I'm halfway through Day 2 of the long weekend and my To Do list is stuck in a corner somewhere, collecting dust and hanging out with an April 2005 issue of Writer's Digest magazine. You know, the one with the important article in it that I was gonna read right away? Sigh.

Despite the DH's whirlwind of housecleaning, there are still piles of junk littering areas of the house. He likes to tell our friends and family, "Bonnie has piles."

I love him, so he continues to live.

So here it is, a nice summer day that would allow me to mow the lawn without needing ambulatory care due to heat exhaustion, and I'm downstairs at the computer, working on an article that I was supposed to have done ages ago.

Only I'm not at the computer: I'm on the couch, watching The White Rapper Show.

How I've sunk to this new low I have no idea. But I'll blame Tyra Banks and Jay Manuel for it anyway. Why? Because being Canada's Next Top Procrastinator is so easy. Just look at the lame stuff I've had to do just to get to the final three:

Week One: Found a contract for an article that I was supposed to have signed back in March. Send it in a week before the article was due in late May.

Week Two: Household survives for two weeks on packaged food alone because of lost coupon organizer. Scurvy sets in; DH now talks like a pirate. All the time.

Week Three: End up in the bottom two by completing an insane assignment for a client ON TIME. Miss being cast out of the running as I let everything else fall behind while working on this one thing.

Week Four: Able to braid leg hair.

Week Five: Now consider dust bunnies as pets and feel less lonely when the DH is at work. Start a new pile of important papers under dining room table.

Week Six: Stop watering lawn so grass will die and the need to mow will suddenly disappear. Arrange lawn furniture to cover up the nastier-looking areas. Then take a long nap.

Week Seven: YouTube

Week Eight: Any self-imposed deadlines for H&B have come and gone, leaving only the fear of turning 40 without a completed novel there to egg me on. Oh, you know how that one went. 40 arrived with much fanfare -- but without a final draft.

What lies ahead for me in the final two rounds, I'm not sure. But I'm confident that I have the skills necessary to not only slide under the bar, I'll find away to step around it and still end up with a strawberry daiquiri somehow.

Now that's talent.