The Burrow

I was reading dooce this morning, following the Little Cuter's advice. If you like my style you might like hers, too. She's younger and cooler and has fewer boundaries between herself and the world than I, but the Cuters got me into blogging by insisting that "you are waaaay hipper than you think you are, Mom" so I'm just going to continue to believe that you are out there and are enjoying the ride. I'm pouting just a little; dooce has lots of comments....... But I can't pretend that I don't understand. Following a blog is not a behavior typically found in my age cohort. Cell phones and texts and emails have maintained friendships over distance and time; my friends and I love the electronic age. It's the intersection of the private with the public that seems to be a stumbling block for us. Updating one's Facebook status is, for most of my friends-of-a-certain-age, a remarkable event. It's not that we're boring or don't have deep t...

I had no specific plans this afternoon except to go through my bills/reminders/fliers... all the detritus now overflowing the banker's box where, having been moved from the desk after accumulating in various piles on a variety of counters in more rooms than you would think possible, they now reside. The box has been yelling at me for a while; looking at it makes me yawn. They called it neurasthenia in Professor Maas's Psych 101 class. The body's uncanny ability to become exhausted when faced with an unwanted task isn't something I've out-grown, unfortunately. Once I get started, I'm The White Tornado (anyone out there remember Mr. Clean ? ). It's the getting started part that gives me trouble. The problem is compounded by a lesson I learned on the job. There were some projects which had taken up permanent residence at the bottom of my Ignore Me At Your Peril box. Over time, I began to notice that if I waited long enough most of the problems seemed to ...