Now lookee here:

Okay. As promised, I have taken lots of pictures of my new apartment so you could all see where I live. And here we go!



Okay. The above picture and a few of the following will be views of my room. The above was (obviously) taken from the bed, looking at the assortment of books that have actually arrived from the post office. Oh. And also my laptop is there too.



Above is the view from the corner (where you can see a mirror in the other shot). And below is a view from the hallway into my room.



And here is me sitting on that bed in my room after setting up my camera on the A/C unit in the window and then timing it so that I look composed and settled for my picture.



Um. Yay, me!

Okay. Here's more of the apartment:



Above is one view of the kitchen. And yes, that is a coffee pot. And no, I haven't used it. Yeesh.



Above is another view of the kitchen, slightly to the right of the last view. (I wanted y'all to see that there round table. It's pretty cool. And, like, round.)



'K. That's a picture (slighly fuzzy) of the bathroom (which, thank goodness, is not fuzzy). Oh! And that reminds me: I discovered this morning that the nice, nice and (kind of) expensive towel I bought leaves dark blue fuzzies all over. Yucky.



Okay. Just to give you a sense of how long this apartment is, this is a view from the bathroom looking down the hallway. The first opening to the right (from whence light shineth) is my room and the opening to the left (which you can't really see, sorry) is the kitchen. The family room (or common room--not sure what to call it) is one opening further down the hall from my room. You can see the room below:



And here's another view of the common room taken while I sat in the corner of that couch you can see above:



What's awesome about the room (besides the nice, big TV and the VCR/DVD player you can't see but I can and I'll use it, too) are the awesome bookshelves to the right. Because, seriously. You can't have too many bookshelves.


And here's a mirror shot of me. Because mirror shots are just always so much fun. Yep. That's me. Hanging out in my apartment in the Boston area.

Still can't believe it all. Not yet. I need to wander around much, much more before I feel like I'm really here.

I is here.

And with the equivalent of, I believe, about 45 minutes of sleep sporadically grabbed last night while the nearly full moon shone in on me from the airplane window, (I recall one moment when I looked out the window and the high clouds had created a white ring in an arc around the moon; I love these surreal and beautiful things we get to glimpse sometimes), I'm afraid that I've been falling asleep while I've been sitting here, typing on my computer.

So. Er.

I'm alive and I'm here and there are lots and lots of trees. And also I can't believe it. And also I haven't gone to the grocery store yet.

But I'm thinking pretty much everything needs to wait until I have slept for approximately 10 hours. Because I've (almost) been up the whole night.

And also those four flights of stairs up to my apartment are a killer, even without the 45lb luggage I so foolishly took with me.

I don't think I really get it.

The lasts are coming thick and fast now; I've bid goodbye now to one of my sisters, her husband and child and one of my brothers. I've also sung for the last time at that one retirement home and have said goodbye to the wonderful residents there.

Every time I go through something like this, I seem to have a hard time feeling pain at the parting. For me, the pain starts just as we're driving away, or a few minutes after that, when I realize that I really have seen that person for the last time in what will be months. At that point, I feel desolate, forsaken and empty. But when I'm hugging that person goodbye, I almost never feel a sense of sorrow.

It's like I don't get it until the thing has actually happened. It's impossible for me to imagine being apart from people I love when they're right there in front of me, smiling and embracing me.

So all of this makes me wonder: what exactly will I be feeling as my plane lifts off the ground tomorrow night? Part of me hopes I'll be too tired to feel anything. But if what I'm feeling right now is a kind of preview for what's coming, I think I'll feel more desolate than I have in a long time.

*I hope I'll have time to post something tomorrow, but just in case, this may be my last post for a while. Keep checking, though! I'll update you all as soon as I can.*

And just because you needed to see more of these:

Here's my very favoritest of the LolCats:



And if you have ever read The Canterbury Tales, or just Chaucer in general, or if you have even just heard of Chaucer, or even if you haven't and you think you might have once looked at a copy of a textbook that had some medieval literature in it, then go here, where Geoffrey Chaucer, the intrepid blogger, has discovered the world of LolCats and created his own for illustrations of The Canterbury Tales.

If you don't get it, fine. But if you do, you'll know how good I have been to link you thusly.

