I’m a big fan of walking. In fact, I should really do it more.
It’s so simple, really. You just put one foot in front of the other and you keep going. Whether your destination is around the block, around the building or around the corner, walking is the simplest, least expensive way to get wherever you want to go. You don’t have to drive. You don’t have to sit in traffic (other than foot traffic, I guess…) and you don’t have to pay for gas.
Walking (I’ve found) is also a great stress reducer—especially around the holidays. Once you get going, your heart beats faster, the endorphins start pumping and you start to feel better. Whatever was bothering you before, is not that big of a deal until well … you walk back home.
But hopefully by then, those endorphins are still pumping through your blood and whatever—or whomever—was stressing you out, no longer is a big deal (well, not as big as before). This is why I highly recommend going for a walk during the holidays.
We all know that the holidays can be stressful. Whether you’re travelling or having family stay with you—you’re completely out of your element. Your routines are thrown off. Your children are over-excited (and probably not behaving well because of it) everyone’s sleep cycles are way off or even non-existent.
Why?
Because whether your happy to see your family or not—there they are! And there is no escaping them … unless you go for a walk.
When family comes to town (or on the flip side, you have to stay with them for a few days) you are face to face with those people’s habits, idiosyncrasies’ and political, social and moral opinions that you probably don’t agree with or frankly, want to hear about during the extended stay.
And, no matter how much you love those people—you’re trapped.
Just this morning, I was thinking about all of the walks I’ve had during the holidays and how cathartic they’ve been. One year, we lost my mother around Thanksgiving. The day she died the kids all went for a walk on the beach. Hours earlier, we were screaming at each other, blaming each other and basically hating each other. After my mom passed—we didn’t know what to do with each other. So we went for a walk.
We walked two miles down the beach and two miles back. We didn’t talk—we just walked. I look back and think that walk was a life saver. It made life at that time as I knew it more manageable (for everyone involved) including my Father who probably needed to have us out of the house for a few hours to get some peace.
This year, when things get stressful in your house (or in the house you’re staying in) just go for a walk. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
"Gratitude, Schmatitude?" I Completely Agree.
I do want to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving. I do.
And yes, this day is about expressing gratitude. However...I read this blog yesterday while I was having an especially bad day and completely agreed with it, which is why I'm reposting it today, on Thanksgiving.
Whether you agree with it or not, the author makes a point. Life if not always easy. And gratitude is not something that should be handed out every day like Halloween candy.
"Gratitude, Schmatitude"
Some years ago, I asked my children what they wanted for Christmas. Actually, I ask them what they want for Christmas every year, but I’m talking about a specific year. Money was tight, tighter than it had been in years just prior. The children asked for myriad things that we couldn’t afford. I used their lists for inspiration but bought things I could afford. So, instead of the My Little Pony Magical Castle with running water and a hot tub, I got my daughter a smaller MLP play set and some MLP bubble bath.
Christmas morning came and the children woke early, begging to go downstairs. I went with them, anticipating their whoops of joy and excitement. When she got to the tree and saw her gifts arrayed under it, my daughter said, “I didn’t ask for these things. These must be someone else’s toys.” Then she started crying, wondering where Santa had left the things she ordered.
My children have since been instructed in the ways of Santa. Even when they still believed that their stuff came down the chimney, they knew that Mom and Dad had to pay Santa for the toys.
“Why?” they wanted to know. “Because the world is over-populated,” I told them, “and Santa couldn’t possibly make all the toys for all the children in the world.” I think I fed them a line about the elves only making wooden toys; “Santa has to buy all the branded stuff,” I explained.
My son has graduated from wanting really expensive game systems to wanting really expensive musical instruments. We’ve taken to giving him money or gift cards that he can combine with gift cards from family to purchase what he desires. Giving cash and gift cards is so boring, though.
One Christmas, my mother gave my siblings and me really nice fleece sweaters from Land’s End. Each sweater had a surprise in the pocket…a crisp large denomination bill. I decided to use my mom’s idea for my son. I found a cozy shearling-lined hoodie that I knew he’d like. I put a large denomination gift card in the pocket. I put it under the tree. He loved it. He looked for other presents. There were none. “That’s it?” he asked, “a hoodie?”
“It’s nice hoodie,” I said.
