Here's what 'life' is--it's stuff that happens.
Today I went to the Social Security Office in Meriden, thinking it would be awful because the SSA claimed in a letter to me on April 5, that they'd overpaid me by $6850 dollars and asking me for it. It came down to my Self Employment bottom line on my tax return for 2011. Well, I wasn't 'self employed' in 2011, I was retired but Jane, who I love and who has done my taxes for years, just followed the computer program for 2010 and ended up making me 'self-employed' which is what clergy are, as dumb as that is, even though I always got a W-2 form like I worked for someone and had tax withheld though most 'self-employed' people make quarterly payments. Never mind.
The key was this, my W-2 forms--one from my pension for a lot more than I ever imagined a pension would be, a form from SS themselves and my form from the Middlesex Area Cluster Ministry which said I made $4,300 since the rest was housing--this amazing tax gimmick that clergy have that means you don't pay taxes on your housing costs. Amazing! Plus, I can still deduct the interest on my mortgage even though I don't pay taxes on the cost of my mortgage. Go figure....
Anyway, Jane submitted an amended IRS deal that means we'll get $3500 back since I was retired instead of self-employed when they get around to it. And I expected SS in Meriden to be a nightmare since I don't trust bureaucracy to ever work being an aging white man who was a week-end hippie in college--Phi Beta Kappa, Magna Cum Laude if you will, though I smoked a bit of dope on week-ends and had long hair. Nobody who came of age in the 60's trusts the government--especially not Social Security.
To my surprise and delight, the folks at Social Security were wondrous--so kind and helpful and understanding. They kind of understood what I was saying and finally looked at my W-2 forms and went into the computer and removed the $27,800 or so SS thought I made and entered the $4300 I really earned from work. All t he rest was from my pension which can't be counted an 'earned income' since I earned it long ago.
They also cancelled the ticking clock on the $6800 SS said I owned them back from 2011. Lord help us, all this is so convoluted and complex.
They were wonderful and called me 'James' until I told them to call me 'Jim' and when we were through both of them--it took two to understand it all--said 'Goodbye, Jim and have a nice day". Maybe it's in the SSA handbook for what to say to those who come in about something.
But I loved it nevertheless...
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
My fear of hostas
Well, to be honest, I'm not really afraid of hostas--mostly they just weird me out. Not the full grown ones, that's not what I mean, I can take or leave those. What weirds me out is when the hostas start to come up in the spring.
Hostas (aka 'plantain lillies' in Great Britain and 'giboshi' in Japan) don't seem to be single plants. When they start to come up it's like a colony of plants, several inches apart that, when grown, look like a great big leafy plant with long flowers growing a foot or two higher than the leafs.
But the dozens of little shoots that start in the spring look like body parts of some alien creatures. And I imagine, though I'm sure I'm wrong, their is a huge 'host' under ground giving birth to these weird and disturbing shoots. I'm sure I can't adequately explain what bothers me about the shoots, but I walk around the plants with great suspicion.
We even have some hostas in our back yard but I don't go near them until the leaves are big enough to make it look like a single plant.
And on the walk I take with our dog each morning, we pass a yard that has a dozen or more hostas. I won't let Bela smell them until they're grown since I have imagined that the shoots would open up and swallow him or else pull him underground to feed the mother plant.
I told Bern about my fear of new hostas and the look she gave me was not understanding or sympathetic. The look was one of those "don't ever say anything that crazy again or I'll send you to 'the home' looks". I get them more often than you might imagine though always for comments I find harmless and benign.
But the value of a comment is up for interpretation, I suppose.
I'd just warn you to steer clear of the early hosta sprouts. That's my advice and I'm sticking with it.
Hostas (aka 'plantain lillies' in Great Britain and 'giboshi' in Japan) don't seem to be single plants. When they start to come up it's like a colony of plants, several inches apart that, when grown, look like a great big leafy plant with long flowers growing a foot or two higher than the leafs.
But the dozens of little shoots that start in the spring look like body parts of some alien creatures. And I imagine, though I'm sure I'm wrong, their is a huge 'host' under ground giving birth to these weird and disturbing shoots. I'm sure I can't adequately explain what bothers me about the shoots, but I walk around the plants with great suspicion.
We even have some hostas in our back yard but I don't go near them until the leaves are big enough to make it look like a single plant.