Going Green

I'm a little concerned.

You see, my weightloss is kind of stalling. I'm not sure if this is because I'm building muscle mass, in which case I'll see the actual poundage come off later, or if it's because I'm not eating as many vegetables as I should, or some other unknown cause, such as the planets being out of alignment or something.

For some reason, I can't seem to quite get to that 80lb loss mark, although I'm pretty close. (Right now I'm hovering around 76, which is pretty good, but it means that I'm still more than 50 lbs away from my goal. Bleh.)

What I'm really hoping is that all this will change once I get to Boston and start walking everywhere and using public transportation and such.

Because, as you know, not only is public transportation good for the environment, it also helps you lose weight!

And makes you more attractive to the opposite gender!

It's just like that line from that one movie, where the male lead says, "I just love a girl who uses public transportation."

Well.

Okay.

I made that up.

But I'm sure the sentiment exists somewhere with someone. So I'll get all pretty and stuff and that someone will say, "Wow! You're all public transportation savvy and you've obviously lost a great deal of weight within the past 8 or 9 months. So. You wanna get hitched?"

And then, of course, I'll have to turn him down because at that point I'll be all career-oriented and won't want to have anything to do with men for at least the next twenty or so years.

But it'll be nice even still.

And it wasn't even September 19th!

This morning, my dentist (who also happens to be my little sister's father-in-law--yah, I know--weird) treated all of his patients (plus up to 3 family members each) to a special showing of Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End.

Most of the adult members of the family were there, along with my most adorable nephew (who obviously preferred my company to any of his other aunties or uncles--hurrah!) and quite a lot of other patients of this Dr. Sister's Father-in-law. He (the dentist) actually dressed up in full costume with a scruffy beard, long dreadlocks and seriously ratted clothes. He and his assistants also spoke pirate talk, employing words such as "Arr," "Avast," and "Blow me timbers," even though it wasn't International Talk Like a Pirate Day yet. (Yah. Like, seriously early, people.)

Before the movie got started, said dentist and said assistants did fun things like throw out frisbees to all the audience members who wanted one (or three) and passed out raffle tickets for door prizes like oil changes and certificates to day spas. (Man. I wish I had won a trip to a day spa.)

Anyway--as said frisbee throwing got underway, things were, as you can imagine, slightly hectic. I kept turning my head to follow the frisbees, but I wasn't about to go out of my way to catch one because--hey, just one more thing to pack, y'know--so I was completely unprepared when I turned my head back to the front and a frisbee, coming in vertically, whacked me (WAY hard) right between my eyebrows.

Ohmygoodness I did not know a frisbee could raise a welt that quickly.

So.

Next Wednesday, when I arrive in Boston, I'll be able to greet my new roommates and all those nice young elders quorum members (who I'm sure will just spontaneously show up as soon as my 16 boxes arrive) for the first time with a nice big bruise/lump on my forehead.

First impressions really don't seem to go well for me. Bleh.

ok i has bad englsh now, thx.

I've just spent about an hour looking at LolCats, which are pictures of adorable animals (namely cats) mixed with captions that employ really bad English. LolCats also apparently have their own little Wikipedia entry, which really explains the whole thing better than I ever could.

So.

Um.

Caught up in the moment (and in the rudiments of this distorted English) I made my own:

Twice:

And I just dare you--I dare you not to go out and make your own. Because. Seriously. Addictive.

And almost gaggingly way too cute.

Advantages to driving a van:

Firstly, you suddenly realize that you could go about 10 miles under the speed limit and nobody can stop you. They can't intimidate you because you, my friend, have the bigger vehicle. By a long shot. (Take that, little sport mustang with your impatient red-colored temper. Ha!)

Secondly, you can see the road from way high up. This means that your line of sight is not obscured by things such as really tall grass. And joggers. And. Erm. Fences?

Thirdly, you can haul a heckalotta boxes (for example, 16 in total) to your local post office so that you can mail them all to yourself so that they will arrive (you hope) about a day or two after you fly in.