“It’s a hoodie,” he said. “I got a hoodie.”
“Put it on,” I said.
“Mom, it’s a hoodie. It’ll fit.”
“Just put it on. It was expensive. I want to see if it looks good on you.”
“Fine,” he said. I figured he’d put his hands in the pockets, the way everyone does when they try on a hoodie. He stood in front of me, arms limp at his sides, disappointment draining from his pores.
“There,” he said. “It’s on. It’s a hoodie.”
“Look in the freaking pockets,” I said.
He looked in the pockets, pulled out the gift card and looked sheepish. But did he say thank you?
No.
I’m not freaking out about his apparent lack of gratitude, though. Frankly, I’m a little burnt out on gratitude. There are gratitude societies, gratitude experiments and any number of gratitude websites. Gratitude has replaced grace as the favored state.
All this emphasis on gratitude leaves me feeling like an ingrate. It’s not that I’m not grateful for the good things in my life. I’m just getting really tired of apologizing for expressing disappointment, frustration, anger, sadness, grief, resentment and the range of other emotions we’re told are negative and will eat our souls if we let them.
My sister is an artist and teacher. She’s tenured and has two advanced degrees in her field. Until this year, she had a job she loved teaching the art topics she loves to students who loved them. That’s all changed because of budgeting concerns in her district. She now splits her time between two campuses, traveling between them daily. Her student and class loads have been changed so that she’s teaching students who don’t want to be in school, let alone art.
She’s angry, frustrated and sad. She’s embarrassed to talk to me about it because I don’t have a teaching job. She’s in a crappy situation. Even though I’ve told her it’s more than ok to complain to me about it, I can tell she thinks she doesn’t have that right. At least she has a job, she reasons.
My mother died three years ago. Hers was a long, slowly-progressing illness that every year took more and more of her freedom. At the end, she was on just about every kind of support a life can need and it still wasn’t enough. We chose to end it. Her suffering ended and, for that, we are all grateful. But she’s still dead and it still sucks. And every day that I remember she’s dead, it sucks all over again.
I’ve been a runner long enough now to know it is in repairing the tiny tears running creates that my muscles grow. I am grateful that there is benefit in the training I’m doing. But, I’ve got to do the damage first. Ice and ibuprofen help ease the pain, but only time makes the permanent changes possible.
Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh instructs his followers to be where they are. If you are happy, be happy. If you are angry, be angry. If you are frustrated, be frustrated. If you are sad, be sad. Tell yourself, “This is me being sad.”
When my mother died, there were days I could hardly tell you who I was. There were days I expected to be swallowed whole by sadness. I told myself, “This is me afraid I will be swallowed by sadness.” When I missed her terribly? “This is me missing my mother.”
I will not rush to gratitude through the challenges in my life. I will sit with them; I will honor them.
Then I can give myself completely to thanks.
And yes, this day is about expressing gratitude. However...I read this blog yesterday while I was having an especially bad day and completely agreed with it, which is why I'm reposting it today, on Thanksgiving.
Whether you agree with it or not, the author makes a point. Life if not always easy. And gratitude is not something that should be handed out every day like Halloween candy.
"Gratitude, Schmatitude"
Some years ago, I asked my children what they wanted for Christmas. Actually, I ask them what they want for Christmas every year, but I’m talking about a specific year. Money was tight, tighter than it had been in years just prior. The children asked for myriad things that we couldn’t afford. I used their lists for inspiration but bought things I could afford. So, instead of the My Little Pony Magical Castle with running water and a hot tub, I got my daughter a smaller MLP play set and some MLP bubble bath.
Christmas morning came and the children woke early, begging to go downstairs. I went with them, anticipating their whoops of joy and excitement. When she got to the tree and saw her gifts arrayed under it, my daughter said, “I didn’t ask for these things. These must be someone else’s toys.” Then she started crying, wondering where Santa had left the things she ordered.
My children have since been instructed in the ways of Santa. Even when they still believed that their stuff came down the chimney, they knew that Mom and Dad had to pay Santa for the toys.
“Why?” they wanted to know. “Because the world is over-populated,” I told them, “and Santa couldn’t possibly make all the toys for all the children in the world.” I think I fed them a line about the elves only making wooden toys; “Santa has to buy all the branded stuff,” I explained.
