Ever since my childhood when I spent many long, lonely hours at the golf course my parents owned, plaid has been a bit of a sore subject.

An incredibly hairy 350-pound man in plaid shorts and golf shoes is not a sight you forget. Ever.

Still, I’m wearing, if my memory serves, the same plaid. It’s a sweater. My fear is that I’m burning the same sort of indelible memory into someone’s brain.

I got a recall notice for my Jeep and it says, “Safety recall F23–Lower Ball Joints.”

You gotta believe me. If I knew how to lower ’em, I would.

The continued absence of Chain Reading has led me to try substitutes. Right now, I’m experimenting with a very similar site called Shelfari. I’ve added a link to my reading list in the sidebar. It’s cute. I find the user interface a bit wonky, I’ll admit, and they don’t seem to have a bookmarklet so that if I see a book on Amazon I can just click a button and have it added to my “to be read” pile.

I’m also looking again at LibraryThing which does have a bookmarklet, but I really don’t like the interface there. They also charge for power use. And despite them having checkboxes that say, “Don’t ask me again” they always do ask me again. About everything. It makes me want to bite.

So I’m still mourning the loss of my list from Chain Reading, and mourning the interface there. Chain Reading, you’re the one that I want (you are the one I want)!

There’s a new reality show coming on soonish that has to do with casting a Broadway revival of Grease.

We saw an ad a few days ago, and I have been singing “You’re the one that I want” steadily since then. It would be bad enough if I were singing like Olivia Newton-John, but it seems I find it necessary to sing like John Travolta instead.

If I disappear suddenly, Steve has smothered me with a sofa cushion and dumped me in the neighbor’s pool.

Okay, time didn’t forget them. I did.

How often have you left a comment on someone’s blog and then never went back to find out how the conversation went after that? I can’t even remember half of the comments I make, which is probably excellent evidence that I make twice as many as I need?

If the comments will not come to Julie, Julie must go to the comments.

… and I am wearing silver lamé sneakers.

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, “How can I be as neat as Julie?” Ah, but you can’t. It’s a gift.

My toes are freezing anyway. It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Not from blogging (though I took an inadvertent break over the holidays), but from poetry. I’m burnt out. I’ve come to the realization, again, that poetry and I are like chalk and cheese. And we all know the cheese stands alone.

I keep trying to force myself into a role I don’t fit. I should stop.