Suh-lammed!

Someone left me a huge-ass long comment – with the tantalizing promise of 100,000 more characters to come – yesterday evening while I was out. Since his/her name was "Anonymous," I've now had to change my settings so that no anonymous comments can be left. [The stat details indicate that this person was using a computer from the California State University Network – the things they're teaching in universities these days!]

I know there are a couple of you out there who aren't registered with Blogger or who are still having Blogger 'issues,' and I'm so sorry about having to block you. This is like my mother punishing all three of us when my brother or sister or I did something to piss her off. Well, my brother or sister anyway. Heh.

I really, really, really should have put "play computer solitaire" on my to-do list, 'cause that's what mostly got done yesterday. Well, not mostly, but I could kick myself when I waste time like that. If it had been on my list I could have crossed it off with a sense of accomplishment!

I moved some winter clothes to storage and laundered all the summer stuff that's been tucked away. [Still need to press some things, though.] I had soooo hoped I would be buying all new summer things this year. And as I was putting the heavy jeans and sweaters and wooly things in boxes, I wondered if I would be wearing them again next winter. No wonder I played solitaire all afternoon – it's what I do when I'm depressed. Before computers, I used to play endless hours of real solitaire with real cards to pass the time and not think.

And then last night I went to the prison to help facilitate an AA meeting. I have no problems whatsoever. And I have almost unlimited emotional, financial and personal resources to handle whatever little bumps in the road I happen to run into. I'm not 19 years old, facing 17 years of incarceration for being peripherally involved in a meth lab. The Bureau of Prisons hasn't changed its mind and extended my release date by four months. Yesterday's mail didn't bring divorce papers, and my husband hasn't been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer. My kids aren't being left alone by their crack-addicted father and I can call or e-mail anyone I want, any time I want, and it doesn't cost me 45 cents a minute. And while I don't have a job, if I did, I'm quite sure I'd be earning more than 12 cents an hour.

Nope, I don't have any problems at all. I feel a little selfish and more than a little vain when the biggest problem in my world is my pudge.

Of course, that doesn't mean I won't still be talking about it, whining over it, being pissed about it and wishing it would go away. But every once in a while something powerful happens at those meetings and I get to learn – again – what's really important. And it's not my dress size.