What to tell?
Not much is up really, kids.
My arm is (finally) back to its original size, and I have rekindled the peace and reinstated myself as benevolent ruler and Queen of all Waspy. Two of them crawled around on my neck yesterday, and I tried really hard not to freak out (they can smell fear, you know) and envision the ride to the hospital after the venom was injected directly into my jugular, and that seemed to work, as they eventually flew off. This is no doubt a sign that I’m back in the saddle. Next thing you know, I’ll be sporting a healthy Abe Lincoln beard of wasps and summoning them to do my bidding.
In other news, I have been on something of a cleaning binge during which I have made a rather shocking discovery: Unbeknownst to me, I have been running a paper fertility clinic out of my home, AND it turns out it’s been a raging success. There are no less than 2.2 billion pounds of junk mail, old bills, greeting cards, and a staggering amount of magazines stacked on every flat surface and in every imaginable corner of this place, and I’m 100% confident that stuff didn’t get in here by itself.
Not in the least.
It’s very clear what’s been going on right underneath my nose: Paper hanky panky.
That’s right. The junk mail, and in particular the magazines, have been procreating at an alarming and rabbit-like rate. How else could one explain 32 copies of Shape magazine?
Meanwhile, and with very little regret, I’m systematically shutting down the orgy because – as it so happens – I don’t really need a Pottery Barn catalog from 2006 or a ten-year-old New Yorker. Hanging onto them probably seemed like a good idea at the time, but I know better now.
Similarly, I don’t know about you, but whenever I wade through my copious piles of stuff, I start to feel rather passionately that I never want to buy anything ever again. I already have entirely too much. I have too much for three people. I may never move again simply because it’d be too much work to pack all this up. Let alone unpack it somewhere else. I feel tired just thinking about that. So let’s stop the madness right here and now and just call it a lifetime.
Naturally, those rational feelings will pass the next time I see a great pair of jeans or boots or a book I’ve been wanting to read (and don’t get me started on this dark gray corduroy motorcycle jacket I can’t stop thinking about), but for the moment, I’m going to savor the Zen possibilities of calling it quits and enjoy the temporary sight of my unadorned dining room table, night stand, and desk.
Who knew my desk was brown???
The mind boggles…