I've been putting my houses in order, my ducks in a row, my eggs in their baskets.
After moving into this condo almost 2 years ago, I'm finally getting round to unpacking those last few boxes, which I'd long ago got tired of looking at and shoved in a closet. It would've been smarter, I know, simply to move the boxes from the closet to the curb, seeing as how we've managed to live perfectly comfortably without the contents of those boxes for the last 2 years, but I've opened them and what's done is done, and soon the junk will be properly and permanently disposed of and the instruction manual for the vacuum cleaner will be filed in a suitable location.
Similarly, I've been organizing all the stuff, junk, and crap I'd unpacked in a hurry. For example, all the office supplies are now housed in 1 drawer instead of 3 at opposite ends of the house. And I threw out all the pens that don't work. I can't tell you how relieved this makes me feel.
I've been taking a metaphorical walk in the snow. (I love this phrase. Does anyone outside Canada even use this expression, much less know what it means or where it originates?) I am considering taking a real walk in the real snow later today, as there finally is some, and it looks like it'll stick for good this time (at least for the winter). I've spent a lot of time wanting to be a Swedish librarian.
We're all of us still a little under the weather, but we no longer want to die, a positive side effect of the gastroenteritis outbreak being that I've discovered the virtues of drinking water, something in all my years I'd never really got the hang of till now, and one bottled brand in particular being so divinely refreshing I will never again laugh at people who spend money on what could be got free from their tap.
In addition, I'm suffering from Dickensian bloat. I'm about halfway (well, a solid two-fifths) through David Copperfield, which is delightful, and I can't wait to see what happens next, but there's only so much of it one can ingest in a single sitting before the brain is awhirl, drowning in all those words. (I'm of a mind now to revisit Gormenghast — Peake's Steerpike strikes me as the offspring of Steerforth and Uriah Heep (what I know of them to this point) — but would like to read even more Dickens before I do this.) I'm waiting for something bad to happen. Nothing bad happens to David. I mean, sure, his stepfather's nasty, and him mother as good as forsakes him on his account, and there's off to school, and mother dies, and off to work to fend for one's self, but he gets through it all in a blink. David's charmed, hopelessly optimistic, and naive, and thus far it's served him pretty well. Everybody likes him. Although, being that he is the narrator of his own story, I sense that not all is what it seems. I can't say there's any moral or theme in evidence as yet — my eyes have not been widened on human nature or the human condition — but I'm eating up the melodrama.
All the above combined have resulted in blog-writer's block. That is, I have a lot to say, particularly regarding my darling daughter, but no idea how to say it. The fountain is stopped up, but the water is starting to spray through the cracks. The dam's about to burst. Or something.
Regular posting will resume shortly.