Day 1: 30 Days of My Blah-Blah-Blah
I’ve approached the idea of blogging much too seriously, so seriously that I rarely publish anything. It’s not that I’m shy. I might write a few paragraphs into a new Word doc just to get them down and then save that Word doc to a folder that is growing by the day. Then I say, “I’ll get back to that,” which I don’t, so I don’t “finish” all these beginnings of posts. Because…I don’t know why. It’s easier to “do stuff” than to write, but why?
It’s not that I don’t think I have anything valuable to say, although I do worry that everything I would say has already been said by someone else, better, and that I’d contribute nothing new. That what I have to say isn’t clever enough. That even to know what to say would require days of research.
So starting today I’m taking the advice of other writers and bloggers to just write something every day for a while. One wrote about 200 days; I’ve chosen 30 days. I’ve made some false starts on this very enterprise, but with the aforementioned seriousness, not the complete abandon with which I wish to approach it. And not by writing on Facebook where I preach to the choir, although I know from the Likes I get that there are at least three people who are interested in what I share.
I’ll make my posts a compendium of random discoveries of the day, with an occasional “serious” piece. Friends have often asked “how do you know that?” after I’ve informed them of some new cultural happening or cool website or yes, awesome red shoes. (The latter discovery involved the Pope.) I rely on my knowledge of pop culture to solve just enough clues in the New York Times crossword to be able to finish most. Not Saturday, though. Almost never Saturday.
Generally I respond to the awe by saying that I read a lot. In reality, I believe that I don’t read nearly enough, or nearly widely enough. But I read a few sources and click on a few of the links they provide, every day. In the past month I have limited my exposure to Facebook except for a few people who fascinate me (Kester Ratcliff, John Donoso, and strangely enough my friends’ little kids).
An Aside about Facebook
I had found that Facebook was producing unhappiness, anger, and a certain amount of paralysis. Which horrible thing should I do something about? What fresh insult to humanity should I write about? So I decided to stop looking at Facebook. My reactions were quite interesting.
Here’s what happened: First, I noticed that whenever I didn’t know what to do with myself — and that could be just during that bit of time between finishing the errands and deciding which to-do list item to tackle next — I’d reach for Facebook. It was almost like a reflex — no, it was a reflex.
Then I noticed that when I stopped one activity and started to kind of space out, I would reach for Facebook. It was as if I didn’t want to let myself get bored. People who know me well know that I don’t bore easily. I can suck a lot of joy out of staring out the window at clouds. A roommate once said to me, “You relax better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
That was a valuable realization, that I was using Facebook to fill spaces wherein I might get bored. Then came the most amazing stage: When I thought about reaching for Facebook, I had an aversion reaction. Yes! Physically and mentally, it repulsed me. It was a mild reaction; I didn’t go running to the bathroom to throw up. I liked that the thought of reading and writing on Facebook kept me from indulging, though.
(I should confess that during my no-Facebook time I continued to post articles, sometimes with bits of text extracted and quoted, for the benefit of the three aforementioned fans. And because I couldn’t resist. It’s the best way to be on Facebook without being on Facebook, maybe.)
Back to the Topic at Hand: My Blah-Blah-Blah
So I read. I think. I discuss. I like to write and want to keep getting better at it.
One night, I think, I’ll blog about the local nightly news. It’s quite appalling and tells us more about how right-wing attitudes are shaped than Fox News does. Gone are the actual journalists who became the anchors of the Boston network news stations, like Chet and Natalie, and Liz, and even Tom Ellis (was that his name?) and even that sweet guy who started Wednesday’s Child?
I’m definitely going to do a serious piece about children. Middle class kids on the beach with their PBJs in ZipLoc bags who put on their floaty-arm thingies and play in the sand and water under the watchful eyes of four adults, contrasting with the kids living by the water in Greece, who you think would be having an equally good time. It’s Greece, the water is turquoise and warm, it’s paradise — but they are refugees. They are not safe in or by the water. One kid drowned recently. The Greek government and the European Union think that it’s okay to put kids in such unsafe places to live, like the former chemical factory called Oinofyta camp, where planting things in the soil is prohibited but children are not.
