Mind you, most days are days. It kind of goes without saying, really.

This morning, I decided to go for a run. Don't ask me why. I don't KNOW why. I never run and I hate running. But the gym is always too dang busy on Wednesday mornings, and it was shaping up to be a nice day, so I threw on some sweats and my gym shoes, clipped my keys to this nifty little necklace thingy that I got for drinking a Corona at the Irish pub the other night, and headed out the door. I considered bringing my phone, but in the end I decided that I didn't want to mess with it. My sweatpants do have pockets, but they're pretty useless.

(Hey, did anybody notice the clever use of foreshadowing in the previous paragraph? Just checking....)

And so I ran. I've been thinking about trying it for a few days now, based on a similar rationale used by the folks that are afraid of heights and, therefore, decide to learn how to parachute. And, let's face it, it was early in the morning and my brain was far from fully functional. I had found several beginner running plans on the internet, and decided to go for the one that recommended running until you started to get winded, then walking until you recover, then running a bit more, etc. For the first couple of weeks, you do ten minute runs. Once you've started to run most of the way, you bump your time up to fifteen minutes and so on. I picked that particular plan because it seemed to be the easiest and least painful.

As it turned out, I ran the entire time, narrowly missed being flattened by a dump truck only once, and ended up running for fifteen minutes instead of ten. Granted, I do work out-- on the rower, the stair-climber, the treadmill (walking real fast), and that damn elliptical thing. But I expected running to be different somehow, I suppose. Plus there's all that fresh air to take into account, and my "all drinking, all smoking, why are you closing the bar the sun's not up yet" lifestyle to consider.

When I made it back home, I was sweaty and breathing a bit harder than normal, but not doing bad at all. I probably could have run for a bit more, and I even considered it, but my handy-dandy beginner's running plan had previously informed me not too. One mistake beginners make, apparently, is doing too much, too soon. This causes them to suffer burnout, become injured, or possibly come to their senses before they "become runners." There was no way I was about to let that happen to me! Plus, I was already back at our apartment building, so I walked around in the little garden area in front of the building for a bit to cool down before going inside.

Which is where I ran into problems. As I went to unlock the door, I realized that I wasn't carrying the right keys. I had the key to the garage, the basement and pool, and our mailbox. I didn't have the key to the building or apartment. Those keys are on a different ring, the ring I meant to attach to my handy-dandy Corona key-holder.

You know, the ring that must still be on the kitchen counter.

How I never noticed that I had the wrong keys, I have no idea. It's even more pathetic when you consider that the ring I needed had only two keys on it, instead of the three on the one I had, that each of the keys in question look very different from each other, and that I had a hell of a time getting the ring onto the necklace clip in the first place. Of course, I could have called someone if I had brought my mobile phone with me, but I didn't do that, did I?

I panicked briefly, then went to a friend's house, hoping that it wasn't too early for her. We tried to call another friend, but luckily she knew where our empregada lives. She wasn't in, so I ended up talking with her employer, who doesn't speak English and is apparently incapable of speaking slowly, no matter how often you ask. She agreed to call her, which she did, and then told me that she'd meet me (with the key to my apartment), in front of my building. I asked the employer what time, but she just shrugged. She'd done her good deed for the day, I suppose, although to be fair it was only 8:00 am. So I hightailed it back over to our building.

I'd gone about ten steps when it started to rain. One of those freak storms that seem so common around here, where it pelts down like mad for twenty minutes, and the sun comes back out before it's even finished. So that was more running for me, then.

Forty-five minutes later, the empregada shows up with my key. I'd managed to worm my way into the building by then by following in a neighbor who'd popped out for some pastries for breakfast. I'd considered mugging her for them, since I was starving, but didn't do it. So, finally I was able to get into my apartment, and the only thing I needed to worry about was being late for my Portuguese class.

Which I was. I didn't get any breakfast, either.