And on the walk I take with our dog each morning, we pass a yard that has a dozen or more hostas. I won't let Bela smell them until they're grown since I have imagined that the shoots would open up and swallow him or else pull him underground to feed the mother plant.
I told Bern about my fear of new hostas and the look she gave me was not understanding or sympathetic. The look was one of those "don't ever say anything that crazy again or I'll send you to 'the home' looks". I get them more often than you might imagine though always for comments I find harmless and benign.
But the value of a comment is up for interpretation, I suppose.
I'd just warn you to steer clear of the early hosta sprouts. That's my advice and I'm sticking with it.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Belated birthday poems
Since I couldn't get to my email, I missed two poems sent to me on my birthday and I want to share them with you.
The first is from Louie Crew, founder of Integrity (for GLBT Episcopalians and their friends). I was privileged, for several years to be the chaplain to an Integrity chapter. Louie always sends me a poem on my birthday. Here is this year's....
reVisit
Imagine the five minutes before your mother
learned that she was pregnant with you.
Imagine the five minutes before your father
found out.
Let those minutes tick slowy by.
Fill in any blanks with your best guesses.
Connect intimately with their world
before you were.
Imagine the five minutes after they knew,
their readjustments, their expectations.
Then reconnect intimately with your gestation,
when you were becoming,
when you were a presence and a promise.
Celebrate your wholeness.
You are a presence and a promise still.
Gestate anew.
For this is your day.
reJoy it.
reJoice in it.
--Louie Crew
And then, from my dear friend, Ann Overton, who I've known since 1987 and worked with in the Mastery Foundation for much of the time since. She sent this....
When we are alone on a starlit night,
when by chance we see the migrating birds in autumn
descending on a graove of junipers to rest and eat,
when we see children in a moment when they are really children,
we we know love in our own hearts;
or when, like the Japanese poet, Basho,
we hear an old frong land in a quiet pond with a solitary splash--
at such times the awakening, the turning inside out of all values,
the 'newness', the emptiness and the purity of vision
that make themselves evident--
all these provide a glimpse of the cosmic dance.
--Thomas Merton
She added, "happy birthday, Jim. And keep dancing!"
If you ever have a thought that you'd like to give me joy, send me a poem....
The first is from Louie Crew, founder of Integrity (for GLBT Episcopalians and their friends). I was privileged, for several years to be the chaplain to an Integrity chapter. Louie always sends me a poem on my birthday. Here is this year's....
reVisit
Imagine the five minutes before your mother
learned that she was pregnant with you.
Imagine the five minutes before your father
found out.
Let those minutes tick slowy by.
Fill in any blanks with your best guesses.
Connect intimately with their world
before you were.
Imagine the five minutes after they knew,
their readjustments, their expectations.
Then reconnect intimately with your gestation,
when you were becoming,
when you were a presence and a promise.
Celebrate your wholeness.
You are a presence and a promise still.
Gestate anew.
For this is your day.
reJoy it.
reJoice in it.
--Louie Crew
And then, from my dear friend, Ann Overton, who I've known since 1987 and worked with in the Mastery Foundation for much of the time since. She sent this....
When we are alone on a starlit night,
when by chance we see the migrating birds in autumn
descending on a graove of junipers to rest and eat,
when we see children in a moment when they are really children,
we we know love in our own hearts;
or when, like the Japanese poet, Basho,
we hear an old frong land in a quiet pond with a solitary splash--
at such times the awakening, the turning inside out of all values,
the 'newness', the emptiness and the purity of vision
that make themselves evident--
all these provide a glimpse of the cosmic dance.
--Thomas Merton
She added, "happy birthday, Jim. And keep dancing!"
If you ever have a thought that you'd like to give me joy, send me a poem....
How sweet it is...
I'm back to my email. I obviously called 'tech support' when the woman in India wanted to do unspeakable things to my computer just after I'd had a new hard drive installed.
Yesterday I called the correct number--the one for 'reset my password' and it was all done talking to a voice recognition system without encountering another human being from India or anywhere. How sweet is that?
And tomorrow is May 1--May Day.
I feel better today than I have since New Year's Day. A visit to my doctor tells me that for the first time since then I don't have fluid in my lungs. What could be sweeter than non-fluid lungs? Well, May, perhaps. The cruelest month is over and about time, I'd say....How sweet is that?
Did you ever hear 'Bird Notes' on NPR? It's these little minute long moments about our winged friends.
