Gotta get my groove back...

I've been miserable.

And one thing I can see is that if I look at my blog entries per year, the first year was 174, well, I started in May, so that's almost half a year lost. The second year, 504, which is more that 1 per day. The third year, 424, which is still more than 1 per day. (It's also the year I dated and got dumped by Max.) The fourth year, (2008) I wrote 235, also the year I discovered Twitter. Today is my 800th day on Twitter! The fifth year, can this be right? I wrote 37 posts. And so far in 2010, I've written 21 posts.

And as I've been trying to figure out why in the h-e-double hockey sticks that I cannot stop getting boils, (recovering from Shingles at home has given me a lot of extra time to THINK) and I think about Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers, the folks that lived in the Pennsylvania town but were eating lard, more sedentary than their European forbears, but still only dying of old age. And I've been thinking about Sonny Rollins, (link to a previous post about this topic) who said

You know, if I don't play my horn for a while, I actually get sick. I wonder, "Well, gee, what's the matter with me?" And I realize that I haven't played my horn for a few days.

And I have not been writing, or walking, or taking pictures. I don't think I have the energy for a walk, and I have to show up and work tonight, so I don't want to tire myself, but I can sit and write. Blogging isn't necessarily the most art-y of writing, but darn it, it gets the words out, and I need to do that. Because if there's anything I've learned, infections happen b/c you have toxins that need to get out. And I think some of my toxins are words, molding, decaying, inside my blood veins. So until I figure out something else, I need to make a goal to blog 5x a week. Please, readers, hold me to it.

And now I'm going to take a shower. Because I am gross. I was so down (damn PMS is worse if you are fighting infection) that I didn't take one. And since I forgot to wash my hair Sunday when I *did* shower, my hair looks like dirty greasy shoelaces, a wig worn by a mechanic named Gene for Halloween.

I love you guys. And more, I love writing here. I need this blog. And I need you, dear reader. After my shower, i will be in your blogs reading and commenting. Oh, that makes me want to move forward. Gotta go so I can come BACK.

Ta.

feeling sorry for myself and other futile activities the day before I turn 36

btw, I'm sick of a coupla things:

my car and its nuisances: the defroster is connected to the heater. (Not to mention the driver's door not opening, etc.)

being the strong one

facing financial facts (loved the conversation with my mom yesterday, as she bluntly asked, how did you get back into debt again? You want the short answer or the long one? The short one: I have a problem with money. I like to spend it. The long one: she didn't want to hear it, and it's a lot of rationalizing, really.)

realizing I'm pretty frivolous

crying my eyes out.

But apparently I'm doing really well at keeping up appearances b/c everyone tells me I'm doing really well. (Well, and I am handling things well. But can I have less things to handle please?)

I think the lady downstairs is GONE. Without even goodbye. We weren't friends per se, but she was THERE. and now she's not. Sort of (but not entirely) reminds me of the first bit in the book About a Boy, which I can't find right now. (The mom breaks up with the current bloke and the boy is like, "but we peed together once, and you'd think you'd sort of stay in touch after that.")

Goodbye Ms. Second Floor, to whom I gave safety pins, rolls of toilet paper, exchanged quarters and stuff when you ran out of change for laundry. I didn't plant the tulip bulbs I bought from your daughter for her school fundraiser, but my mom took them home. I think we could have become buddies if either of us had had more time. Or maybe not. But anyways, I wish you the best. And not that this is the point, at all, but I liked having a black woman neighbor. I live a pretty lily white life, spending most of my time in the North Hills.

I guess the thing I like about the Bible (while we're being random) is that so many of the Psalms are crying my eyes out or really mad at my enemies.* And I know it's not the point that Job got double back what he had before, but there's some bit of comfort in that too.

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*(this one is both!)