I haven't been blogging much. Haven't been doing anything much.
That's not true.
I've been doing so much that, in the few hours that I actually have at home, I've been ignoring everything except sentient life forms currently physically in my presence. And even then, the cat probably has some legitimate complaints.
So it may be irresponsible but I haven't been cleaning anything that doesn't need it in the strictest sense, answering emails, or returning phone calls. I spend my leisure minutes curled up on the couch with my knitting needles sighing, "Ah, yarn..." every so often, in a tone that Shawn says he could imagine drug addicts using when they say, "Ah, crack..."
So, what the hell have I been doing this summer, you ask? Mostly fun stuff. Just too much of it. A little bit of travel, the odd dinner with friends, submitted some stuff to the fair, knit a sweater under a deadline, etc. Summer's the busy season at work. My kid just started kindergarden. The prerequisite extended-family drama seems to have ramped up past our standard operational baseline to an extent that makes me weary just to think about it.
So mostly, I don't.
It was rather shocking to find myself in a quiet house this afternoon.
Well, reasonably quiet. There is a four-year-old at my feet on the carpet waging war between Boba Fett and a lego cat that's standing in for Chewbacca, but aside from that, quiet.
What to do? I'm sure I ought to be cleaning something. If I don't deal with the bathroom before long, I expect that ball of hair in the corner is going to waltz out here with a suitcase and ask me where it can put its stuff. And that inbox is 81 messages deep.
There's a half-knit sock curled up next to me on the couch that says I should grab my laptop and queue up an episode of brilliant scientists who will unwittingly almost destroy the world again this week, and knit a few rows while I do it.
Fuzzy little punk is a bad influence...