bladdered

I am so sick of this. I am so sick of having a human body. I guess the alternative is not to, so will press on. I am on the second course of antibiotics, this one with the complementary yeast infection. I am more fragile each year I live. I have done things, years of bad things, that have taken their toll. Exacted the price. Paying the piper. But generally, if I quit whining long enough to consider those in sincerely bad condition, I would feel bad for complaining.

I tore my kitchen apart yesterday. I took the bookshelf from upstairs and brought it downstairs, took all my jars of beansricenoodlesandseeds, cleaned them and arranged them nicely, one jar deep, on narrower shelves. I took the other bookshelf back upstairs the hard way. Alone. My goal, other than Martha-like organization, was visibility. I have a jar of tabouli, for instance, that I never think to use because it is hidden among the lentils. I love tabouli and may make some. Yes. I think I will. There was that era, back in the seventies, when mason jars of grain, stacked knee deep on fruit boxes, was the height of hippie organization. Well, I still have the boxes and the jars. Stuck in the 70s, that's me. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, baby.

So it is Saturday in the middle of a three day weekend. We are going to see Bob Seger tonight. Should be good. Should be a pretty gray crowd. I just want to hear "Turn the Page" and "Against the Wind." I love those songs. Drivin' music.