The multitudes of people (say, three or so) who read this blog have surely been pining for my next post, or at the very least they may have noticed an absence of recent activity. I do apologize for your withdrawal symptoms. With no new Lesbrarian material, you’ve probably been suffering from headaches, nausea, and hives. It is probable that you’ve developed a mild form of depression and that, consequently, your relationships with your family and coworkers have soured. Sorry ‘bout that.
The problem is that I’ve been busy.
What a lovely phrase. “I’ve been busy.” It’s so vague. It is as vague as vague gets. It tells you absolutely nothing.
“I’ve been busy.” Maybe I started a soup kitchen at the homeless shelter. Maybe I opened a tattoo parlor. Maybe I invented a time machine and I’ve been tooling about pre-Depression America with Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. I’d make an awesome flapper.
If I had invented a time machine, I would not tell you. Everyone would be clamoring for a ride.
The reality is that I’ve been busy playing killer sudoku.
The alternative reality is that I invented a time machine, but like I said, if that’s so, I’m not telling you.
Being a logic-problem aficionado (read: dweeb), and with apologies to my sudoku-addicted mother, I admit that I harbor some disdain for sudoku. It’s just a matter of putting the numbers where they belong. Work at it long enough and you’ll get there.
Killer sudoku, however, has a much trickier component: you have to make different blocks add up to a particular total. It’s extremely difficult. I gave up on a problem at 2 this morning after having filled in only 6 our of 81 blocks.
Lest you think I’ve done nothing but work on logic problems and travel through time, I should point out that I’ve been doing a lot of yoga. It’s really remarkably fun. It involves stretching and balance and concentration. Some of the positions are brutal (and I’m only in the beginners’ class!) but even the agony feels good in a stretchy sort of way.
I only have class once a week but I’ve started practicing at home. (And at work. It’s a good way to pass time while waiting for the copier to finish copying.) The only problem with home practice is the cats. Anyone can do yoga. Not everyone can do yoga with two interested kitties rubbing against your leg, especially when said leg is balanced precariously while the other leg is up in the air somewhere
And in a completely unrelated note, some Christmas presents I ordered showed up last week, effectively turning them into Groundhog Day presents. Some friends of mine received crocheted crotches because, let’s face it, every woman needs a crocheted crotch. My friends got the version with the clit ring.
(You didn’t get one, Queen of Claremont. You got a book. It’s sitting in my linen closet.)
The nice lady who runs crochetmycrotch.com was really apologetic for getting them done so late, so she refunded half my money and sent me an additional consolation gift, a pussy purse. It’s supposed to hold a tampon. I don’t use tampons anymore but I’m sure I’ll figure out a clever use for it. Maybe I can cram my check book in there.
Sorry this is so short, but I’m really jonesing for some killer sudoku. I need to break this pattern soon. When I go to Atlanta next week I won’t bring any puzzles with me. I’ll be forced to read Cormac McCarthy, and hey, that’s not a bad deal. After having written about Omar Tyree and Tim LaHaye for two successive NoveList articles, I am ecstatic to read an author whom I actually like. He’s not one of my personal favorites, but—careful distinction here—I think he’s one of the best living writers and I really do like him immensely. Plus, as you can see from that link, I’ve already written a fair bit about his appeal characteristics. I’ll just plagiarize myself and call it done.