Sunday I heard one about the song of Cardinals. Did you know that for most North American songbirds, the females don't sing? But, this time of year, the female Cardinal answers the call of the male Cardinal in a softer tone and they find each other by call and return.
This morning, out on our deck, I saw a male Cardinal--red as can be--singing his "Wet,wet, wet, wet you song". Then I heard a response from a yard or two away. Then the call and response were repeated and the female, much less colorful, flew into the same tree the male was in. One more call and response and they were on the same branch.
I left them then, not wanting to be an aviary voyeur and to give them their privacy.
How sweet is that?
I wore a sweater this morning. Spring has not really sprung. But I shed it by the afternoon. What's the old saw? You know you live in New England when you wear a sweater with shorts....
Well, really, that's rather sweet too....
Yesterday I called the correct number--the one for 'reset my password' and it was all done talking to a voice recognition system without encountering another human being from India or anywhere. How sweet is that?
And tomorrow is May 1--May Day.
I feel better today than I have since New Year's Day. A visit to my doctor tells me that for the first time since then I don't have fluid in my lungs. What could be sweeter than non-fluid lungs? Well, May, perhaps. The cruelest month is over and about time, I'd say....How sweet is that?
Did you ever hear 'Bird Notes' on NPR? It's these little minute long moments about our winged friends.
Sunday I heard one about the song of Cardinals. Did you know that for most North American songbirds, the females don't sing? But, this time of year, the female Cardinal answers the call of the male Cardinal in a softer tone and they find each other by call and return.
This morning, out on our deck, I saw a male Cardinal--red as can be--singing his "Wet,wet, wet, wet you song". Then I heard a response from a yard or two away. Then the call and response were repeated and the female, much less colorful, flew into the same tree the male was in. One more call and response and they were on the same branch.
I left them then, not wanting to be an aviary voyeur and to give them their privacy.
How sweet is that?
I wore a sweater this morning. Spring has not really sprung. But I shed it by the afternoon. What's the old saw? You know you live in New England when you wear a sweater with shorts....
Well, really, that's rather sweet too....
Sunday, April 28, 2013
250 years is not an inconsiderable amount of time....
Today I was a part of the 250th Anniversary of St. Andrew's Church in Northford. It is one of the churches in the Cluster and we canceled church at the other two and lots of folks from Emmanuel and St. James came to St. Andrew's.
All three of the presbyters--Molly and Bryan and me were there along with 4 former clergy in the Cluster and our Bishop and Tom Ely, the Bishop of Vermont, who began his ordained ministry as the first clergy-person of the Cluster. Tom preached and Ian celebrated and it was a wondrous liturgy. We processed in to the first 2 verses of 'The Church's One Foundation' and after a prayer by Ian we processed out of the church to the new meditation garden created there to bless that and then back to the new front doors--painted red as they should be!--to bless them and then the whole congregation came back in singing "For all the Saints".
It was truly wondrous. I read the gospel and for the first time ever I took the book up to Ian to have him bless me...I usually shun such liturgical nonsense as having the bishop bless the gospel and its reader. But he made the sign of the cross on the book and then on my forehead and I didn't hear what he said because, for reasons I need to ponder, I was so moved by his action that I couldn't pay attention to his words.
Tom was ordained a priest at St. Andrew's--the only one ever in that quarter of a century ordained there--and his second daughter was born on his first Christmas Eve as an ordained person. So he was an incredible and just right choice to be the preacher. I told him afterwards that he was much too good a preacher to be a bishop.
He and Ann, his wife, met in southern West Virginia working at the Highland Educational Project in Northfork and Keystone and Welch. I actually worked at the same place the summer after my first of two years at Virginia Theological Seminary. I grew up about 12 miles from there. When connections like that get made, I always say, "Big world, small church..." which is true.
All in all a great way to spend a Sunday. How lovely and loving it was.
All three of the presbyters--Molly and Bryan and me were there along with 4 former clergy in the Cluster and our Bishop and Tom Ely, the Bishop of Vermont, who began his ordained ministry as the first clergy-person of the Cluster. Tom preached and Ian celebrated and it was a wondrous liturgy. We processed in to the first 2 verses of 'The Church's One Foundation' and after a prayer by Ian we processed out of the church to the new meditation garden created there to bless that and then back to the new front doors--painted red as they should be!--to bless them and then the whole congregation came back in singing "For all the Saints".
