Whoa. It's Wednesday? Whoa.

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.

Busy busy busy

Brian's been nagging me to post more ("'Pondering!?'", he says. "You're still pondering your silly Quaker tree?"), and even though I have no new argyle stories to tell, I'm caving.

So. How you been? I am busy. So busy, in fact, that I have become paralyzed by the sense of my own business, unable to finish any task, be it laundry or course proposals, because don't you know I'm busy!? I must lie here and eat goldfish crackers, so busy I am.

Course proposals for next semester are due on Monday. On Friday, I go in for a second round of surgery (remember that schwannoma way back when? Yeah, that). Thursday, my mom arrives from out of town (hi mom!). I'm hoping the house will be at least moderately clean by then (she's not a judgemental woman, my mother, but I don't want her to feel like she's raised some sort of squalid so-and-so). And Aristotle! I've got to read me some Aristotle before Friday, and get some percocet-proof lecture notes together for my first post-surgery class next week. But have I done any of this? Of course not, I'm far too busy. Oh, and plus? The prospect of surgery has me a bit scared. Not that there's any risk or scariness this time 'round. But my lizard brain doesn't know that. My lizard brain says needles are bad. And knives. And those drugs that steal your consciousness away. Oh, ack. I'll stop now.