I have no time to blog.
I have no time to download my photos.
I have not read a book in three weeks.
That is a personal record.
I have read several magazines, of course, since what would you do with yourself while you were blow drying your hair or stirring gravy or there was a commercial while you were watching Project Runway?
Speaking of stirring gravy, my mother is in Florida caring for her ill parents and so I have been cooking for my dad. My mom is pretty no-nonsense in many ways, but she has coddled my father throughout their forty year marriage when it comes to feeding him. My husband is used to walking in the door after a long day of work and having me look at him and say "I got nothing. Get Domino's on the phone. STAT." My dad is used to a hearty dinner, a packed lunch, a prepared breakfast. So I have been busy fostering the illusion that I, too, am a dutiful housewife who puts three squares on the table, complete with placemats, and inviting him over to eat with us or, if he prefers, to utilize Saskia's Fine Dining Take Out Service.
My hat is off to the legions of women who put a hearty meal on the table every night and never call Chili's for takeout. I readily admit, they are more man than I am.
I think I'll knock off early tonight. I was sick over the weekend with a non-descript mystery illness that manifested only as fatigue and extreme nausea. And no, I will answer your next question, I am not in the family way. I repeat, I AM NOT PREGNANT. If you are in your child-bearing years, you pretty much are not allowed to be nauseated. Or else you may be nauseated, but you may not actually breathe a word of it to anyone. Because they will start putting together a Target Registry and knitting booties. And if you feel like throwing up while you are in someone else's presence, just swallow it down and pretend you are having a heart attack or you broke your ankle, but whatever you do, DO NOT TELL THEM THAT YOU ARE QUEASY. I made that mistake with my friends this weekend. They just kept looking at me, as I fought not to heave on them while we visited a dairy farm on Saturday, with slanty suspicious eyes and said "OK, OK, you're 'not pregnant.' Until you tell us in a few weeks that you ARE pregnant, right? Am I right? Huh? Me thinks she doth protest too much!." Whereupon I bludgeoned them to death with a negative pregnancy test.
Now I have to go and get myself some Spanx or everyone is going to be looking at my nacho belly and poking each other in the ribs and winking at one another and meanwhile I will be left with nothing but the memory of my gastroenteritis. And won't they feel foolish in nine months.