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 how it happens:

you wake up late.  you putter.  you take the dog on a walk.  you take a midday nap.  you watch a movie on the computer, content to have a really lazy day after a really long week.  and then the dog starts whining.  and climbing on the coffee table.  and climbing on you.  and you take her outside, but you realize that it's not that she has to pee (although she does).  no no, she needs to be doing this:

and so you load her in the car and drive the half an hour to the nearest off-leash dog park.  on the way it starts to rain a little, but by the time you've gotten there it's stopped.  and at first you two are the only ones there, and so you play tag.  but then other people arrive, confessing that they were at their windows just waiting for the rain to end.  and you watch her play with a maddie, a stella, an aries.  with a bulldog that can't stop rolling in a mud puddle, a great dane puppy that's practically falling over its own legs, a boston terrier that's ruling the whole park.  around and around they run, and they topple, and they knock over all water bowls in sight.  you're running around, and then you're sitting on a rock and one dog comes up for a scratch behind the ears and then another jumps up next to you and by the time you leave two hours later, you are dirtier than the dog:

and you drive home and wash off and feed the dog, who's already plodding to couch.  and then you head to couch too, and watch episodes of arrested development (franklin!) and then you rouse yourself, finally, and head to the kitchen.  you boil some milk and let it cool and stir in a powder from a packet with directions only in french and pour and turn the dial and right now you have this:

but tomorrow morning, after three hours in the fridge to cool, you'll have homemade yogurt.

and it's only after you wipe the counters and load and start the dishwasher that you realize that you've forgotten to eat dinner.  you had a late lunch, but that was hours ago, and you're hungry, but not too hungry.  and you look in the fridge but there's not much there except store-bought yogurt and you can't bear that when you know what's coming tomorrow.  you think about a tomato mozzarella basil sandwich except you never made it to the farmer's market this morning to pick up more tomatoes.  and then you see them, all lined up in one of the drawers in the fridge.  they're a little soft but still good, at least for the night. and so you find the peeler and stand over the trashcan and start peeling.  and peeling.  and peeling.  and then you look for a cutting board but they're in the dishwasher so you cut them directly on the counter.  and you chop and chop some more.  add a little sea salt, and you're done with "dinner":

and that's how you find yourself eating four cucumbers at just shy of eleven o'clock on a saturday night.