Earlier this evening my friend b.f. of the pleasingly erratic (erratically pleasing?) extrawack opined that this blog has become, in the last few days, a bit...dismal. Was that the word he used? No, no...was it..."more tragic than a plane full of nuns and orphans crashing into a bus carrying Holocaust survivors"? Er...not really. I think he just said it had gotten a little downbeat of late.

Well dammit, I have feelings too, you know.

But he's right, absolutely right. I never meant to turn this thing into my diary of woe and sadness - I already have a couple of those, and no one gets to read them. Nor can I see why anyone would want to. That's my own private activity, usually accomplished with the draining a bottle of Popov and a six hour crying jag. In the shower. In the fetal position. Rocking slowly and uncontrollably.

Besides, I like looking at my hit counter each day and seeing 20s, 30s, 40s (Who ARE you people? Dear God, this passes for worthwhile, interesting reading in your world?) Much more of the melancholy sadsackery and that count goes back down to 1s and 2s post haste. So I'll try and turn on the tap marked "positive energy" (cringe), and leave the miseriblogging to the kids at Livejournal etc. They're so much better than me at it, anyway. (I own them on creating neologisms, though).

So I guess I'll hold off about the nervous breakdown I sensed looming this afternoon. You wouldn't wanna know, anyway.

What to do with a winter Sunday? Anything but go where people are Christmas shopping. I worked for/with Dad tonight - barely a customer there from 4 till we closed at 8 - then headed home just ahead of the oncoming Noreaster (or is it a SouSouwester?). It caught me. The rain turned to snow halfway, around the time I started climbing up and around little hills that my poor little summer car, its snow tires stacked under the deck, struggled with heroically. I slid, spun, fishtailed up hills, and nearly bought the farm going around Dead Man’s Curve…or more realistically, I almost dinged up a fender flirting with a guardrail in the woodsy ess-curves.

Here at home, my ears are burning, my body warm, my hair ice-crusted, my tummy full, my fingers wrinkly, my heart and soul crinkly.