The weird thing about having my mother here is that, like, 90% of this blog's readers are spending all day, every day with me (how large are mom and Brian that they make up 90%? How small must my other reader(s) be to make up 10%? Oh, this is impossible, and strangely discomfiting).
And yet! And yet not a day goes by that someone, some 45th percentile doesn't say, "hey, why haven't you updated your blog?" And I'll say, "I'm right here! Ask me how my day was! Tell me about your socks and I'll blog about it!" But do they comply? No. They go right back to being un-anecdotal, threading beads or knitting or whatever it is you do when you're keeping the newly surgiated company.
Brian just doddered in and asked if I was ready for bed. "Go away," says I. "I'm blogging!"
"About time," says he, taking of my shoes (I'm pretty good with most dexterous things, post surgery, but my shoes are very far away). "Come to bed soon, though. I'm turning off the lights and you might hurt yourself." I scoff. Our bedroom, dear 10th percentile, is very straightforward. No moats or casements or aligators or catamounts. I will not hurt myself. My collarbone has been resectioned, not my in-the-dark-navigation bits.
So anyway, that's that. Lump gone. Clavicle resectioned (is that even the right word? Sounds off). Blogger sleepy. Readers restless.