Time got away from me this week. It ran and hid and giggled in the bushes while I stumbled through Sunday, giving no thought at all to what I usually do…write my blog.
The day started out well. I went to church (I’m feeling quite pious these days). I watched two football games. Shopped locally. Munched on a piece of fried chicken. Edited about twenty pages of my WIP (work in progress). Ate lemon shortbread. Took a short bath. Ate pecan pie.
I had the house to myself, not counting the two cats, the fish and the lizard. My daughter was de-cluttering a house—someone else’s house—and my son-in-law went to Santa Rosa with a golf buddy. My husband was out sailing on San Francisco Bay on his favorite schooner.
When he came home we drank Chateau Gato, that’s homemade hooch from our old zinfandel vineyard. It goes well with chocolate, so I raided my stash. Then I propped myself up in bed and read: two long chapters of an erudite (but boring) non-fiction tome and four chapters of a spicy historical romance novel. I gave no thought at all to blogging.
This has happened before, but I’ve recovered by getting up early and writing in the wee hours of the morning. Not this time.
The odd thing is last week when I was blathering on about winning a football pool, I had a great idea about what I should write about this week. I even considered doing it early. The topic? Beats me. Lately I have trouble remembering what I planned to fix for dinner or why I came into a particular room. Oh yes…to write a blog.
So forgive me for being a day late and for boring you with an account of how absent-minded I am. The blessing is this post is short.
I promise to do better next week.
Unless I forget.