It's probably just annoyance at my own inertia, but I'm feeling incredibly jealous of all my friends who are looking for new houses or moving into new apartments. Not only does house-hunting represent shopping on a grand scale, it signifies new beginnings, and the possibility of fresh starts. I am decidedly in need of some fresh starts. The word "stagnant" features heavily in my thoughts these days, and as we're heading toward Spring, I'm ready for a major change that does not exactly feel forthcoming.

Part of my brooding, my tiresome brooding, began when I learned that our good friends, fake-named Kent and Lydia for purposes of this journal, are heading back up north. My sadness at their leaving is mixed with vague jealousy, which then breaks down as, typically, I over-think the issue and start to wonder if going back to San Francisco is really what I want.

I have tremendous difficulty making up my mind about anything. My grave will no doubt feature a headstone with an attached urn for my ashes, and the engraved explanation that part of me was also buried at sea, owing to my indecision.

My melancholy this fine, clear morning is spurred on by the finches who've been checking out my balcony as a possible nesting spot. I had a great, great, crazy-lady time last year with a pair of finches who nested here, and I look forward to another season of bliss as the female flies back and forth with twigs in her beak, building the nest while the male sings and sings outside my window, driving me slowly insane with jealousy that these simple little one-ounce birds can get along and proceed with their lives and build this great nest together and not fight or bicker about who, exactly, left the electric blanket on for 10 hours, and why can't she learn to cook anything except noodles?

My coworker Melvin just a minute ago came by to tell me about his sister, who's buying a new house. Then, he launched into an elaborate monologue concerning his recent obsession with the board we use for posting notices outside our conference room. The self-stick surface has gotten old, or tired, and paper no longer sticks easily to it. For the past three months or so, Melvin has treated me to periodic spontaneous reports on the status of the board, which has not actually changed, each time suggesting that we should replace it, and bemoaning the idiocy of what he calls the "technology." I would estimate that he has spent more than three hours, over the past several months, discussing and researching the problem. Today, he treated me to another lecture, mentioning that he had spoken to his supervisor, who referred him to someone else, who advised him to wipe down the board with a damp cloth. Melvin paused, then said, "And that, I will leave to you, as you are the keeper of that room."

So I have that to look forward to. I can't decide how to proceed, though. My instinct is to tell Melvin I wiped down the board, while actually doing nothing, and watching him slowly short-circuit as the problem continues. I might even apply some kind of silicone-based spray, thereby ensuring that nothing will stick to the board. That will mean more spontaneous lectures about the foolishness of purchasing a self-stick memo board, but it's almost worth it, as at the moment, it represents the most amusement at my disposal at the moment.

So you can see why the idea of a fresh start is appealing.

Star of the day. . .Lump