My son has graduated from wanting really expensive game systems to wanting really expensive musical instruments. We’ve taken to giving him money or gift cards that he can combine with gift cards from family to purchase what he desires. Giving cash and gift cards is so boring, though.
One Christmas, my mother gave my siblings and me really nice fleece sweaters from Land’s End. Each sweater had a surprise in the pocket…a crisp large denomination bill. I decided to use my mom’s idea for my son. I found a cozy shearling-lined hoodie that I knew he’d like. I put a large denomination gift card in the pocket. I put it under the tree. He loved it. He looked for other presents. There were none. “That’s it?” he asked, “a hoodie?”
“It’s nice hoodie,” I said.
“It’s a hoodie,” he said. “I got a hoodie.”
“Put it on,” I said.
“Mom, it’s a hoodie. It’ll fit.”
“Just put it on. It was expensive. I want to see if it looks good on you.”
“Fine,” he said. I figured he’d put his hands in the pockets, the way everyone does when they try on a hoodie. He stood in front of me, arms limp at his sides, disappointment draining from his pores.
“There,” he said. “It’s on. It’s a hoodie.”
“Look in the freaking pockets,” I said.
He looked in the pockets, pulled out the gift card and looked sheepish. But did he say thank you?
No.
I’m not freaking out about his apparent lack of gratitude, though. Frankly, I’m a little burnt out on gratitude. There are gratitude societies, gratitude experiments and any number of gratitude websites. Gratitude has replaced grace as the favored state.
All this emphasis on gratitude leaves me feeling like an ingrate. It’s not that I’m not grateful for the good things in my life. I’m just getting really tired of apologizing for expressing disappointment, frustration, anger, sadness, grief, resentment and the range of other emotions we’re told are negative and will eat our souls if we let them.
My sister is an artist and teacher. She’s tenured and has two advanced degrees in her field. Until this year, she had a job she loved teaching the art topics she loves to students who loved them. That’s all changed because of budgeting concerns in her district. She now splits her time between two campuses, traveling between them daily. Her student and class loads have been changed so that she’s teaching students who don’t want to be in school, let alone art.
She’s angry, frustrated and sad. She’s embarrassed to talk to me about it because I don’t have a teaching job. She’s in a crappy situation. Even though I’ve told her it’s more than ok to complain to me about it, I can tell she thinks she doesn’t have that right. At least she has a job, she reasons.
My mother died three years ago. Hers was a long, slowly-progressing illness that every year took more and more of her freedom. At the end, she was on just about every kind of support a life can need and it still wasn’t enough. We chose to end it. Her suffering ended and, for that, we are all grateful. But she’s still dead and it still sucks. And every day that I remember she’s dead, it sucks all over again.
I’ve been a runner long enough now to know it is in repairing the tiny tears running creates that my muscles grow. I am grateful that there is benefit in the training I’m doing. But, I’ve got to do the damage first. Ice and ibuprofen help ease the pain, but only time makes the permanent changes possible.
Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh instructs his followers to be where they are. If you are happy, be happy. If you are angry, be angry. If you are frustrated, be frustrated. If you are sad, be sad. Tell yourself, “This is me being sad.”
When my mother died, there were days I could hardly tell you who I was. There were days I expected to be swallowed whole by sadness. I told myself, “This is me afraid I will be swallowed by sadness.” When I missed her terribly? “This is me missing my mother.”
I will not rush to gratitude through the challenges in my life. I will sit with them; I will honor them.
Then I can give myself completely to thanks.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Twenty Kids and Counting...Why is This News?
So Michelle Duggar, mom on “19 Kids and Counting” is pregnant again. And this is news. I don’t understand it.
There they are on the cover of all the gossip magazines, not to mention celebrity and pop culture websites and even CNN! The Today Show “unveiled” her latest “surprise” just the other morning.
A “surprise”? Seriously folks?
And now twitter is all a blaze over whether this pregnancy is “safe” or not.
Who are we to judge?
Having twenty kids on the Irish-Catholic block I grew up on was the norm (ok, maybe not 20…) but having ten kids running around was normal. My mother, who only chose to have three was seen as a slacker. And I’m eight years younger than my sister (so we all know she really only wanted two)! Growing up, we were surrounded by Finnegans, Flanagans, Simons, Toolans all with 5-10 kids… and usually one or two would end up eating at our house.
