Overheard today, ver batim:
"So how was the blueberry picking?"
"Got about three gallons in an hour."
"Are you serious?!"
This is the most exciting thing that happened today. This is possibly the most exciting thing that has happened all month.
You understand now why I haven’t posted here in the past few weeks.
The other reason for my silence is that I’m in a bit of a funk. Life’s no fun when your time is filled with A) writing a book and B) slacking off from writing your book. The slacking is fun, sure, but it’s tinged with a healthy dose of guilt. And even the slacking is losing its luster because, quite frankly, there are no books to read.
A skeptic might mention that I work in a library which, by traditional definition, is chock full of books. But there is a problem with each book, displayed here in a convenient two-part rubric for easy comprehension:
1. Either I have already read the book, or
2. The book sucks.
It’s very simple. If we were to draw a Venn diagram of the books in the library, they would fall neatly into the two circles, with a tiny bit of overlap to graphically illustrate those books I have read which, unfortunately, sucked. A Lesson Before Dying, by Ernest Gaines, would be an example of that ugly field of overlap. It is saccharine and bland, like water with a packet of Sweet-n-Low in it.
Sadly, I know what water with a packet of Sweet-n-Low in it tastes like, at least when it’s accompanied by a lemon slice. I call this concoction Poor Woman’s Lemonade, and it is what I drink in restaurants when I don’t want to pay for a beverage.
The optimists out there might gamely suggest that some of the books I haven’t read are good. They would be wrong. In recent weeks I have checked out a flurry of new books—new to me, I mean—and they have all sucked. Given the uniform results of my desperate reading frenzy, and considering the impressive sample size, we may conclude, statistically, that all of these books suck.
In other news, my body is now, officially, one giant stretch mark. I’ve been going to yoga class now for 7 months. My body is capable of more twists than a Jeffery Deaver thriller. Conceivably, I could plug my nostrils with my nipples and suffocate. (Have not actually tried this. “Smothered on her own breasts” is not the tombstone epitaph I’m aiming for.) I can almost reenact the pea soup scene from The Exorcist.
Which is all very cool. I would be the life of the party, if I ever got invited to one. But it means that I have stretch marks everywhere: boobs, tummy, hips, bum, thighs, calves, arms—probably even my scalp, though that’s one area of my body that I can’t twist to see. Yet. Give me another 7 months of yoga.
Speaking of my body, I am trying to sell my uterus. It leaks, so I am prepared to offer a very generous discount. The leakage occurs only once per month, so I am sure that it will be suitable for most purposes. Act now, before it’s gone!