And.... SPLAT!

I spoke too soon.

The street lights were a bit of a bitch though

Last night I slept with my blinds and curtains drawn for the first time since I moved out of my old apartment. I climbed into bed after turning on a Grey's Anatomy DVD, slipped between the sheets and saw the Bank of America building for the first time from my bedroom window. I realized I had never seen the view from my bedroom window before.

It's been a long time since I felt safe.

48

I had a very frustrating 48 hours this week. The body shop repairing the sexy crowbar skid marks left on my car from being broken into on Halloween was not up to my customer service standards. The whole mess snowballed into me yelling at a 70-year-old in coke-bottle glasses, stealing my car from the body shop, driving home on a leaky tire and ending my day wailing on the floor of my apartment two bottles of wine in. Day two predictably started with me driving on a flat tire until it smoked and then spent $600 on a new set of tires and being without wheels yet again.

(Day three was spent apologizing to the old man at the body shop and returning the car, only for them to perform a completely mediocre job on it, but that's not the point here.)

Worst 48 hours this year, I thought.

Then I remembered the 48 hours in February in which I was laid off and then immediately found out I needed surgery because the chance was likely that I had cancer. That 48 hours kicks this 48 hours' ass.

I picked myself off the floor and wiped my nose. Dug some ice out of the freezer for my swollen eyes. At least I have my job and am cancer-free, I told myself.

And you know what? I didn't feel a bit better.

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.