For most days I’d like to arrive at a list of three or four things to bring to you. I’ll just plunge in now and let that list emerge from my Sunday morning brain.
Musing of the Day: If I keep deleting the gmail marketing emails that appear at the top and outside my inbox, and choose “Irrelevant” when google asks me why I deleted them, will they stop because everything is irrelevant and therefore the algorithm can’t figure out what to send me? This is my fervent hope.
What I’m Doing: I’ve never liked exercise. I liked playing field hockey in high school, a lot. I would run up and down and was kind of fearless and aggressive with stick and ball. I winded easily, though (allergies and asthma) so I was not destined for field hockey stardom. I’ve also never been especially coordinated, although I used to be able catch a ball and throw it. I played a decent second base for a co-ed employee softball team once, heroically breaking my finger catching a line drive hit toward my head by a big, muscular fraternity guy I know was actually aiming at me. So I caught the ball incorrectly. I caught it. Then flung the glove-containing-ball to the ground and howled in pain. The fraternity guy felt badly that he’d hurt his elder. Someone found some ice and I drove myself a half-hour to the emergency room closest to my home.
Yet I find it difficult to motivate to exercise, even though I’m now 63 and losing muscle mass like crazy whilst gaining 50 lbs. in the past 10 years. Thank you, menopause and SSNRIs. And, honestly, a preference for sitting. A (different) friend once said that my idea of being in the outdoors was sitting on my deck. I had a deck at the time and he was absolutely correct.
Yes, yes, I have some phone apps that are supposed to miraculously motivate one to work out. The Steps app runs down my battery as it requires location services to be on. That’s as good an excuse as I need not to walk. The 7 Minute Workout app is based in HIIT — high intensity interval training, the miracle workout that is supposed to be all you need to get fit. (BTW, getting fit is really my aim, like, having muscle, but dropping lbs. would also be nice.)
In the 2 years I’ve had the 7 Minute Workout on my phone, I’ve done it probably…7 times. Today I started my day with a cup of coffee, chats with two friends, and…the workout! Outdoors, even. In the 9:00 am sunshine.
It’s a real struggle to complete, due to those extra 50 lbs. combined with zero muscle mass. Here’s me catching a few more minutes of sun after I finished.

What’s Interesting Me Today: I want to read Al Gore’s Assault on Reason, after seeing him quoted as saying, in effect, “the rich have lost all reason.” It’s not as if that’s a new thought, but it reminded me of his book.
And as every day, the health and safety and happiness of refugee friends in Sweden, Belgium, France, Germany, and Austria — and of course, Greece — is on my mind. Today I received a picture of mom and 15-year-old together, wearing new eyeglasses. A year-and-a-half ago I drove the family, including big and little brothers, to Hamza’s first-ever appointment to have his eyes checked. He is an avid reader, so this was a big deal.
It was doctor’s appointment Syrian style. After the eye exam, we went with our translator for coffee by the beach. I walked 8-year-old Hadi up and down the beach looking for shells to give everyone else a break. We hung out there for about an hour, and then it was on the the optician. Hamza chose frames like Harry Potter’s. When he asked me in his still-new English, “Are these beautiful?” I said yes, they are all beautiful on you. I can still recall the sound of his voice saying the word “beautiful” and sometimes I ask him to say it out loud for me, again.

Then our translator, a Syrian-Greek doctor, invited us to go to lunch with him. We passed another hour and a half ordering and eating and talking, and then the family and I piled into the tiny car and went back to Ritsona refugee camp.
Um, baseball games are getting too long.
What’s Making Me Sad Today: My brother flipped on ESPN after he came downstairs this morning, and he’s watching a story about Schuye LaRue, a women’s college basketball star who was diagnosed with schizophrenia her junior year and was living in the streets in DC at the time of filming last year. I’ll be thinking all day about the definition of schizophrenia suggested by the psychologist interviewed, that people suffering from the disease are not in touch with the “real world.” The real world. Schuye is in jail now, and the ESPN interviewer was surprised that she had preferred to live on the street, but ultimately understood that it was about freedom. I’ll be thinking about that too.