My baby sister writes to ask what’s wrong with me that i’m not blogging.

What gall!  She gives up her blog completely and then has the cojones to ask why I’m not blogging.

OK, sis.  I understand.  Here’s why I’m not blogging:

I have nothing to say.

I went to dinner last night with K.O., an old friend, and we talked about her latest failed romance and how she wants to just quit her job and leave town.  I was home and eating Blue Bell Ice Cream and chocolate chip cookies in front of the laptop before midnight.

Thursday, I slept.  I slept 20 hours.  Didn’t go to work, didn’t do the dishes.  I slept.

Nancy Pelosi is the new Speaker of the House. OK. Cool beans.  I have nothing to say that about a thousand other pundits, journalists and coffeehouse philosophers haven’t already said in spades to my utter boredom.

I’m not dating anyone, not trying to date anyone, not looking and don’t care.  I finally get it.  At my age, there isn’t anyone I want to date who wants to date me and there isn’t anyone who wants to date me that I want to date.  I don’t want to share my home with the cat, much less another human being of any gender.

I’m trying with very little success to stop smoking.   Very frustrating and disappointing.

I work.  It’s boring, but that’s why I get paid the big bucks.  I’m not getting anywhere financially, but that’s better than the path to financial ruin I was formerly treading.  Now, I”m just treading water.

Friday, as is often the case, i spent time with a gaggle of friends.  It was Paseo gallery walk night and it’s boring to say how much I admire B.J. LaFon’s work I saw at Joy Reed Belt’s JRB Gallery.  He’s still great.  I’m still a fan.  Who isn’t?  The one wrinkle in that evening was an hour a few diehards spent at Groovy’s late.  A walk through a time warp into the Studio 54 days of yesteryear’s discos. None dead, none hurt, and the Oz will dance all by himself like no one is watching, one of the reasons I love him to death.

I’m not reading anything that excites me.  I’m not writing, not even in my journal.  I’m not painting or doing sumii, not even sketching. 

I go to AA meetings and listen and keep my mouth shut.  I don’t have anything to say, but I’m not learning all that much,  either.

I had some rolls I used for a Christmas Eve get-together at my house, but they’ve long turned stale and are probably getting moldy.  I crumbled a couple up outside my back door for the birds, it being winter.  I didn’t gauge the effect this might have on Sinatra.  When a flock of small black birds swarmed the crumbs right outside his window to the world, he freaked.  he did that stutter that cat owners will recognize.  he’s been talking about it ever since.  I guess that’s the big news at my house:  there were birds real close to the back door and the glass kept the cat from pouncing.

So, that’s the news from Lake Woebegon, where all the men …