Normally, I spend my Sundays reading the Post, throwing things at the talking heads on Sunday morning TV, and doing not much of anything.

Well, that's not strictly true. I read. I paint. I read. I watch old movies. If its warm, I go outside. Sometimes I go out to the movies. At 9, Robin usually calls and talks me into watching Sex and the City. We share an affinity for mean-spirited commentary. Besides, ya know, Chris Noth.

Any hoo.

This was not a normal Sunday. My brother was on my couch, I had lots of work on my plate, and I've been trying to get back into painting mode, and I've been (sometimes painfully) relearning how to paint like a real painter.

When I started working as a consultant-user interface designer, and spending every week on the road, the first thing to go was my art. Boy, did that suck.

Now that I no longer spend my life in hotel rooms and client sites, and a rise in responsibility, I have the time - and the need - to paint again. Oh wait. I'm totally off-topic. Okay.

Sunday began before I even fell asleep. >>