I had hoped to be able to return to work on Monday, but since I can't drive and my mental faculties will be impaired somewhat by the lovely opiates I'll be taking to get me through the next few days, that's not an option right now. I'll have to call my office tomorrow and tell them as much. I had already hinted that I might not be back on Monday, seeing as my recovery was slower than I had planned, and they seemed okay with that.
The upshot of all of this is that I'm still reading like a ... like a ... I've run out of metaphors here.
I'm reading a lot, okay?
And I haven't been back to the bookstore because 1) I just dropped a load of money paying for apparently ineffective (but necessary) surgery and 2) I can't drive myself to the damned bookstore.
So what have I been reading?
Mystery novels. I usually don't read them, and in fact, they are one of the last types of book I usually pick out for myself (The Girl_________ trilogy excepted), but my mom is a lover of mystery novels. We have gobs of them floating around, and so I've been scavenging for ones to read.
I've discovered I like P.D. James, especially since she uses the same characters over a period of 30 years and they don't age during that time period. It's a pretty sweet concept, and one I'm sure many Hollywood and Highland Park ladies would love to turn into reality.
I read a Michael Jenks mystery set in medieval England that was okay, but I'm not going to go searching out his books after this. They were kind of dry, and short on the descriptive passages that I so enjoyed in Dame James' books (I think she's a dame... she has a title, anyway).
Nevertheless, I might have to go to the bookstore this weekend to see about buying some books. There's only so much murder and mayhem I can stand.