Grooming

I've been a bit more socially responsible over the past year. I'm starting to do things like R.S.V.P. to invitations. I'll send out handwritten Thank You notes. I bought my sister-in-law of 8 years a birthday present. I suspect I'll buy her another birthday present this year.

Here are the results of my socially sowing:

• Brother nor sister-in-law bought me a birthday present.
• Cards sent did not receive a reply.
• No one really R.S.V.P.'s to my invitations.

My mother applauds my efforts and tells me that I have to groom relationships. But why do I have to be the initiator and instigator all the time?

Why doesn't anyone... groom me?

The Comfort of Myself

Hi.

So you're not here, and that's okay. My blog that was once so manicured and loved is now ingrown. Not sure of that analogy, but I'm going with it.

I met a girl this year and she kept inserting the fact she had a blog into her conversation. She would talk about her commentors as if they were real people in the room with us. I rolled my eyes and inwardly sighed that that was so 2005. And then I thought how this girl must have nothing going on in her life to be so enraptured with her blog and her readers. I felt sorry for her at her obvious ploy to recruit new followers.

Then I felt even lamer when I realized that was me once upon a time.

I'm not sure if I have any more of a life now than back when I was Jamiewhohasablog. Actually, I'm not sure what's changed, if anything.

But I'm okay with no readers and no commentors. Writing in this space feels like I'm talking to myself, but with a comforting echo. It feels just familiar enough to be safe.

So hi, you're not here. I'm basking in the comfort of myself, and that's okay.

Cheek awashed in germs

There were days in a stronger economy that, when my morning went badly enough, I would take a mental-health sick day and just stay in bed where I belonged.

This morning was one of those mornings. I woke up late. I chipped my mother's hand-me-down 20-year-old cookie jar giving the dog a biscuit. My low tire-pressure alarm beeped in the car, and I nailed a curb dropping the boyfriend home at his apartment. But with the economy being what it is, the only thing keeping me at home this year is the swine flu.

So I wasn't really that surprised when my usual karate-chop kick to flush the toilet at work missed, and I ended up crashing against the back wall of the rest room loudly enough to receive a knock from the men's side.

Un-done

I want to do more.

I currently have four unfinished knitting projects. Five, if you count the one that is stowed at my mother's, of which I have no intention on picking back up.

I have two sewing projects pinned and just waiting for the sewing machine. This does not include the projects that the materials are bought, but haven't even been started yet.

I have a basket of beads from a broken necklace that have been waiting at least two months to be restrung.

I have two unfinished books. Okay, I have five unfinished books.

I have a gym four floors below me that I swear I'm going to every day. You know, one of these days.

I am $100 short a month from putting 10% of my paycheck into savings.

I have an unwatched episode of Grey's Anatomy on the Tivo. That probably disturbs me more than anything.

My life has become this vortex of time that is completely unaccounted for, and I have nothing to show for it but a whole lot of unfinished business. It makes me feel on the precipice of losing control to live life so unorganized. I'm getting a little panicky about it.

So I am going to do what I always do: make lists. I'm going to make so many lists. I'm going to make lists about making lists. Then I'm going to make lists of small, obtainable goals.

Like finishing my lime green scarf this weekend.