Connubial bliss is making me lazy, if this past extremely pleasant weekend is any indication. I can't really blame brokeness; that has nothing to do with the gym suddenly being anathema and me hardly being able to remember the proposed subject of a doctoral thesis. I'm going to be 28 in a little more than a month - keep expecting myself to grow some sort of work ethic and it keeps not happening.
Part of the problem is the Sopranos - we must have watched 10 episodes over the last two days. Thank god they only have until season four at the video store; ten more episodes and our lives will be our own again. And about time. Figaro pointed out that Ralphie doing poppers and getting done with a vibrator was digging a bit for audience share and on reflection I agree. I can imagine the Ralphie we've been getting to know is a big pervert, but not one who likes to get told he's mummy's little whore. And I should know.
The dress code at work has been adjusted. Our director wants us, from Tuesday to Thursday, to dress well enough that we could show up at an impromptu funeral if we had to, which is a big tighten. Monday goes casual, as well as Friday. To that I say, Jesus. My whole department could do their jobs from home anyways, and we do zero personal reception, and now you want me to wear uncomfortable shoes three days a week without paying me more? Up until recently I've been pretty happy at work, considering I think my company's mandate is evil. But the waves of Whine are rising up in me like tsunamis. Saints preserve the people who are forced to listen to them.