The universe is based on sullen entropy
(I'm quoting, of course.)
Now that I've been back from my nearly endless travels for a whole week (how in the world do people who travel for a living stay sane? Or maybe they just don't), it's time to hunker down and get my physical existence in as perfectly ordered shape as possible. Not in the sense of a new exercise regime, although God knows I need one of those, especially after the two NY Thanksgiving feasts -- driving back Saturday night in my newly CD-player-not-working car, my mantra was essentially "I'm never eating again." No, I just mean finally getting things in the Spookytown Postage Stamp in real and lasting order.
On the one hand, I usually really like my near-weekly Saturday clean-up and tidy days, where you put in a little bit of energy and undo some of the creeping chaos that will take over everything if you let it. On the other hand, lately I'm finding entropy really annoying, and I've been realizing that I'm apparently the kind of person who expects things to remain static (something fixed just stays fixed, yes?) -- while I engage in maintenance of all kinds, it's really kind of sporadic, and with an underlying sullen resentment. If I just cut my fingernails last week, why do I have to do it again? Ditto with the tweezing, and let's not even talk about the subtle calculations of leg shaving, with equations balancing the probability of tights-free skirt wearing or yoga shorts or maybe even completely unexpected random hookups (sure, not so much in my life, but apparently it's happening all the time with the young and randy political workers in Spookytown) with the annoyance of actually doing said shaving, especially when my poor vision is exacerbated by clouds of steam. Back in my HippyDippyville apartment, I had everything in pretty good working order by the end there, but of course the move undid almost all of that, especially since I lost my dedicated office/guest room. Yesterday I went to the big Swedish furnishings place and bought a second green bookshelf, on the recommendation of J-ka, who after approximately 5 minutes in the apartment had solved one of my biggest problems (where to put all my books) and made suggestions in re the solution of a second (where to have a semi-dedicated workspace, which is especially problematic as I a) will never ever ever work in my bedroom again, given the terrible effect it had on my sleep issues during the writing of the dissertation, and b) can't figure out how to get my stupid wireless router to work so am currently stuck with a 5-foot umbilical cord linking my laptop to the source of all nutrition and safety, to wit, my cable outlet). I'm just waiting now for it to be late enough on a weekend day that I can put my bookcase together (it involves hammering) without causing severe resentment on the part of my downstairs neighbor. I wonder how late is late enough.
Another thing I have finally realized is that I need to actually put some thought, effort, and god forbid even money into is satisfying lounge clothes for winter home time. You'd think I'd have figured this out by now. But the epiphany was relatively recent -- when I walk around the house looking like absolute and total crap, it doesn't make me feel all that wonderful. I'm not looking for J. Lo-esque velour hoodie matching outfits, just something cozy that you can still wear in the stairwell going to and from your laundry without blushing with horror in case you run into someone else in the building. I decided that the first step was a plush bathrobe, which will also help with winter heating issues, so when Mom and I went shopping over T-day weekend (I refused to go on Friday, on principle, but had succumbed by Saturday), she treated me to one of those new super-soft fluffy robes that are everywhere now. (Seriously, if you haven't been in a robe section lately, head on over sometime and give them a feel -- they're lovely to touch, especially if you're a texture whore the way I am.) Unfortunately, this robe is also a lint-tastrophe -- it had so thoroughly coated the shirt I was wearing when I tried it on that I had to change when I got home -- even the lint brush barely made a dent. It clearly needs its own laundry load, but I've been procrastinating on the laundry front, so hung it over the back of the bedroom door. Some enterprising cat, because they don't have enough surfaces to sleep on, pulled it off the doorknob and so it's been puddled on the floor for the last few days, and everyone has been taking turns using it as a new resting place. I have both eyewitness and forensic evidence to back up this claim --the most obvious thing is that I have seen each one of them lying on the new cat bed, I mean, bathrobe. But even if I don't see a particular moment of rest, I can always tell when someone's been using the new cat bed (formerly known as my winter loungewear treat) because his fur will be covered with tiny bits of red lint and red fluff, which show up even on an orange coat. This causes me to immediately turn into that mother with the napkin with a little bit of my spit on it so I can deschmutzify them, chasing them around the house shrieking, "Hold on just a second!" as I wave the napkin about. (My own mother, btw, has apparently rewritten history such that she now believes that she never, ever did this. Right.)
Luckily I just put on new sheets and changed the duvet cover, which is always a siren call for everyone to lie on the bed extensively, leaving as little room for humans as they can, and shed as much as possible -- this is what it looked like this morning, while I slaved away cleaning elsewhere in the apartment...
