Bright, sunshiny friggin' day.

Blarg.

Pardon me if I growl and spit.

Growl. Spit.

Thanks.

Sorry, but Wednesday was a beautiful sunny day and it kind of sucked. It sucked for various reasons, some mildly bad, some more bad; none awful, but all sucky. With your patience I shall briefly describe the reasons, in no particular order, in sections I shall label Trash, Blood, Dog, Envy, and Elvis.

TRASH
Yesterday was recycling day, which means bottles and cans and paper -- all things that are reusable and lightweight. Last Wednesday it snowed; no pickup. The two Wednesdays before that it was windy, and my crap blew all over the street and I had to go chase after it. Trash can blew over, cans and stuff everywhere. The week before that, same thing. Yesterday there was no snow, so of course there was wind, because it's winter and everything sucks. But I said Aha! I said. I will use my heavy trash can, the mighty can that I use for trash instead of the lightweight one I use for recycling. Contamination be damned! So later I was working in my office upstairs when I heard the thump outside... of the heavy can blowing over and my crap blowing all over the street. Which I had to chase after.

BLOOD
I had a bad experience over the weekend at a blood drive. I don't want to get into it here, as I filed a complaint and am expecting to hear back, but I thought I was treated pretty roughly for a guy who has been a steady donor for a long time and have previously endured poor treatment with little complaint. I've sat outside in the rain because the Bloodmobile had no room and no one thought to bring an extra tent for the people waiting; I've had phlebotomists so concerned with where they were going to drink after their shift that they lost track of me and my draw stopped after half a pint and they had to throw it out (after I'd been lying there quite some time in pain, and for nothing); I've started a drive and I've given at drives and I've invited friends to give blood with me and I've even subjected readers of this blog to entreaties to give, and I've never gotten any reward more than one coffee cup, one plastic bottle, and a bunch of Oreos. But I will not be treated like cattle. (These examples, by the way, are all about the New York Blood Center; I've also given through the Red Cross too and they've never been anything but nice.)

DOG
Once again, Tralfaz the big dog cannot sleep through the night, and wants to go pee at two or three in the morning. He is four years old; he is too young for Depends and too old for Pampers. The vet thought it was anxiety, and wanted us to dope him up, but we have been reluctant to do so. So one of us, often me, has been taking him out when all the world's asleep. Broken sleep is among the things for which I too have gotten too old. We're trying different things, but nothing has helped and so there's no end in sight.

ENVY
I was working on a book written by a guy who has become a millionaire cranking out volumes in a popular series. I think they're cute, but formulaic, and I've seen the quality plummet and the political correctness rise as his books go on. But what really bugs me is that he is so goddamn rich and popular now that he can put out garbage like this last book, which really was lousy, and he and the publisher know it will sell like crazy. And I imagine it must make other writers of quality fiction, writers who have slaved away in obscurity for years, sink into an impenetrable morass of envy, sin, and loathing. Not that I know anyone like that.

ELVIS
I had one of my all-time favorite sandwiches for lunch Wednesday, the peanut butter and banana sandwich. That would refresh the day! I always think of Elvis when I have one, although he liked his with bacon, too. Lately, though, I find that PBB causes me indigestion. (TMI follows!) Maybe the binding quality of the banana is duking it out with the laxative quality of the peanut butter, a free-for-all in my GI tract. It makes me wonder how Elvis ate the stuff he did. Then I remember that when Elvis was my age, he was dead. So that doesn't make me feel much better. As Lewis Grizzard once noted, Elvis Is Dead and I Don't Feel So Good Myself. And guess what? When Lew was my age he was dead, too.

While there were genuine reasons for my discontent, or at least proper targets, I know the bulk of my problems remains between my ears, not in my gut or anywhere else. If my character flaws were not running rampant, half these things wouldn't bother me. Sometimes I have a very hard time with gratitude. Sometimes I just can't let go of things.

Sometimes the best thing I can do is look at the nightstand clock and say, well, at least I didn't die or kill anyone today.