See Exhibit A (from the back of the van):


And from the sliding side-door view, Exhibit B:


And here's me afterwards. Oh, what's that look? Why, that's my "I'm so happy that's over and my arms are really tired and slightly scraped up from the edges of all those many cardboard boxes and I've suddenly realized that it may be difficult when the boxes actually arrive, I mean, because I think my apartment is upstairs and that means carrying 16 heavy, heavy boxes up a flight of stairs to my room and I'm not sure my arms will hold out," type of look. Oh, and also, I got a haircut.


Overall pretty good, don't you think? (Except for those flyaway bits in my hair. Eugh. But I was going for authentic anyway, so what can ya do?)

(And also, lest you think I didn't label the boxes properly, I smudged out my address on the photos I took because--hey, not stupid here, people--and if you really want my address you can blasted call me or email me and if you don't have my phone number or email address then I likely don't know you (although I can think of a few exceptions) but if you prove that you're a real person and not a scary person and that your reason for wanting my address is legit (i.e. you want to send me a birthday card, not now but in a few months, and not, like, an explosive device or anything) well then, I'll think about it.)

Oh, this is nice.

So apparently I'm one very popular girl.

Well.

I guess one very sort of popular girl.

I just received this in the mail:



It's an acceptance letter from the other school I applied to: the University of Washington (distance MLIS option). (I had originally intended to apply to five schools, but the Bostonian school's acceptance came first, so because it was my first pick, I just decided to go with it rather than wait and see what happened with all the other programs. Dumb and yet smart at the same time. Yeah.)

Which--Yay! I mean, hoorah! More than one school wanted me! So, I guess if I had been completely uninterested in leaving the state and my family and had decided to reject that Bostonian school's acceptance and had not felt strongly that the Lord wanted me to go to Boston, I would have been okay. Because there was another program out there that wanted me. Just me.

I feel kind of guilty now because I have to write them an awkward email saying, "Er...you're kind of a little late; I already accepted my admission to this other school. So sorry. You'll just have to make do with a slightly less qualified applicant." Except that would involve hubris. Which is never a good idea. (Please refer to classical Greek tragedies for more information.)

So my email will probably go something like this: "I am not insensible of the great honor you do me by this offer. I know that it has taken time and effort to decide who (of the many who have sought your favors) you will take unto yourself. However, at this time, it is impossible for me to do otherwise than reject your kind (and gracious and lovely and not-right-for-me) offer. Best wishes for your health and happines, XOXO, -Lizardbreath."

In fact, I think I may just copy & paste that little message right there. Very appropriate, dontcha think?

Rather than the 1000 words,

let me just show you how darn adaptable I am:



And before you ask, "Wait--is that what I think it is? Is Lizardbreath cooking in the bathroom?" let me prove to you that yes, indeed, I did cook in the bathroom this morning:


Seriously. A toilet. And an electric frying thing. You can't get any more 'cooking in the bathroom'-ish than that.

However, so that you all don't think I make a habit of this, or that I'm doing it for fun, let me just explain that my parents are getting the hardwood floors in their kitchen, dining area & entryway all sanded & refinished so they can get their house on the market.

So. The kitchen is off-limits, our fridge is in the mudroom and our cooking takes place in the bathroom. Good times, folks. Good times.


And also it means that those are my scrambled eggs with cheese & salsa on the washing machine.

I just feel darn weird.

The End of Penultimates

They're officially over. Penultimates, I mean. We're now definitely (even decidedly) into the 'ultimate' range, since a week from today I'll be flying out of Utah and into Boston. So today is the last Tuesday I'll spend at home (even though I won't be home mostly--I'll be attending my sister's graduation and going off to a book club meeting and such).

And tonight will be the last Tuesday night I sleep at home in this little bed. And tomorrow will be the last Wednesday I spend at home, and I'll also have the last haircut done by this particular member of my ward, and then we'll be into the last Thursday and the last Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and then...

Then...

On next Tuesday I'll be done. Done.

Done with seeing that lovely greening mountain just to the south of us, done with listening to the annoying crickets outside my bedroom window, done with living among stacks of boxes, done with seeing my family every day, done with Utah life. Perhaps forever.

But after that, I'll have a whole lot of firsts to go through. And so, I think I need to focus on how exciting and wonderful those firsts will be, rather than focusing on all these lasts going on right now.

