Missed a day--gah!

All this purging of my stuff and I forgot to blog yesterday.

I participated in the East Liberty clean up. The most bizarre thing I found: swim goggles.

The most bizarre thing to happen to my computer? First, the bottom toolbar is on the side, and wider than I want it to be. Next, I somehow installed Google desktop? And so my Picasa pictures are scrolling, I have the BBC news, Reuters, and the San Fran weather. Not sure how I feel about all this...

Oh, I just figured out how to minimize the Google desktop.

So, letters. My organizational style (ha!) is eclectic. Which means that when I de-clutter, every day is Christmas...sort of. I found a thank you note from my mom (at least two years old), the Christmas and birthday cards from a few years ago, and the 2008 Ikea catalog.

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Open Letter:

Dear Max,

It's okay if you don't want to be my friend. I cherish the time we had together, the companionship, the fun. I will never forget our day at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and driving Rte 14 home. You are...well, you. Thank you for the time we had together. I wouldn't have traded it for a gross of Dove bars.

Sarah Louise

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It's strange, this in between. Not knowing if I will be moving, but preparing for it. Preparing for something. It is somehow easier to get rid of shoes I never wear, books I haven't read, paper, paper, paper. There are things that I know won't come with me if I leave. As it should be. I've been here six years. That's twice the amount of time of a normal "tour of duty" in the U.S. Foreign Service. My mom always said, "one year to get settled, one year to get to know the place, one year to get ready to leave."

Seasons...

I know I'm writing all over the place, but I don't know where to go with the flood of conflicting emotions.

One thing about politics: I haven't dreamed of something wonderful since the first Clinton administration and my English professor told us she'd been to a rally and that William had a thesis statement, "It's the economy, Stupid!" So at 36, I am daring to dream an impossible dream. And I am allowed that, dammit. It may not be practical, but it is my one vote, and I am daring to dream of a change. Yesterday I had a conversation with a woman I respect, who knows far more about politics (and cares more about them) than I ever will. And she is being practical. Which is her right, to be. And I respect her reasons. And I may be totally disappointed. And yet, I dare to dream. Because all of a sudden, this cynical me is reminded that I am not cynical by nature--it is years of the same-old, same-old, that has made me this way, and now I'm not talking politics.

Now I'm talking about this apartment, this job, this life. Doing the same thing and hoping for different results--the definition of crazy-making.

And one more thing: I think I'm cancelling my subscription to LHJ* and switching over to Good Housekeeping (which on the back page has an essay by a woman who writes about being 35, single, and deciding to have her breasts removed because of genetic preponderence to breast cancer.) Oh, and get a subscription to Victoria. And, yes, cancel my subscription to Today's Christian Woman, because I get most of their content online.

Gotta go.

This post brought to you by the letter X--the unknown quantity.

*I, ever unmarried (so far), need to stop reading "Can this marriage be saved?" every month.