How is it already Sunday?

I woke up a little disoriented this morning for some reason--couldn't at first remember if it was Saturday or Sunday. We have tomorrow off for whatever special day it is---Memorial? Labor? The 4th of July?

Yesterday, had my second appointment with the chiropractor, a very nice man who cracks my neck with a loud pop. I started going because my friend from work sees him and she told me that our insurance will pay for the massages he prescribes--this happens to be true. I've had one half hour massage so far and another scheduled for next Saturday. My only complaint is that the massage therapist talked a lot. It's really hard to carry on a coherent conversation with someone when your face is stuffed into a cushion and that other person is pummeling your back with her fists. Somehow, we managed. Every time I go to see the chiropractor, I am reminded of that book, The Road to Wellville--the book about the guy who started this sauna/spa/resort for bored rich people. The chiropractor does this weird thing where he loosens my spine by moving my legs a certain way. I can't decide if it's all bullshit or what. He gave me shrugging exercises to do. I did them. I am a very obedient patient even as I'm doubting your authenticity.

Friday night, went to Art After Five at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I bought Shawn and I a dual membership to the museum for Christmas and have never once used it or set foot in the museum. The membership gives you free access to the museum at any time and to a bunch of other places in Philadelphia and New York. On Friday's, they have live music and wine and you can walk around and look at everything. They have a pretty comprehensive Marcel Duchamp collection, including his urinal. Here's the kind of paintings that leave me blank: landscapes and impressionism. I took an entire class on impressionism when I worked at Northwestern and still never learned to like it. I also vaguely remember taking a class on John Singer Sargeant, but could that be true? An entire class? I remember nothing about him except I think he owned a country house.

Had to get a point of clarity from my new neighbor, Miss Liz, about the term "chuff" (chest muff). I understood that chuff referred to someone with lots and lots of chest hair, most likely visible. But then I met a man who has visible chest hair, but not a lot of it. You could just see it and his shirt wasn't unbuttoned to his navel or anything. Liz told me that this is what is known as "chuffing."