It was truly wondrous. I read the gospel and for the first time ever I took the book up to Ian to have him bless me...I usually shun such liturgical nonsense as having the bishop bless the gospel and its reader. But he made the sign of the cross on the book and then on my forehead and I didn't hear what he said because, for reasons I need to ponder, I was so moved by his action that I couldn't pay attention to his words.
Tom was ordained a priest at St. Andrew's--the only one ever in that quarter of a century ordained there--and his second daughter was born on his first Christmas Eve as an ordained person. So he was an incredible and just right choice to be the preacher. I told him afterwards that he was much too good a preacher to be a bishop.
He and Ann, his wife, met in southern West Virginia working at the Highland Educational Project in Northfork and Keystone and Welch. I actually worked at the same place the summer after my first of two years at Virginia Theological Seminary. I grew up about 12 miles from there. When connections like that get made, I always say, "Big world, small church..." which is true.
All in all a great way to spend a Sunday. How lovely and loving it was.
Friday, April 26, 2013
some stuff you missed...
I didn't have my computer for about two weeks and, not surprisingly, things happened in those two weeks. I'll try to catch you up.
66 is not a prime number. It is divisible by 2, 3, 6, 11, 22 and 33 along with some other numbers that didn't come to me easily. So, turning 66 is not a prime birthday like 5 or 7 or 11 or 13 or 17 or 19 or 23 or 29 or 31 or 37 or 41 or 47 or 51 or 53 or 57 or 59 or 61 (did I get them all?) Next year, though, I'll turn 67, which is a prime number. I'd look forward to that except it would mean looking forward to one year nearer the grave.
How I came to be 66 is a mystery to me. Last I looked I was 37 and had two children aged 9 and 6. Now I have two children who will be 38 and 35 this year. How did that happen? The last 29 years have sort of sped through without passing GO and collecting $100.
On my 66th birthday I did this: had a pedicure for over half-an-hour, went to see "42" at the cinema in Southington (which I recommend highly!).after eating a chili dog for lunch and went to dinner with Bern at Luna in Cheshire where I ate raw oysters, raw clams, sesame crusted tuna and grilled sea scallops over sea weed and a creme bulea. Any meal that includes 4 things or more from the sea is a meal to remember.
Then we went to Baltimore after church on Sunday and came back Wednesday. 5 hours down and 5:25 back. Josh and Cathy hate to hear these numbers since they are always coming to CT on holidays and it takes 7 or 8 hours....
The girls were amazing. So smart, so beautiful so wondrous. Well, I guess anyone would say that about their grandchildren. But Morgan, Emma and Tegan are all that and moreso.
We had Tegan all day Monday and Tuesday and on Tuesday I went to pick up Emma and Morgan at 3:15 at the Calvert School. On Monday they had ballet which is more important than grandparents so they didn't get home until Cathy picked them up after 5.
Here's something that ties together the Calvert pick-up and being 66: when I got there, following Cathy's directions, I was 15 minutes early and, because I'd been drinking a lot of fluid to keep my allergy mucus loose, I needed to pee. You are the only ones that will know this, but I had an empty water bottle in my car and peed into it and poured it out before going over to gather the girls. What a humbling thing peeing in a water bottle is.
And, since Cathy had emailed a picture of me to the school so they'd know it was okay for me to gather Morgan and Emma, the elegant black man/assistant principal standing in front of the door to the school, said, "you must be Jim Bradley". I agreed and a call over his walkie-talkie brought them tumbling out, wild with excitement to be picked up by their Grampie.
On the way back to their house, following Cathy's precise directions, Morgan kept telling me 'this is right, Grampie". Emma didn't seem to have a clue.
Morgan also found a lighter in the back seat and asked me what it was. "A lighter", I told her. And when she persisted about why I had it in my car I told her I smoked cigarettes from time to time. At that they both started yelling at me in that way that makes an oppositional personality like mine want to light up in front of them.But I didn't.
And all that reminds me of a poem I wrote a few years ago. I think I'll try to reproduce it here.
66 is not a prime number. It is divisible by 2, 3, 6, 11, 22 and 33 along with some other numbers that didn't come to me easily. So, turning 66 is not a prime birthday like 5 or 7 or 11 or 13 or 17 or 19 or 23 or 29 or 31 or 37 or 41 or 47 or 51 or 53 or 57 or 59 or 61 (did I get them all?) Next year, though, I'll turn 67, which is a prime number. I'd look forward to that except it would mean looking forward to one year nearer the grave.