If this is her choice, then more power to her. It’s not like she’s the “Octo-Mom” who needs to be in jail for child endangerment in my humble opinion… for those jacked up lips!
Michelle Dugger just might be smarter than most eternally-pregnant woman—she’s got a show that people like to watch. A show that pays the bills and pays for the addition(s) to their home and gas for their bus and allows the whole fam-damily to now travel to Europe.
While I’m personally not a viewer, I could care less how many kids this woman chooses to have—God knows she has the help! And the money…which many large families in this economy these days do not have.
Good for her. Now if she’d only fix that hair…
There they are on the cover of all the gossip magazines, not to mention celebrity and pop culture websites and even CNN! The Today Show “unveiled” her latest “surprise” just the other morning.
A “surprise”? Seriously folks?
And now twitter is all a blaze over whether this pregnancy is “safe” or not.
Who are we to judge?
Having twenty kids on the Irish-Catholic block I grew up on was the norm (ok, maybe not 20…) but having ten kids running around was normal. My mother, who only chose to have three was seen as a slacker. And I’m eight years younger than my sister (so we all know she really only wanted two)! Growing up, we were surrounded by Finnegans, Flanagans, Simons, Toolans all with 5-10 kids… and usually one or two would end up eating at our house.
If this is her choice, then more power to her. It’s not like she’s the “Octo-Mom” who needs to be in jail for child endangerment in my humble opinion… for those jacked up lips!
Michelle Dugger just might be smarter than most eternally-pregnant woman—she’s got a show that people like to watch. A show that pays the bills and pays for the addition(s) to their home and gas for their bus and allows the whole fam-damily to now travel to Europe.
While I’m personally not a viewer, I could care less how many kids this woman chooses to have—God knows she has the help! And the money…which many large families in this economy these days do not have.
Good for her. Now if she’d only fix that hair…
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Zip It Up Rep. Weiner
So a U.S. congressman with the last name “Weiner” exposed himself and tweeted pictures of his “Weiner” to the world.
Then of course, he denied he ever did it—until a blogger exposed the truth (pardon the bad pun but I just couldn’t resist…)
Why are we all surprised?
I mean, the guy’s name is “Weiner.” If I had a penis, I’d whip it out frequently too to take photos of it too—just because my last name was “Weiner!”
But what really disturbs me is the media scrutiny his wife of only 11 months now has to endure, not to mention the irony of whom she currently works for—Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Mrs. “Weiner” (a.k.a. Human Abedin) has worked for the former N.Y Senator for 14 years and has since followed her to the State Department, where she works a senior aide.
I wonder how that conversation between the long-term employer and employee went after that story broke? What, did the two women compare notes on how to survive yet another male politician behaving badly?
Hillary managed to keep her head up high during the whole Monica Lewinsky fiansco and she stood by her man (and still does). But back then when she was calling the whole affair a “right wing conspiracy” we didn’t have cell phones with cameras. We didn’t have a society built on social media. And many of us couldn’t even fathom a world where we would be blogging and posting and politicians would be tweeting pictures of their “Weiners” to the world because they well, could.
Do you see Mrs. Weiner popping a boob and taking a photo of it for the world? No. Why? Because she’s a little busy ummm…doing her job. A lesson these men need to start learning.
Then of course, he denied he ever did it—until a blogger exposed the truth (pardon the bad pun but I just couldn’t resist…)
Why are we all surprised?
I mean, the guy’s name is “Weiner.” If I had a penis, I’d whip it out frequently too to take photos of it too—just because my last name was “Weiner!”
But what really disturbs me is the media scrutiny his wife of only 11 months now has to endure, not to mention the irony of whom she currently works for—Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Mrs. “Weiner” (a.k.a. Human Abedin) has worked for the former N.Y Senator for 14 years and has since followed her to the State Department, where she works a senior aide.
I wonder how that conversation between the long-term employer and employee went after that story broke? What, did the two women compare notes on how to survive yet another male politician behaving badly?
Hillary managed to keep her head up high during the whole Monica Lewinsky fiansco and she stood by her man (and still does). But back then when she was calling the whole affair a “right wing conspiracy” we didn’t have cell phones with cameras. We didn’t have a society built on social media. And many of us couldn’t even fathom a world where we would be blogging and posting and politicians would be tweeting pictures of their “Weiners” to the world because they well, could.
