I guess I have been a a non-participant in my own journal.

I took a little bit of a hiatus from writing. I had a few readers suggest I was becoming a sympathy junkie. One reader said that there seemed to be less trouble in my life, when I didn't talk about my problems.
Huh?

Things don't go away just because I decide not to report them. That's pretty obvious. Not so obvious though, are the things that are good in my life that I fail to report. I'm not really striving for balanced reporting; I usually just start typing blindly.
I will try to avoid having the journal dictate my mood, but I still reserve the right to whine. I'll just be more carefull.

I had been planning for some time, to take a little time off around the fourth of July, and go visit my family in Eastern Washington State (which is an arid desert). Days before we were going to leave, our trusty Ford Taurus Station Wagon's water pump completely went out. I called my brother, Roy, who actually drove 4 hours to my house, and replaced the water pump in less than 2 hours. Just so we could go on our little vacation.
Thank You big brother.

The time off was much needed, and after a slow start on the 105° Independence Day, we finally eased ourselves into vacation mode. We visited everyone, slept in thier beds, ate their food, and my brother and I worked on the car, at a leisurely pace in the triple-digit heat. Monica's headaches were as scarce as clouds in the desert sky.

15 minutes.
15 minutes before we were about to go home from a great extended weekend, a conversation surfaced among family members and other guests...strangers to me. A conversation about Monica and headaches, and medicine. I didn't hear it, so I don't know if it was a malevolent conversation, but I do know that it was about private aspects of my family, details that came from me in confidence. Monica also caught wind of the conversation (they were talking right in front of my neice Shelby.) feelings were severly hurt in those last 15 minutes that we were there.

Maybe "the incident" was the direct result of me griping too much, talking too much and being a sympathy junkie. Because once I aired my dirty laundry, it became a part of the public domain... diner conversation. My private life became somebody else's entertainment.
I reserve the right to whine, but I'll be more careful about to whom I whine.

"I'll wiave my rights"

By the way, I have a notification service now....
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