I used to think my cat, Jack, was very smart because he plays fetch. He’s pretty demanding about playing fetch.

Then I got Fenwick, and he seemed kind of goofy and stupid, but he started playing fetch, too. So I’m thinking, wow, I raise really smart cats.

But then a friend mentioned that hers plays fetch, too. And someone else said the same thing. Now I think they’re just evolving.

I sleep with one eye open.

…are perfect for putting on KCRW streaming music, catching up on ironing, and cleaning out the inbox for a fresh start tomorrow.

It’s a nice, breezy day - the Breeders are performing at McCarren pool this afternoon, but I’ll be over on Smith Street taking part of the Bastille Day festivities.

I’ve been socking away commission checks like a paranoid doomsdayer, but I’ve decided to dip into it and change around a few things in the living room and the bed room.

First to go is the off-white rug I got a few months ago. Within half a week, Jack had already vomited on it a handful of times. I’d never seen him do anything like that, with that frequency. Certainly not on the blue and brown striped rug in the hall, or the astro-turf flor rug under my desk, or the hundreds of square feet of hardwood flooring throughout the rest of the apartment. He choose the off-white rug for the same reason that Fenwick ignored my cheaper cotton shifts and sturdy wool garments, not to mention his scratching post, and chose the three silk chiffon dresses in my closet to shred: Murphy’s Law.

I just need to find the right vomit-colored rug. The off-white rug will be professionally cleaned and moved to my bedroom, but I have a feeling Jack, and Jack’s hairball, will find their way.

Today, I traveled to the Upper East Side in lieu of executing the barbecue I’d been planning for the past two weeks. Weather.com predicted thunderstorms and scattered showers all day which, of course, never made an appearance. While I kind of feel like an Eeyore about canceling, I did enjoy spending a lazy, guiltless day in front of the idiot box with a couple of like-minded friends, making a non-competitive drinking game out of that cringe-inducing, rectal prolapse of a show.

On the long subway ride back to Brooklyn, I did some more thinking, and decided to look into swimming again. I used to be a fairly avid swimmer, hitting the pool three to five times a week - a habit I picked up in Paris during the summer months between classes, when I was broke and bored and the pool pass was an easy-to-swallow 100 francs a month. A few years later in New York, I think I stopped swimming during that terrible emotional mudslide when I lost interest in pretty much everything. Still digging out of that one, I guess.

After some cursory research, I think I’m going to try out the Stuyvesant High pool which is open to the public on nights and weekends with extended hours during July and August. My basic criteria of a single train, no transfer commute (v. important) and ostensibly clean and reputable (somewhat important) have been met. Developing…