How I came to be 66 is a mystery to me. Last I looked I was 37 and had two children aged 9 and 6. Now I have two children who will be 38 and 35 this year. How did that happen? The last 29 years have sort of sped through without passing GO and collecting $100.
On my 66th birthday I did this: had a pedicure for over half-an-hour, went to see "42" at the cinema in Southington (which I recommend highly!).after eating a chili dog for lunch and went to dinner with Bern at Luna in Cheshire where I ate raw oysters, raw clams, sesame crusted tuna and grilled sea scallops over sea weed and a creme bulea. Any meal that includes 4 things or more from the sea is a meal to remember.
Then we went to Baltimore after church on Sunday and came back Wednesday. 5 hours down and 5:25 back. Josh and Cathy hate to hear these numbers since they are always coming to CT on holidays and it takes 7 or 8 hours....
The girls were amazing. So smart, so beautiful so wondrous. Well, I guess anyone would say that about their grandchildren. But Morgan, Emma and Tegan are all that and moreso.
We had Tegan all day Monday and Tuesday and on Tuesday I went to pick up Emma and Morgan at 3:15 at the Calvert School. On Monday they had ballet which is more important than grandparents so they didn't get home until Cathy picked them up after 5.
Here's something that ties together the Calvert pick-up and being 66: when I got there, following Cathy's directions, I was 15 minutes early and, because I'd been drinking a lot of fluid to keep my allergy mucus loose, I needed to pee. You are the only ones that will know this, but I had an empty water bottle in my car and peed into it and poured it out before going over to gather the girls. What a humbling thing peeing in a water bottle is.
And, since Cathy had emailed a picture of me to the school so they'd know it was okay for me to gather Morgan and Emma, the elegant black man/assistant principal standing in front of the door to the school, said, "you must be Jim Bradley". I agreed and a call over his walkie-talkie brought them tumbling out, wild with excitement to be picked up by their Grampie.
On the way back to their house, following Cathy's precise directions, Morgan kept telling me 'this is right, Grampie". Emma didn't seem to have a clue.
Morgan also found a lighter in the back seat and asked me what it was. "A lighter", I told her. And when she persisted about why I had it in my car I told her I smoked cigarettes from time to time. At that they both started yelling at me in that way that makes an oppositional personality like mine want to light up in front of them.But I didn't.
And all that reminds me of a poem I wrote a few years ago. I think I'll try to reproduce it here.
When
I tell my granddaughters about Junkos
“Let
me tell you about these little birds,”
I'll
say, “that I saw in Seattle....”
(There
will be lots of questions then:
“Where's
Seattle?” “Is it far?”
“Can
we go there?” “How'd you go?”
They
move along a story
the
way they pump the swings
in
the park down from their house--
quickly,
rising higher, full of wonder.)
Then
I'll tell them how the cook
in
the conference center where I was,
saw
me watching the little birds.
He
was smoking a cigarette,
watching
me watch the birds
while
I smoked as well.
(I'll
leave out the part about cigarettes.
Let
their parents deal with that someday....)
“They're
called Junkos,” he called to me.
“The
little birds?” I asked.
He
nodded and blew smoke.
I
jerked my head as one flew by,
almost
skimming the grass.
He
told me there were two kinds.
The
ones with gray heads were just Junkos
and
the ones with black heads were called
'hooded
Junkos' with their black hoods.
Junkos
are small and quick.
Swallow
like, with long splashes of white
on
their wings when they fly.
Curious
birds, a couple hopped
into
the meeting room we used,
craning
their necks and watching us
for
a while, wondering about us,
I
suppose, then hopped back out
the
door we left open
because
of the heat.
I
told the cook about Junko visits
and
he replied they came in the kitchen
from
time to time,
then
left.
I
imagine Junkos
live
in the East, as well,
and
my granddaughters
could
see them some day
in
Baltimore.
I
could look it up
before
I tell them
in
the green bird book
my
friend John loaned me,
mostly
forever, because
I
love birds.
I
could show the girls
the
color plates of birds--
a
multitude of them--
which
I sometimes just
look
at without reading the names.
But
I don't think I'll research Junkos
before
I see the girls.