Yeah. That's the idea.

And I'm still sad. And also happy. And. Just. Everything.

That's all.

All the juicy details.

Because I know that's what you come here to read. All those juicy little details about my dramatic life. Yep.

So.

Here we go:

I packed all freaking day.

And I now know that it takes 7 boxes, each of which weigh approximately 50lbs, to hold all the books I want to send to myself in MA.

That's a lotta reading material, folks.

And I still feel sad about the books I'm getting rid of.

I keep using that word.

It keeps cropping up: in emails, in blogging, in comments on other people's blogs, in my face-to-face conversations...

I think it's become my new tag word, which is a dangerous, dangerous thing. My last tag word was 'honestly,' which I used at a rate of roughly 1 per 50 words, which is pretty darn frequent if you ask me. (Which you won't, of course, but that's beside the point.)

My current word is, apparently, 'decidedly.' Such as: "But I was decidedly against shaving cats that day, so I didn't participate at all," or: "My opinion of squirrels has decidedly gone down after one made off with my turkey sandwich the other day."

It's too much and I need to stop.

But if I stop using that word, I'm afraid it will leave me a little more wishy-washy. Things will be ever so slightly less stable and stability is really what I'm looking for right now.

So tolerate my usage of my tag word a little longer, if you would. It makes me feel decidedly more in control.

Honestly.

Backward and Forward

Today in the midst of packing I ran across two of my old journals. Reading journals (especially old ones) is an experience in which embarrassment and a kind of crude fascination coexist in surprising harmony. Mostly though, what I felt was a deep sympathy with my old self. After all--I was there. I know what she felt, for pity's sake! (Even if she seems just a little bit melodramatic now...)

However, I'm not going to discuss that.

What I am going to discuss is my rediscovery of a moment I had almost exactly four years ago when I visited the Boston area for the very first time. I had gone out to see my aunt and uncle who live in Franklin, a ways south (and a little west, I believe) of Boston itself.

Here's what I wrote on May 31, 2003:

"Before I go to bed I also wanted to mention something that happened the first night I was here. We were coming back from the airport and everything was dark. Trees hulked along the sides of the road, darkly obscuring the distance. I loved it. We got off the freeway and started going past some houses. I was suddenly overcome with the emotion that I belonged here--that this was my kind of place. I wonder if this area holds at least part of my future in it."

Sitting surrounded by this:


And also this:


I was suddenly struck with how the past and future are intersecting right now (not to mention how messy and chaotic that intersection is) as I stand poised between this life which has felt so stagnant to me and this new life that seems rather frightening and yet, oddly, so much the right thing to do.

It's also good to know I'm making a move now that I already felt was right nearly four years ago.

Aurgh! Everything is CRAZY!

So my plans (it seems) keep changing at a rate of roughly once every two and a half minutes. (I'm exaggerating, of course. It's more like three minutes and fifteen seconds.)

Originally, I was planning to take all my stuff out to Boston. All of it. This includes the cheapo folding table I acquired about two years ago, an old dresser that belonged to my grandpa, my short and sad little bed and numerous bookshelves, among other things.

However.

Things have changed.

I now have furniture waiting for me in Boston (woohoo!) which means that I won't have to drive a U-Haul truck out. So then I was going to drive with my dad out in our van, carting boxes & boxes of books and (I hoped) that one really nice bookshelf that I got for Christmas one year (one of the singly most appropriate gifts I ever received).

However, my dad told me today that he thought I should fly out and just have my boxes shipped out to Boston through the Post Office. (Of course, this would mean leaving behind said bookshelves and cheapo folding table and that dresser, but it would be much, much cheaper. I think.)

So, suddenly I'm trying to figure out how many boxes I'll need in order to pack up all the stuff I can't live without (and some stuff I definitely could but don't want to) and how much they'll weigh and which ones I'll be able to send media mail and which ones I decidedly won't be able to and...

My brain is fried. I can't think anymore.

Therefore I must sleep.

But I have a feeling that boxes or packing or flying or all three may be things my subconscious plucks at for dream material tonight.

Oh, goody.

What I want to be when I get old:

This commercial makes me brim over with happiness every time I see it.

Here's me!