Now that I've been back from my nearly endless travels for a whole week (how in the world do people who travel for a living stay sane? Or maybe they just don't), it's time to hunker down and get my physical existence in as perfectly ordered shape as possible. Not in the sense of a new exercise regime, although God knows I need one of those, especially after the two NY Thanksgiving feasts -- driving back Saturday night in my newly CD-player-not-working car, my mantra was essentially "I'm never eating again." No, I just mean finally getting things in the Spookytown Postage Stamp in real and lasting order.
On the one hand, I usually really like my near-weekly Saturday clean-up and tidy days, where you put in a little bit of energy and undo some of the creeping chaos that will take over everything if you let it. On the other hand, lately I'm finding entropy really annoying, and I've been realizing that I'm apparently the kind of person who expects things to remain static (something fixed just stays fixed, yes?) -- while I engage in maintenance of all kinds, it's really kind of sporadic, and with an underlying sullen resentment. If I just cut my fingernails last week, why do I have to do it again? Ditto with the tweezing, and let's not even talk about the subtle calculations of leg shaving, with equations balancing the probability of tights-free skirt wearing or yoga shorts or maybe even completely unexpected random hookups (sure, not so much in my life, but apparently it's happening all the time with the young and randy political workers in Spookytown) with the annoyance of actually doing said shaving, especially when my poor vision is exacerbated by clouds of steam. Back in my HippyDippyville apartment, I had everything in pretty good working order by the end there, but of course the move undid almost all of that, especially since I lost my dedicated office/guest room. Yesterday I went to the big Swedish furnishings place and bought a second green bookshelf, on the recommendation of J-ka, who after approximately 5 minutes in the apartment had solved one of my biggest problems (where to put all my books) and made suggestions in re the solution of a second (where to have a semi-dedicated workspace, which is especially problematic as I a) will never ever ever work in my bedroom again, given the terrible effect it had on my sleep issues during the writing of the dissertation, and b) can't figure out how to get my stupid wireless router to work so am currently stuck with a 5-foot umbilical cord linking my laptop to the source of all nutrition and safety, to wit, my cable outlet). I'm just waiting now for it to be late enough on a weekend day that I can put my bookcase together (it involves hammering) without causing severe resentment on the part of my downstairs neighbor. I wonder how late is late enough.
Another thing I have finally realized is that I need to actually put some thought, effort, and god forbid even money into is satisfying lounge clothes for winter home time. You'd think I'd have figured this out by now. But the epiphany was relatively recent -- when I walk around the house looking like absolute and total crap, it doesn't make me feel all that wonderful. I'm not looking for J. Lo-esque velour hoodie matching outfits, just something cozy that you can still wear in the stairwell going to and from your laundry without blushing with horror in case you run into someone else in the building. I decided that the first step was a plush bathrobe, which will also help with winter heating issues, so when Mom and I went shopping over T-day weekend (I refused to go on Friday, on principle, but had succumbed by Saturday), she treated me to one of those new super-soft fluffy robes that are everywhere now. (Seriously, if you haven't been in a robe section lately, head on over sometime and give them a feel -- they're lovely to touch, especially if you're a texture whore the way I am.) Unfortunately, this robe is also a lint-tastrophe -- it had so thoroughly coated the shirt I was wearing when I tried it on that I had to change when I got home -- even the lint brush barely made a dent. It clearly needs its own laundry load, but I've been procrastinating on the laundry front, so hung it over the back of the bedroom door. Some enterprising cat, because they don't have enough surfaces to sleep on, pulled it off the doorknob and so it's been puddled on the floor for the last few days, and everyone has been taking turns using it as a new resting place. I have both eyewitness and forensic evidence to back up this claim --the most obvious thing is that I have seen each one of them lying on the new cat bed, I mean, bathrobe. But even if I don't see a particular moment of rest, I can always tell when someone's been using the new cat bed (formerly known as my winter loungewear treat) because his fur will be covered with tiny bits of red lint and red fluff, which show up even on an orange coat. This causes me to immediately turn into that mother with the napkin with a little bit of my spit on it so I can deschmutzify them, chasing them around the house shrieking, "Hold on just a second!" as I wave the napkin about. (My own mother, btw, has apparently rewritten history such that she now believes that she never, ever did this. Right.)
Luckily I just put on new sheets and changed the duvet cover, which is always a siren call for everyone to lie on the bed extensively, leaving as little room for humans as they can, and shed as much as possible -- this is what it looked like this morning, while I slaved away cleaning elsewhere in the apartment...
posted by Pangea at 10:37 AM
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