I'd
rather just wonder if I'll
ever
see one here, in the East,
or
if they live only on the Pacific
side
of this wide land.
I
like to wonder about stuff like that--
even
stuff I could Google and know.
So
I'll just tell them how much
I
loved watching the Junkos
and
leave it at that.
Let
them wonder about the birds.
It's
always good, I believe,
to
wonder about things.
I
pray those little girls,
wondering-machines,
will
never stop wondering.
That
is what I pray.
JGB
7/11/11
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Alas, I'm an addict...
(I wrote this in long hand on April 16 because my computer was compromised and my friend John had taken it away. I just got it back today 4/25)
My computer started doing weird things a few weeks ago. Plug-ins (whatever they are!) were suddenly 'compromised' and not available unless I made them available by clicking on 'activate' which sounded too much like 'activating' a nuclear warhead for me to risk do it.
I did a couple of things my friend John suggested, neither of which made any difference. The 'compromised' plugins--which allow me to watch videos or listen to NPR on line--were still 'compromised'. So John came to fix it and after a while (during which he banned me from my little office) he took my computer home with him to try to fix the problem.
That was Sunday and now it is Tuesday evening and I'm sitting in front of my inert screen writing in long hand.
Th first thing I've noticed is that writing with a pen is awkward and much more difficult (and slower) than typing on a keyboard. And my handwriting, never Zaner-Blosser level, has disintegrated. I have difficulty writing with a pen since I so seldom do.
And I can't 'surf the web' or do email or play hearts or online checkers.
I read in front of the screen and write long hand and drink wine and am almost disabled not having access to my computer's world.
It might as wall have been cocaine. I am a computer junkie.
I need rehab. If I don't get my computer back by Thursday I might have to go to the Cheshire library (or use Bern's laptop) and play hearts all day. I might have to start writing letters and take them to the Post Office to mail. I might have to call people rather than email them....
All hell is breaking loose here at 95 Cornwall Avenue in Cheshire! I'm losing control. I don't even know what time it is since my computer isn't on or even here!
I'm going to spend my birthday tomorrow without a computer. This should give me pause since I'm old enough to have celebrated many more birthdays without a computer than with one....
So, here's my rehab plan having 'hit the pavement' with my computer addiction.
I'll log on once a day when my computer is back. I'll look at emails, write a blog, play some hearts and write whatever else I need to write. I'll spend no more than 2 hours at my computer--no more!
{But, I know the truth. Addicts always think they can 'handle it'. I may need an internet invtervention in the end....)
My computer started doing weird things a few weeks ago. Plug-ins (whatever they are!) were suddenly 'compromised' and not available unless I made them available by clicking on 'activate' which sounded too much like 'activating' a nuclear warhead for me to risk do it.
I did a couple of things my friend John suggested, neither of which made any difference. The 'compromised' plugins--which allow me to watch videos or listen to NPR on line--were still 'compromised'. So John came to fix it and after a while (during which he banned me from my little office) he took my computer home with him to try to fix the problem.
That was Sunday and now it is Tuesday evening and I'm sitting in front of my inert screen writing in long hand.
Th first thing I've noticed is that writing with a pen is awkward and much more difficult (and slower) than typing on a keyboard. And my handwriting, never Zaner-Blosser level, has disintegrated. I have difficulty writing with a pen since I so seldom do.
And I can't 'surf the web' or do email or play hearts or online checkers.
I read in front of the screen and write long hand and drink wine and am almost disabled not having access to my computer's world.
It might as wall have been cocaine. I am a computer junkie.
I need rehab. If I don't get my computer back by Thursday I might have to go to the Cheshire library (or use Bern's laptop) and play hearts all day. I might have to start writing letters and take them to the Post Office to mail. I might have to call people rather than email them....
All hell is breaking loose here at 95 Cornwall Avenue in Cheshire! I'm losing control. I don't even know what time it is since my computer isn't on or even here!
I'm going to spend my birthday tomorrow without a computer. This should give me pause since I'm old enough to have celebrated many more birthdays without a computer than with one....
So, here's my rehab plan having 'hit the pavement' with my computer addiction.
I'll log on once a day when my computer is back. I'll look at emails, write a blog, play some hearts and write whatever else I need to write. I'll spend no more than 2 hours at my computer--no more!
{But, I know the truth. Addicts always think they can 'handle it'. I may need an internet invtervention in the end....)
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