I decided that I ought to upload a pic of myself, because I think there are some people hitting this blog (including future roomies! Yay!) who have never seen me before and, frankly, that profile picture I drew just isn't helpful.

So this is me in real life:


And. Yes. Well. It's pretty accurate, seeing as how it's a photograph and all, and not a drawing of myself.

(And yes, this means that I haven't really done any more packing since my last post. And I'm also still shuddering at my stupid high forehead. Good gracious.)

To pack or not to pack

So far, I've packed two entire boxes of books and I've cleared out two of my bookshelves. I have a pile about three feet high that's headed for DI and I've got a stack that I haven't decided yet whether to keep or give away.

I'm making progress, in short.

However, I've run into a bit of difficulty.

You see, I'm not actually leaving for about another two weeks (well, a little less than two weeks now). If I pack everything up now, what will I read in between now and then? Especially because I'll have (perhaps) lots of time now that I'm not working and also because I (probably) will be driving out to Boston and thus will need at least three novels to keep my mind from exploding with boredom (a well-known medical malady).

So. My question to myself is, should I keep packing and lifting heavy book boxes? Or should I leave my books as the very last thing I box and tape up, kind of like the way the very last things you pack for on your trip are your hairbrush and makeup?

Questions, questions.

I think I'll keep packing.

Fin.

It's the end.

Today was my last day at KMA, my last day at a job I've held for a little over two and a half years, which, now that I think about it, was both a really long and really short time.

I'm feeling mostly what Robert McCloskey describes in his picture book Time of Wonder (which, incidentally, is pretty much my favorite picture book ever): "A little bit sad about the place you are leaving, a little bit glad about a place you are going."

I feel wistful and happy and sad and relieved and (guiltily) rather glad to be getting away from customer service, at least customer service in a retail business. I also know that in a day or a week or six months, I'll feel some serious pangs of missing the wonderful, wonderful, wonderful people I've known there for the past couple of years.

I'll miss them.

What's startling is how easy it would be.

Today was our penultimate day at work. This means that tomorrow is our last day. (Or, er, we're pretty sure it's our last day, at least. We think.)

Anyway--so in recognition of said penultimateness of said day, our office supervisor brought in homemade fudge.

It's really amazing how the smell of fudge can fill a middling largeish room like that.

As I passed by said fudge frequently on my way to doing other stuff, I realized just how easy it would be to reach over and cut myself a little (or not so little) square. I thought then what a simple thing it would be to put said square into my mouth and for said mouth to curl round the fudge in delighted ecstacy for a few moments as said fudge melted in said mouth.

And I dunno--I always thought that things like breaking your diet would feel significant, that there would be considerable guilt afterwards, but also considerable hesitation and going-back-and-forthness before.

(I didn't eat the fudge, in case you were wondering.)

I guess it's like many things in life. Things that you expect to feel significant (like a penultimate day at a job you've worked for nearly three years, or the last family reunion you'll have with your sibs & parents before you head eastward) aren't always. They're just moments and minutes that tally up to the sum of our lives.

I wish I could hang onto them a little bit more, make them all a little more significant.

Books are bad for your back.

This I discovered today during the very beginning portion of what will become (I am sure) a multi-week packing process.

Yes, folks, I have started cleaning off my bookshelves. Most of the books went into the U-Haul box, but I managed to pry my fingers away from a goodly pile of them which are now stacked neatly next to my semi-empty bookshelves, which pile I will donate as soon as I can get it over to our local DI.

However, it's not the pile of books that were the problem today. No, no. The problem was with the box which, after I had stuffed it as full of reading material as I possibly could, weighed approximately as much as a Volkswagen Beetle (a blue one).

This is the box I then tried to lift off the ground using mainly my (thanks to climbing local hills) bulging thigh muscles but (unwisely) ended up using a goodly portion of my back muscles as well, which back muscles proceeded to talk sternly to me for a moment and then, not having grabbed my attention quickly enough, started screaming something about the end of the world and that I was killing them! Seriously!

So, I half-dropped said box and half-collapsed on top of it, all the while uttering half-articulate cries of "Ow! Oh, OW!"