Do you see Mrs. Weiner popping a boob and taking a photo of it for the world? No. Why? Because she’s a little busy ummm…doing her job. A lesson these men need to start learning.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Maid in Manhattan
A few people have asked me what I thought of the whole “Aaarnold” infidelity story. Honestly, I don’t care.
Did it surprise me? Not really.
Do I think it’s sad? Yes, I do.
Do I feel bad for his kids? Sure. (How he can look his teenage girls in the eye is just way beyond anything I can comprehend.) But then again, I’m not an actor.
At least he didn’t rape anyone and get away with it (like his cousin). Well, not that we know of…given his past of groping women and paying them off—nothing would surprise me.
Speaking of rape and not getting away with it—I couldn’t be more proud of the maid who called the cops on the head of the International Monetary Fund, Dominique Strauss-Kahn.
There she is, an immigrate from West Africa, trying to raise her daughter here in the states by cleaning $3,000-a night hotel rooms for minimum wage. Like her life isn’t hard enough.
Then one day, she enters a room to clean it and gets attacked by this little old, rich, white guy who simply thought he’d hop on a plane after and get away with it.
Not so fast you creepy, old bastard.
I am so proud of this woman. She had no idea that this man was so powerful, so rich and so connected. She just knew that she was being attacked—and she defended herself. She spoke up and told the world.
The ironic thing about the whole situation is that now he's on a suicide watch in Rikers. You know why he’s on a suicide watch? Not because he attacked a maid and felt bad about hurting another human being. No, no. no.
He doesn’t want to live—because he didn’t get away with it.
At least she can look her fifteen year old daughter in the eye and tell her that there’s no shame in what happened and that there’s no shame in confronting your attacker—no matter who he (and the rest of the world) thinks he is.
Frankly, that’s something Arnold, will never be able to do.
Did it surprise me? Not really.
Do I think it’s sad? Yes, I do.
Do I feel bad for his kids? Sure. (How he can look his teenage girls in the eye is just way beyond anything I can comprehend.) But then again, I’m not an actor.
At least he didn’t rape anyone and get away with it (like his cousin). Well, not that we know of…given his past of groping women and paying them off—nothing would surprise me.
Speaking of rape and not getting away with it—I couldn’t be more proud of the maid who called the cops on the head of the International Monetary Fund, Dominique Strauss-Kahn.
There she is, an immigrate from West Africa, trying to raise her daughter here in the states by cleaning $3,000-a night hotel rooms for minimum wage. Like her life isn’t hard enough.
Then one day, she enters a room to clean it and gets attacked by this little old, rich, white guy who simply thought he’d hop on a plane after and get away with it.
Not so fast you creepy, old bastard.
I am so proud of this woman. She had no idea that this man was so powerful, so rich and so connected. She just knew that she was being attacked—and she defended herself. She spoke up and told the world.
The ironic thing about the whole situation is that now he's on a suicide watch in Rikers. You know why he’s on a suicide watch? Not because he attacked a maid and felt bad about hurting another human being. No, no. no.
He doesn’t want to live—because he didn’t get away with it.
At least she can look her fifteen year old daughter in the eye and tell her that there’s no shame in what happened and that there’s no shame in confronting your attacker—no matter who he (and the rest of the world) thinks he is.
Frankly, that’s something Arnold, will never be able to do.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Lucy and the Chocolate Factory
I wish I had a simple job. Like Lucy in the chocolate factory.
Whenever I see that episode of “I Love Lucy” it makes me laugh out loud. Not because she’s one of the best comediennes of all time (which she is) but because that episode is symbolic of my life and many others who navigate the white-washed walls of corporate America.
Chocolate Factory Work
Awhile back I was joking (with a former boss actually) that I just wanted a factory job. One where I turned a switch, assembled a part, watched what I made go by on the belt. One where you didn’t have office politics. You didn’t have to sit in meetings. You didn’t have to become a mind-reader in order to write copy.
I want my life to be simple. Like Lucy in the chocolate factory … before she gets behind and has to shove chocolates in her dress.
Bittersweet Reality Check
Then the other morning I was out walking my little white dog and I saw the recycling truck pull up. These guys hopped out, ran into my building and came out with the 40-gallon garbage cans on their back. One guy looked like he was sixty years old.
