It’s Sunday. Quarter after one on the afternoon. I’m doing nothing. For the rest of the day. And except for going out to the supermarket, I’ve done nothing so far.

Usually our Sundays are very busy. We get up at seven. Walk the dogs for an hour. I cook like a maniac for three hours. We take whatever culinary masterpiece I make to Carol’s parents. We eat. We shop. We visit my mother. We come home and clean the house.

This Sunday. Bupkis

That’s because we had lunch with Carol’s parents on Saturday instead. At a restaurant. On the way back we stopped at our favorite bakery and bought an apple pie and had dessert at our house. We cleaned the house. Did some laundry. Then we had dinner with my oldest daughter, Jen. At a restaurant. Then the three of us went to visit my mother. We talked and ate her box of thin mints.

So today, I’ve got nothing to do. And am doing it with relish.

(I did summon the strength and ambition to look up the meaning of bupkis. It’s Yiddish for goat poop. )

Tomorrow will start another busy week. At eight o’clock Monday morning, in fact, I have to speak to a journalism class at the university. Eight o’clock! Then I have to come home and start “act two” of the new novel. But today it’s a little TV. A little nap. A little more TV. A snack and Beddie bye.

And that’s why this week’s blog is about as exciting as, well, a plop of bupkis.