Oh, January. Go away.

The cat is perched precariously on my knees as I type. Her 8th birthday was a few days ago and we bought her a new mat to sharpen her claws on. I don't think she appreciates it.

Outside the window it is pouring rain and the snow and ice that have covered our yard for weeks is finally melting away. But not quickly enough, I'm afraid. A neighbor and two friends slipped on that ice and two of the falls required surgery. I put my walking on hold for a month while I glared at the ice and it glared back at me, unmoving. I should be grateful for the snow, and I am. It's bringing much needed moisture to the Cascades and the rest of the northwest. But I could do without the ice.

I don't know why January is always so hard, but it is. Maybe because I expect it to be so. There are several projects sitting in the computer, half finished or just begun, but for some reason I have a hard time acting on them. I take advantage of all the interruptions to the point of prolonging them—even giving them my full attention. This is not the way to get things done.

If I seem distracted it's because I am. My cursor keeps disappearing for one thing. And the election is distracting—the craziness keeps pulling me back in, like a circling vortex of nuttiness. Can we really be thinking of electing someone like Donald Trump? It appears that we can. The timing of the "X-Files" return couldn't be better; apparently the truth isn't out there, it's right here. And unfortunately, that's easy to believe. We've all gone crazy.

The cat is sane though. When I told her how old she was she just shrugged. Age doesn't mean anything when you live in the now.