about plugging away at it every day, usually a few hours after work, but someone finally woke up and flipped the switch to "Hot", like it normally is in Texas this time of year. I got about two steps out the door yesterday and decided "Umm, no, in fact I'm not going to lug around a couple hundred pounds of limestone today."
I built our pet rat Sherman a play pen awhile back, mainly just something a bit bigger than his cage that a running wheel large enough for rats will fit into. For months he's ignored the wheel, other than to get on it, half-heartedly run a bit, only to look over at us like "What the hell, it just goes in a circle? Screw that, boss. Gimme a peanut." For some odd reason, though, he's decided in the last few weeks that running on the wheel is the BEST DAMN THING EVER and won't stop. It's making me nervous, like he's training for some covert operation or something.
That's all I got. 41 minutes to go. Dear Jebus, why hath thee forsaken me?