Thus it has been painful over the past few hours to do things like sit, stand, breathe and move my foot from the gas pedal to the brake pedal. Luckily, right now I only have to worry about the breathing and sitting problems which aren't really too bad at the moment.

However, I must confess that (my irritation from being in pain set aside) I'm glad this happened now rather than in a couple of weeks when my box-lifting skills (or lack thereof) will be needed in earnest. I learned today that lifting with your legs really is a good idea and that stopping by bookstores so I can gather more heavy volumes that I will eventually have to lift is a very bad idea.

(And yet I fear I still won't be able to resist.)

I talk at people like they're interested

I've discovered over the past few days that I'm a self-obsessed human being.

Dang it.

For instance; this afternoon, my sister called me and we started off the conversation by talking about how soon I'm leaving for Boston (pretty darn soon). So, as I'm wont to do in these types of conversations, I was all ready for the talk to be all about me. I was geared for explaining my nervousness; I was prepped to talk about my future; I was prepared to discuss my plans.

I was so much so, in fact, that when my sister asked about times that I'd be available over the next couple of weeks, I naturally thought she wanted to get together with me and the other girls in our family and plan an outing before we all head to the four corners of the earth. And so, many sentences (and much confusion) later, I realized that, duh, she's trying to ask me to babysit so that she and her husband can have a nice evening together because they won't be able to do so on said sister's birthday next week.

Oi.

Guilt and embarrassment all rolled up in one.

And I keep doing things like this. When members of my ward ask how I'm doing, I'm liable to launch into a 30-minute speech about why Boston is the best of all places and how I feel about moving there and how much it will cost exactly to rent a truck and drive for four days to reach it. (Luckily, the dull glazed eyes of my audience usually pull me back before I get too far into it.)

I feel bad. You see, I'm so concerned with and just plain interested in things going on in my own life right now that I assume other people are automatically just as concerned and/or interested as I am.

But they're not.

They're interested (and absolutely rightly so) in their own lives. Because, honestly, first and foremost that's the most important (and urgent) thing you have to deal with. Once you've got your own life in tolerable order (not perfect, but tolerable) you can then begin to focus on other people.

I guess then that I'm hoping my own life will calm down in the next little bit (as it is liable to do) so that I can become, eventually, a less selfish person than I am right now.

What I've been missing

Sometimes something comes along that you just have to 'Thank Goodness' for. Sometimes, you encounter something that you needed to hear when you didn't even know the need was there. But you feel that need filled when you do.

I think I've been...not too hard on myself, exactly, but a little too inclined to look at the worse aspects of myself (and I've been looking at them for a long time). I needed to realize, I think, that it's okay not to be a genius, or a world-class musician, or a great writer, that it's okay to be just me. Because I'm okay.

Now, writing this, I realize that all of this is sounding a little too much like the prose-version of lyrics to a cheesy (yet uplifting) song. But realize--what I'm writing is just an approximation of what I'm feeling.

And maybe, to get a better idea of what I'm feeling as why, you too should listen to the CES Fireside President Faust gave on May 6th. (I missed it then; I was schmoozing with my dad's family, but I just watched it online. Just now.) It's a half-hour, so I don't know that you'll have time, but if you do, please watch. (Especially if you haven't already seen/heard it.) There was something so calming and peace-filling about what he said and how he said it.

And I feel now as though I fit in my skin just a little bit better than I did before. And that's a comforting feeling indeed.

The most unyeilding sound in the universe

is the sound of car meeting car in a decidedly non-friendly way. And the most unyeilding feeling in the entire universe is the feeling of meeting someone else's car with your car when you though all you'd be meeting is the (rather more yielding) air.

In short, I hit another car today.

Actually, I backed into one. It wasn't occupied at the time, which is both a relief and a stress, simply because I had to leave my phone number & a description of what happened with an explanation that I didn't think I caused any damage to that green truck, but if I caused more than I thought I did the owner of said truck should give me a call.

I hope what I provided was sufficient. So, now I'm tied to my cell phone, dreading its (rather strange) ring tone. If I don't get a call within a day or two, I'll guess that the truck owner has decided the damage I caused (I may have dented the lisence plate) was minimal and he/she doesn't want to bother with it.

Until then, I'll just be even more anxious than I would otherwise have been.

