The multitudes of people (say, three or so) who read this blog have surely been pining for my next post, or at the very least they may have noticed an absence of recent activity. I do apologize for your withdrawal symptoms. With no new Lesbrarian material, you’ve probably been suffering from headaches, nausea, and hives. It is probable that you’ve developed a mild form of depression and that, consequently, your relationships with your family and coworkers have soured. Sorry ‘bout that.

The problem is that I’ve been busy.

What a lovely phrase. “I’ve been busy.” It’s so vague. It is as vague as vague gets. It tells you absolutely nothing.

“I’ve been busy.” Maybe I started a soup kitchen at the homeless shelter. Maybe I opened a tattoo parlor. Maybe I invented a time machine and I’ve been tooling about pre-Depression America with Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. I’d make an awesome flapper.

If I had invented a time machine, I would not tell you. Everyone would be clamoring for a ride.

The reality is that I’ve been busy playing killer sudoku.

The alternative reality is that I invented a time machine, but like I said, if that’s so, I’m not telling you.

Being a logic-problem aficionado (read: dweeb), and with apologies to my sudoku-addicted mother, I admit that I harbor some disdain for sudoku. It’s just a matter of putting the numbers where they belong. Work at it long enough and you’ll get there.  

Killer sudoku, however, has a much trickier component: you have to make different blocks add up to a particular total. It’s extremely difficult. I gave up on a problem at 2 this morning after having filled in only 6 our of 81 blocks.

Lest you think I’ve done nothing but work on logic problems and travel through time, I should point out that I’ve been doing a lot of yoga. It’s really remarkably fun. It involves stretching and balance and concentration. Some of the positions are brutal (and I’m only in the beginners’ class!) but even the agony feels good in a stretchy sort of way.

I only have class once a week but I’ve started practicing at home. (And at work. It’s a good way to pass time while waiting for the copier to finish copying.) The only problem with home practice is the cats. Anyone can do yoga. Not everyone can do yoga with two interested kitties rubbing against your leg, especially when said leg is balanced precariously while the other leg is up in the air somewhere

And in a completely unrelated note, some Christmas presents I ordered showed up last week, effectively turning them into Groundhog Day presents. Some friends of mine received crocheted crotches because, let’s face it, every woman needs a crocheted crotch. My friends got the version with the clit ring.

(You didn’t get one, Queen of Claremont. You got a book. It’s sitting in my linen closet.)

The nice lady who runs crochetmycrotch.com was really apologetic for getting them done so late, so she refunded half my money and sent me an additional consolation gift, a pussy purse. It’s supposed to hold a tampon. I don’t use tampons anymore but I’m sure I’ll figure out a clever use for it. Maybe I can cram my check book in there.

Sorry this is so short, but I’m really jonesing for some killer sudoku. I need to break this pattern soon. When I go to Atlanta next week I won’t bring any puzzles with me. I’ll be forced to read Cormac McCarthy, and hey, that’s not a bad deal. After having written about Omar Tyree and Tim LaHaye for two successive NoveList articles, I am ecstatic to read an author whom I actually like. He’s not one of my personal favorites, but—careful distinction here—I think he’s one of the best living writers and I really do like him immensely. Plus, as you can see from that link, I’ve already written a fair bit about his appeal characteristics. I’ll just plagiarize myself and call it done.

There are two conditions under which I should not blog.

The first is BWI: Blogging While Intoxicated. Doesn’t matter the intoxicant, be it alcohol or some other drug or the sheer joy of living. It being 10:45 on a Saturday morning, we don’t need to worry about drugs, except for caffeine, which in my body is not a drug at all. My bloodstream is overwhelmingly dominated by caffeine. The platelets and cells and plasma are grudgingly allowed to continue existing, but only in small, unpleasant wastelands, and only because they were, technically, here first. It’s like the Native Americans.

I have never, to my knowledge, been intoxicated by the sheer joy of living. That was a hypothetical condition.

BWI is dangerous because I am wont to say things that ought never, never be published, i.e. “The Following Are People I Would Like to Sleep With.” Embarrassing at best (think coworkers) and mortifying at worst (think Rush Limbaugh), BWI is such a threat that I have forbidden myself to get anywhere near my laptop when there is a glass of wine in my hand. The only problem is that I tend to forget my resolve once there’s a glass of wine in my hand. It’s a right quandary, it is.

