I haven’t really been sick all this time. Actually, I went to bed around 4 p.m. on Tuesday and woke up Wednesday morning feeling pretty good. The bad news is that I let two of my pears go to waste because I waited too long for them to ripen. I have to act when I think of stuff; otherwise, I forget and it doesn’t happen. Like I forgot I wanted to eat my pears because I couldn’t eat them when I first thought of eating them. I mean, I could have, but I didn’t because I was waiting for the optimal time. When will I learn that I can’t wait for the optimal time? If I think of something, I have to do it immediately, even if it involves unripened fruit. There’s an object lesson here with the potential to screw up a lot of lives, if I let it. I’m just going to move on.

The good news–the other good news, I mean, besides me not being sick anymore–is that I may be able to start outsourcing some of my parental duties. This morning I heard Elvis say, “Please, Girlfriend! I don’t have time for this!” Now, if only I can teach him to say, “Have you done your homework, Mister Bubby?” and “The world does not revolve around your needs, Princess Zurg!” and “Elvis, stop talking about poop for five seconds!” we’ll be in business. Trouble is, if I outsource the nagging, all that’s left for me is drudgery. But at least I’ll save my voice.

I have a few goals for this week. The first goal is to get my eyebrows waxed. The second is to finish reading The Count of Monte Cristo by Wednesday evening, when I’m (planning on) going to a book club meeting (discussing that book, which is why I’m reading it). The third is to do twelve loads of laundry between now and Thursday. The fourth is to touch up my roots before Friday. Do I have a fifth? Probably not.

The Count of Monte Cristo is actually a terribly readable book. Which is good because I think it’s about 400,000 pages long. I’m not sure because I’m reading it on Kindle, but it takes me about 20 minutes to get from one percentage point to the next. I exaggerate, maybe. A little. I’m at 30% right now. I’d be farther along, of course, if I were reading right now instead of trying to blog and mostly failing. Like, I might be at 31%. Every little bit counts! I’m not a slow reader, either, lest ye get the wrong idea. I’m a pretty snappy reader. Unless I lose the will to read, which is what happened with Wuthering Heights and, to an extent, with Middlemarch (although I haven’t given up on Middlemarch–we’re just “taking a break,” honest). No, I’m just reading my guts out with this book and making good time, all things considered–and I’m enjoying the book very much, but it’s going to be a marathon. I probably should have trained first.

Speaking of training, I was clogging this morning for the first time in two weeks. (We took last Monday off because of the holiday. Not that clogging would be an inappropriate way to celebrate Dr. King’s legacy. I’m sure we could work up a civil rights-themed routine or something.) I thought I was going to die. Maybe because I’ve been sick and haven’t practiced. I mean, I usually feel like dying the first half-hour or so, but once I’ve warmed up, I’m good to go the rest of the day. Today I just pretty much felt like dying the whole time. Maybe I should have been at home reading. Or at the beauty salon getting my eyebrows separated.

I was teaching Primary at church yesterday. I have the eight-year-olds now, instead of the eleven-year-olds, and it’s been an adjustment. I used to teach with Sugar Daddy, but since the PTB made him the big Sunday School mucky-muck (la di da!), I’m just by myself, and it’s kind of a drag. The kids are all lovable (except for possibly one of them, but even that one I have to admire), but they have no attention span. “Attention span” might not be the term I’m looking for. “Ability to half-way pay attention to stuff that is not remotely interesting to them–or anyone, really” is more what I mean. This year we’re studying church history and it’s reasonably boring. For me, I mean. Well, for them too, but they’d probably be bored regardless. Well, I’m bored, though, and that’s just making things worse. I was kind of dreading yesterday’s lesson, which was even more boring than the three previous lessons we’d had, but it turned out really well in the end. Of course, that may have been because we spent half the time playing Hangman. But, you know, I take my victories where I can.

My complexion has been reasonably clear for the last ten years or so, but over the last month I have been getting all these angry zits in the most inconvenient places on my face. (Nowhere else, thank goodness. Didn’t mean to alarm you, if I did.) I wish I knew what was going on. Is it perimenopause? I’ve decided to blame everything on perimenopause. Just now, that is. I mean, I’ve been working up to blaming everything on it, but just now I realized I’m probably finally ready for full-time. Yesterday I was in the car with Princess Zurg and she asked why women are so obsessed with their appearance. I told her I didn’t used to be before my body started falling apart. I remember being very un-obsessed with my appearance as a teenager. Probably to my detriment. Well, I don’t know. I guess I was just intermittently obsessed. I had periods of caring, I suppose. This paragraph came out of nowhere and appears to be going straight back there as soon as it can.

I should eat some lunch and do a load of laundry and try not to feel my eyebrows growing together while I read my book. Gentle readers, adieu.