Because every blog needs a formal announcement...

So. I've started another blog. I mean, another one besides the blog that contains the first eight (or so) sections of that NaNoWriMo novel I never finished...

(Sorry. I just must wallow for a moment in feelings of regret for yet another project I've only partially completed.)

However.

This new blog has possibilities. It has pizazz and flare and flying pilot whales (not to mention the igloos.) And it has a bold new color scheme!

That's right! It's my very own Dream Blog!

Um. That is, it's a blog where I post about dreams I have. It's not, like, my ideal blog, which would be another interpretation of the above sentence. Oh, and it's not about my dreams for the future. It's about my wacky, crazy, nighttime, (or morningtime), rambling, psychotic (and oddly entertaining) escapes of the subconscious mind.

Yes. These are my dream dreams.

And the reason why I needed an entirely separate blog in which to post said nighttime escapades?

They'd take up too much room here. And, of course, I need the room in my 'regular' blog to post about more important things. Like...my other blog.

Good heavens.

Discarding

As the reality of moving creeps up on me (rather rapidly now that I think about it) I've realized the necessity of getting rid of a lot of junk so I won't have to pack it.

So today, in accordance with said realization, I went through a couple of boxes of stuff that have just been sitting around collecting dust (quite literally) for the past nearly three years.

(And. Ew. Dust is icky.)

Going through boxes like this always takes me a long time; these particular ones contained numerous college notebooks, which all held handouts I'd collected in class, snippets of poetry on random pages and doodles everywhere. I did my best to sort through and really weed out the things that I would never, ever need again (and, I'm sorry, but my French literature notes did not make it, although my French lit book did) and keep the things that I might need in the future.

The only problem with doing this is that you're making the decision now. Weeding out your old things is a little like gambling--you weigh each item and decide what the chances are that you really are going to need this toy tiger or personality test sometime in the future. If you decide that too few things are worth keeping, you run the risk of missing something essential years down the road. If you keep too many things, your house will be filled with boxes and boxes full of junk that noone will ever look at. And also you will have about 50 cats. (Somehow, the two always seem to go together.)

I think that, in this round, I threw away about half of what I'd been hanging onto. Some of the things I kept included an enormous binder full of the letters I'd mailed home during my mission, notes I took in my Young Adult lit course (which I figured I may need later on if I become a children's librarian) and a binder full of my old college papers (most of which were really awful, but hey--documentation is important, I think).

So, now I've got a full trash bag and a nearly full plastic bin o' stuff. I guess, maybe this time, I struck a good balance.

Now for my scrapbook stuff. (Shudder.)

And just to give you a good visual tour of my time, here's the mess I made:

And here's the trash bag full of old notebooks (sniffle):

Polished

I realized last night that I'm not a fancy chic. (And I wish I were.) I normally do absolutely nothing with my fingernails and toenails. It's only recently that I've started applying a tame sort of iridescent mauve to said toenails in hopes that it will make my feet look less ugly. (Hey--when I talked about most feet looking good, I didn't necessarily include my own, okay?)

And also I did it because my niece rather persistently asks me to paint her fingernails and toenails whenever she stays at my parents' house, which is about once a week. So I do. Sometimes.

And recently that toenail/fingernail painting has extended, yea, even to mine own digits.

Of course, the problem with this is that I have no clue how one properly cares for one's nails. My idea of proper nail-care is to let them grow out long enough to be useful in such activities as tightening the screws in one's glasses, or opening those *cussword* CD cases. And then, when they break or tear or when I have a particularly bad hangnail, I go after those suckers & cut 'em down to the quick.

Yes'm, I do.

But now, with that same iridescent sort of mauve covering the tips of my fingers as well as my toes, I'm suddenly feeling both a little more girly and a little more insecure. You see, while I see nail polish on numerous other females' fingers, I really don't know how one is supposed to apply it. For instance, how many coats does one use? And if there's more than one coat, is the bottom coat supposed to be the color and the top coat clear? Or should both coats be applied with the same polish? And also, what's up with all that cuticle pushing? How do you do it? And with what?

I think...

I think I may just go back to pure ol' naked fingernails. Heck, I'll feel less polished (hahaha!) and less feminine, but I'll feel...maybe a little more in control? Maybe?