How do they do it--day in and day out?
They come to rich, white Montgomery County and pick up after us corporate crusaders each and every week.
Could I do it? Absolutely not. And every morning they make eye contact with me and say “Hello.” And “Have a nice day.” That’s more than I get from the corporate crusaders I sit next to everyday from 9 to 5.
So what is the answer? I can’t lug recycling and I can’t wrap chocolates. I simply don't know. Like Lucy, maybe I’ll try stomping grapes.
Whenever I see that episode of “I Love Lucy” it makes me laugh out loud. Not because she’s one of the best comediennes of all time (which she is) but because that episode is symbolic of my life and many others who navigate the white-washed walls of corporate America.
Chocolate Factory Work
Awhile back I was joking (with a former boss actually) that I just wanted a factory job. One where I turned a switch, assembled a part, watched what I made go by on the belt. One where you didn’t have office politics. You didn’t have to sit in meetings. You didn’t have to become a mind-reader in order to write copy.
I want my life to be simple. Like Lucy in the chocolate factory … before she gets behind and has to shove chocolates in her dress.
Bittersweet Reality Check
Then the other morning I was out walking my little white dog and I saw the recycling truck pull up. These guys hopped out, ran into my building and came out with the 40-gallon garbage cans on their back. One guy looked like he was sixty years old.
How do they do it--day in and day out?
They come to rich, white Montgomery County and pick up after us corporate crusaders each and every week.
Could I do it? Absolutely not. And every morning they make eye contact with me and say “Hello.” And “Have a nice day.” That’s more than I get from the corporate crusaders I sit next to everyday from 9 to 5.
So what is the answer? I can’t lug recycling and I can’t wrap chocolates. I simply don't know. Like Lucy, maybe I’ll try stomping grapes.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
I've Become a Digital Hoarder
I just spent hours cleaning up my desktop.
I couldn’t stand looking at it anymore.
From books to read, to writing samples, to resumes—I filed. I deleted. I let go.
You see, I never delete anything. Ever. I always think I’ll need it—maybe tomorrow, maybe two years down the road, or maybe even in the after-life. And I never do.
But I keep it—nonetheless. And I’m admitting right here that I’ve become a digital hoarder!
Time to Move On
If anyone ever stole my laptop they would probably hand it right back. That’s how bad it was.
There were things on my desktop that I know I thought were very important when I saved them there—and now, for the life of me, I can’t remember why I even bothered. Like a book review—of a book I hated. A copy of my resume from 2008. Directions, vet bills, recipes (like I cook) food lists, to-do lists, and of course a whole file on cover letters that were never answered.
Why do I do this to myself?
More importantly, when did my desktop become analogous with my busy life?
In fact, my desk top had become a digital history of the past two years of my life. And apparently they’ve been pretty chaotic. Yes, I’ve always known this, but to see it online brings a whole new perspective. So I spent the morning filing, deleting and not worrying that an apocalyptic virus will wipe out my digital life. And if it did happen, I’d survive.
This digital hoarder has cleaned up her act!
I couldn’t stand looking at it anymore.
From books to read, to writing samples, to resumes—I filed. I deleted. I let go.
You see, I never delete anything. Ever. I always think I’ll need it—maybe tomorrow, maybe two years down the road, or maybe even in the after-life. And I never do.
But I keep it—nonetheless. And I’m admitting right here that I’ve become a digital hoarder!
Time to Move On
If anyone ever stole my laptop they would probably hand it right back. That’s how bad it was.
There were things on my desktop that I know I thought were very important when I saved them there—and now, for the life of me, I can’t remember why I even bothered. Like a book review—of a book I hated. A copy of my resume from 2008. Directions, vet bills, recipes (like I cook) food lists, to-do lists, and of course a whole file on cover letters that were never answered.
Why do I do this to myself?
More importantly, when did my desktop become analogous with my busy life?
In fact, my desk top had become a digital history of the past two years of my life. And apparently they’ve been pretty chaotic. Yes, I’ve always known this, but to see it online brings a whole new perspective. So I spent the morning filing, deleting and not worrying that an apocalyptic virus will wipe out my digital life. And if it did happen, I’d survive.
This digital hoarder has cleaned up her act!
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