A Week Off, and What Did I Do?

NOTHING.

I did NOT write the reviews for the eight books I've finished. (Technically only have to write two of those...)

I did NOT critique anything from my poor neglected crit group. (Sorry guys, I keep meaning to.)

I did NOT read anything considered a "classic."

I did NOT "fix" my first 30 pages for either of the two places I have paid to read and critique. (I truly think I've given up hope that this book will see print. Trying to decide if I should re-work those first 30 or try to write 30 new that have no end.)

I DID finally mail off my two articles I wrote for the Star last month. (Still won't be printed until Sept. and yes, I will post a link when it happens.)

I DID pound out my article for Focus. (But it is crummy. Hopefully I will get it fixed tomorrow)

I DID make my bed today.

I DID clean out two (count 'em, two) junk drawers.

I DID read Watching the Tree Limbs by Mary DeMuth, and will, before the night is over, finish Kim Vogel Sawyer's Waiting for Summer's Return.

I DID discover that I am capable of liking Manga (you'll hear about that soon).

I DID go out to lunch with my hubby AND dinner with my girlfriends.

I DID talk to my sister on the phone for two hours.

I DID review "Elizabeth." (Deep, pitiful sigh. Never, I repeat, never assume that if a book is written about a British woman named Elizabeth, and the author assumes that you need only to know her first name to know what the book is about, that it will be about the queen. Ask lots of questions like, "Does this woman have one husband or eight?")

I DID run a load of dishes because we were out of adult sized cups.

I DID see the chiropractor again. Apparently I was supposed to NOT move my neck to get better. I've been stretching it to loosen it up. WRONG move. And why didn't he tell me that a week ago?

I get to see my kids tomorrow. I did virtually nothing this week and now I am having panic attacks that I didn't get anything done. I keep telling myself that if I had been on a beach in Hawaii, I wouldn't curse myself for resting. This is why vacations at home never work. I don't and therefore feel guilty.