Subtle alterations

I have decided to go to bed early tonight.

Not because I'm tired. No, no. (I am, in fact, really quite wide awake at the moment.)

But because I have had trouble getting up in the mornings lately and I believe the trouble stems from my tendency to stay up late and check blogs and email and read book after book after book...

And also having my fan on prevents me from hearing my alarm properly. And somehow also makes me more morning-sleepy.

And also knowing that I have nothing to do at work (Seriously. Nothing.) and I won't have to go into work until 1pm anyway so why not just cuddle my pillow a little longer and whisper sweet nothings into its seductive little non-existent ear...

Ahem. But I digress.

So. I believe I will sleep soon. Although, I may just have to get an hour of reading in beforehand. You know. Just for old time's sake.

Yeah. It's a big deal.

Oh. I...I just (breathe, here) I just got an apartment. I (seriously! breathe!) sent emails and got emails and now I have a (phew) place to live in (oh, boy) a month.

A month.

I'll be in Boston in a month.

Hoooooh, mygoodnessgraciousme.

YAAAAAAHOOO!

Oh, boy.

Ooooh. I'm also emailing people about specific apartments in the Boston area now. I feel so nervous! And sort of grown up.

Sort of.

Coincidence? Or something more...sinister?

I love the comic Bizarro. It is frequently very strange and also exceedingly hilarious, both of which suit my taste to a T.

However, today's comic has me...shall we say...a little freaked out. It reminds me just a little bit too much of this post, one I made over a year ago. In fact, just so you can see it yourself, here's the image:

(Many thanks (and apologies) to Seattlepi for this unauthorized use of the image.)

I guess I'm disturbed mainly because, if faced with a firing squad, a bandana and a seriously untucked shirt, I would probably want to blog about it too.

Which just makes me even more certain of my brain's illness.

How to get over being cross:

I have discovered a secret today. (It's not, of course, The Secret, (which, I'm sorry, but What the HECK?) but is, I believe, a pretty good one, with or without commas,,,,,,,.) (Obviously, I have not yet learned the secret of good editing.)

In any case, I discovered a secret. And the secret is how to get yourself out of that irritable cross feeling that settles somewhere between your shoulder blades and turns you into a snapping monster with really sharp canines. Which I was today. (Except for the canines part.)

I guess part of it started at work where I had a bit of a run-in with a coworker. She was unhappy with me (and justly so) and told me pretty straitforwardly that she was unhappy, after which I sat at my desk shaking, trying to convince myself that being angry was not, in fact, the best response to the situation.

Then, this evening, on the drive home from work, I picked up my dad (we're short on cars at the moment) and he teased me about my driving. Which I responded to with rather more vehement opposition than was warranted by his remarks.

Then, later on this evening, I got into a minor tiff with my mom. About not watching a TV show. (Yeah. Pretty important stuff, there.)

So, what was the cause of my irritation? Was it that altercation with the coworker? Was it the sense that my weight-loss is stalling? Was it the fact that I'm female and thus am subject to uncontrollable mood swings?

Nope.

It was none of these.

(Hehe. 'None of these.' That reminds me of a BBC spoof of old British educational films. Check out Maths; you may see what I'm chuckling about.)

Um. Where was I?

Ah, yes. My bad mood was (as I realized tonight) caused by a rather unsettling feeling that I had things I needed to do to secure myself a spot to live in Boston. Things to do, moreover, which I had not yet done. And which...I felt...unsettled about.

(Bah. I'm tired and can't write properly.)

Some time ago, my aunt gave me the names & email addresses of two single women who live in the Boston area who could give me information about singles wards & who might be listing apartments, etc., etc. However, before tonight, I had not contacted these good women. Why? Because I'm socially awkward.

However, (hurrah!) tonight I emailed them both! And I was charming! (Well, as charming as you can be in emails. Also, I used the smiley face too much. :) See?) But at least now I've reached out my hand in fellowship and...er...asking-questionsenship. So now, I feel like I've done all I can at the moment. I've met my goals; I've accomplished the things I needed to get done.

And that makes me feel decidedly less cross.

(That was the secret. Just in case you missed it.)