After class, I went to the mall to buy a proper road map of Spain and maybe another guidebook or two, seeing as I am Queen of the Guidebooks. Seriously, it's almost an addiction, and the only one we have that covers the region we need is an out of date Let's Go. They're good books, but definitely for the budget traveller, and Elvis refuses to stay in a place that expects you to leave the room to go to the bathroom, much less share it.

That wasn't too bad, actually. I like FNAC, and I found what I needed, plus a CD that I've been looking for for quite a while now. (Busted!) Not only that, but the taxi fairies were smiling upon me, and I got to ride in a big-ass Mercedes. Twice.

When I got back home, I had to do laundry because all of Elvis' many pairs of beige dockers were dirty, especially the ones he wore on the hash last weekend. Next time, we're wearing sweat pants. Old ones. Which was fine, except he needed them for tonight, and there was already some towels that I'd done yesterday afternoon that needed to be dried. Continuing today's theme of Not Thinking Much, I put a load of wash in, turned it on, then turned on the wet clothes in the dryer. It worked for a few minutes, then blew an assortment of circuit breakers.

Once I got the power back on and the washer started up again (I decided that the previous load could wait to be dried. There's currently a heap of wet towels, socks and underwear on the kitchen counter.) I started making myself something to eat. Now, I'm pretty good at keeping the fridge cleaned out. At least, I thought I was. Today, however, each and every time I went looking for something I encountered something disgusting. It wasn't just the occasional forgotten and decomposing vegetable, or the cheese that used to be white but is now entirely blue and furry-- not today! I found all of that, of course, but I also found what I believe used to be some enchilada sauce that I made a while ago. I say "a while ago" because I have no idea just when I did make it. October, from the looks of it. It was covered in what, for all I know, was a new life form. Whatever it was, it was bright orange and fairly sinister looking. I dumped most of it in the trash, and tried to wash the rest down the drain using some very hot water, but it refused to go. Finally, I scooped up the remaining chunks with a large wad of paper towels before it turned into a Viking god or something equally inconvenient.

At about 4:00, I ate breakfast. Or lunch, depending on how you look at it. It was good, but anything would have been at that point. After that, more playing with laundry, and then it was time to go meet Elvis at the car rental place. Before I left, I went to the toilet, because you should always go before you leave and so forth.

The toilet is now broken. Not the haunted toilet in our bathroom. The other, seemingly well-behaved toilet in the bathroom reserved for Calliope and sometimes guests. It flushed OK. It flushed just fine, in fact, but it refused to stop. (Before you ask, all it had to handle was pee and a modest amount of toilet paper, so it was nothing I did other than try to operate it as God and the manufacturers intended.) Our toilets flush with a little knob on top of the commode. You pull it up, and let it fall back down. You can't take the top off the commode, unfortunately, without disconnecting the entire apparatus.

It's disconnected now. There was no other way, no matter how much jiggling etc. I did.

I was about half a block from the car rental place when Elvis called and said they didn't need to have me there after all.

Elvis went to the gym, and I answered some e-mails and started work on this. Elvis came back from the gym and wanted to talk with me for a while, which we did. He is now angry with me because I started looking at my computer screen while he was telling me how much weight he could do on the calf press as opposed to the leg extension machine. He slammed the door to the study, then went off to channel surf.

Loudly.

And he started doing this before EastEnders had finished recording. He continued on through Monarch of the Glen as well. (It's a goofy show, but I'm sort of liking it.) I had intended to relinquish the internet to him and watch it while he played online tonight, but that's out of the question at this point, I suppose.

It's not even 8:30, but I have a serious urge to crawl into bed immediately. This whole day has worn me out, and I want it to be so over and done with. Can't do it, though, because I still need to pack.

The good news is, tomorrow we are going to Spain. Tomorrow is May Day (Labor Day, if you're in the US), and yesterday Elvis decided to take Friday off and do the bridge thing. It's very Portuguese to fazer ponte-- make a bridge between the holiday and the weekend. The Portuguese love making long weekends.

Then again, who doesn't?

Certainly not me!

Have a good weekend-- I plan to do my best.