YOU DON'T WRITE YOU DON'T CALL

Saturdays tend to go right by me. After getting up in time to moderate occupylive.org and get to the Upper East Side by 10:15, I am somewhat logy the rest of the day. A grey day, like today, does not help the feelings of being displaced, lost, and just floating along. The kitties are fast asleep. I just got out of a long-ish bath. What else is to be done but nap?

And now we are on to Sunday.

I know. You don't write, you don't call.

I just have this free-floating anxiety today. I am disturbed and overly saddened by Miss Becky's loss of her kittyfriend, Lola, yesterday? And I overwhelmed by myself, as I so often am? I have not heard from or about Pam in days and I have no idea how she is? Am I suffering from a bit of under-exercise and no yoga? Do I think I should be watching the SuperBowl?

I will say I really want to climb into bed and take an afternoon nap. What I am going to do is put on my shoes and coat and go for a walk.

Stay tuned.

Okay. I walked. I took a short, sweet nap, interrupted by some football fan screaming drunk before the game. But I wrote and watched Downton Abbey with Tupelo instead of watching the SuperBowl. No regrets on that front.

Now, I am ready for some true sleep. I am posting this so that y'all don't think I am sliding into a bummer or anything.