There's a watermelon in my trunk and I really don't feel like getting up to retrieve it. It's a full-sized old-school watermelon, too. Not one of these new fangled genetic mutations that are the size of a duck pin bowling ball. Full-sized, watermelon sized watermelon. But, *sigh*, I suppose I need to get up to make dinner anyway, and more pressingly (pun intended), to pee. So I figure I might as well get the mail, and the darn watermelon, which I already regret buying because I know it's going to be an ordeal to get Brian to cut it (an incident with a bagel in 99 has left me incapable of intentionally wielding sharp objects and perpetually begging him to slice and/or dice). And even if he does cut it and it doesn't sit on the counter filling with rot and pouting at me guiltfully for two weeks before I schlepp it back outside and to the dumpster, we really don't have the space nor the plastics in which to store it which means we will eat way too much of it and hurt ourselves in a bad, bad way.
I also picked up my drycleaning. Dozens of depissified items. Which, come to think of it, are under the watermelon in my trunk. Shit.