For the record, I don’t want to sleep with Rush Limbaugh. That’s disgusting.

The other condition under which I should not blog is boredom. It leads me toward mundane observations (“I woke up at 8:45 this morning”) and dull details (“I’m out of veggie burgers, need to pick up some more”) and petty complaints (“Drat, looks like my veggie burger coupon has expired”) that no one, bar no one, cares about.

Were I being sensible, I’d close this here laptop and head to Food Loin and hope the veggie burgers were on MVP discount this week. (Food Loin is much, much funnier than Food Lion, I think you’ll agree.) Sensibility has never unduly burdened me, though. Neither has common sense, or emotional maturity, or an unblemished complexion. I try not to let it get me down.

First bit of boring news for you: I co-taught my second computer class yesterday. That is to say, Currer Bell taught the class, and I observed, but it was a very hands-on sort of observation. I walked around helping people follow along. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I enjoyed it. We’re not talking ecstasy here—teaching computer classes doesn’t elevate me to Sheer Joy of Living status—but the gratitude of the folks taking the classes makes me feel warm and tingly. I could get used to this. (Good thing, cuz it’s in my job description.)

Now a bit of shocking news: I am seriously toying with the idea of throwing a party.

The words “party” and “Jessica” should never be employed in the same sentence, unless one is making a horrific comparison (“The Klansman at the Black Panther rally was received like Jessica at a party”) or a hyperbolic negation (“The cease fire in the Middle East lasted until the end of time because Jessica was not at the party.”)

Though the mere act of thinking about having a party will probably result in a nuclear holocaust, it’s something I can’t help, because the event is too important to ignore.

You see, the final Harry Potter book is going to be published on July 21.

The instant I heard the release date, I rushed to my calendar to see if I was working that weekend. I’m not. Glad I won’t have to quit my job.

Here’s what will happen. In the week leading to the release, I will re-read the first six Harry Potter books, twice. (Not sure if I should read them in series order twice, or if I should read each title twice in a row, for maximum detail-absorbing impact.) Then I will dress like Minerva McGonagall and wait in line at a bookstore. I will step on any small children who try to cut in front of me. I will smite them with my wand.

Then I will rush home, read without pause, nap for a few hours Saturday afternoon when I finish it, wake up, and read the whole thing again.

Then probably I’ll jump off a cliff because there won’t be any reason to live any longer.

Where’s the party fit in? Either we need a pre-release party to celebrate the publication of the last book, or we need a post-release party to grieve the publication of the last book. Though if I’ve jumped from a cliff I don’t suppose I’ll be there.

Indulge me a moment while I wax nostalgic about childhood. I didn’t really care for it. I hardly had any friends. I was an ugly child. I was pudgy and I had terrible pizza-face acne and my hair was terrible. Every single day I am grateful for being an adult.

But when I was a kid, reading was better. My imagination would kick into overdrive. It was total escapism. I danced with fauns in the snow in Narnia. I practiced telekinesis with Matilda. I personally took a role in destroying the Black Cauldron.

As an adult, no book has gripped me like that. I still view reading the way normal folks view breathing, but it’s not the same.

The exception is Harry Potter.

Certain assholes like Harold Bloom take great pleasure in criticizing J.K. Rowling. Mr. Bloom thinks the writing is bad. Mr. Bloom thinks kids should be reading “good” literature, like Rudyard Kipling. Mr. Bloom can step in front of a speeding bus.

So yeah, I’m already depressed, thinking about the end of the series. Ms. Rowling has already famously said that some important characters might die. (No surprises there. That’s happened reliably for the past three books.) But really, all the characters are going to die. It’s the end of the series. Once Deathly Hallows is finished, all of those characters will leave me. And worse, the books that I have best enjoyed as an adult will leave me. My brief return to the joys of childhood reading will vanish.

Haven’t read them yet? Hurry up, hurry up! Part of the painful pleasure of being a Harry Potter fan is agonizing through the wait for the next book. After Deathly Hallows comes out, you’ll have lost your chance to be a Real Fan. You’ll kick yourself.

And gentlemen in England, now abed, shall think themselves accursed they were not here.