I just realized that this past weekend I didn't read a single page in a single book.

Not one single page.

It really wasn't supposed to be that way. It just kind of spiraled out of control. Friday evening was busy because we went out and bought our Christmas tree. We were supposed to decorate it that night but it was still a bit wet. Instead of decorating the tree I dozed on the couch for two hours.

Saturday was supposed to have ample reading time. But I was tired and by the time we went shopping (gah! yes! a mall!), I wrote my BlogHer YA gift guide, we decorated the tree and figured out supper I was pretty much a goner.

Yesterday was also supposed to have ample reading time because the fake husband was going over to a friend's place to watch football. Instead I wrote a post for BlogHer about the 20th anniversary of the Montreal Massacre (I don't normally write on Sundays), we went to another mall to return something (that I accidentally bought two sizes too large) and then when the fake husband left I started wrapping his gifts. And then I started wrapping other people's gifts. And then the fake husband came home and we finished wrapping pretty much everyone's gifts after an emergency run to the pharmacy to buy more tape. At some point I also managed to cook a ham.

Nary a page of a book was read. No books were harmed in the writing of this post, though I think they are maybe feeling neglected.