Three signs that I might need a hobby

1. Last night I dreamed Paul and I were in the local university library, where we'd been promised an evening of thought-provoking entertainment — the dean of sciences was delivering a musical rendition of selected journal abstracts. Although I have been known to enjoy an operetta now and then, Paul and I bailed after the first number, an overture outlining the current state of ART backed with a ragtimey piano riff.

2. Yesterday in Nature a study was published showing that female mice continue to make new eggs well into adulthood, thanks to stem cells in their ovaries. Although it won't be of use to me, it's exciting — if it's found to carry over to humans, it will refute the current belief that we're born with all the eggs we'll ever have. In celebration, I spent much of the day tormenting Paul by earnestly squeaking, grooming my imaginary whiskers with my equally imaginary wee pink paws, and pretending to run through a convoluted maze in the restaurant parking lot before being granted the reward of dinner.

3. I have started to use my cyst as an excuse. Don't feel like unloading the dishwasher? I blame the cyst. Haven't made it out to the mailbox with the mortgage payment? "Well, see, there's this giant, painful ovarian cyst that's slowing me down a bit. Would you like to hear ab— no? Okay, well, do you think you could waive that late fee this month? Super." David Berkowitz had his demon dog. I have my Satanic cyst. It keeps me awake. It won't shut up. I live in terror that any minute it's going to tell me to go out and ice some brown-haired coeds.