one small corner of the universe

One of my greatest weaknesses as a human being is that I allow things to accumulate for such ridiculous periods of time that I often never get around to dealing with them at all, because to address them beyond their natural deadline seems foolish to me, and so I continue to ignore them and have bad feelings about myself for ignoring them–unmailed birthday cards, for example (there is a stack on my desk right now, addressed but unsigned and unstamped), or clean laundry wrinkling in an array of plastic baskets that never gets folded and put away. In my own defense, I have never committed this crime of procrastination against really important life tasks, like parenting, work, and car maintenance (although I have been known to “recycle” the occasional stack of ungraded journals, and I have only ALMOST run out of gas). But I have, for several months now, been allowing this cycle of accumulating and ignoring to affect my writing and blogging, which means that the numerous posts and essays I should have been writing for months now have been reduced to bullets on a list, and like  my 2003 holiday cards, which were mailed after Valentine’s Day 2004, they are yours to ponder.

• I am deeply unhappy with my job, the one I agonized over and leaped faithfully into, and I am taking some action, and soon I will discuss it openly here. Until then, I am completely and totally blaming this job for the absolute loss of creativity I have suffered lo these many months, and you should, too, and you should hope for the best on my behalf. And that is all I can say about that.
• I think someone from Angie.s Lis.t is stalking me. The very day after my painter finished painting the trim in my house (quite badly, I might add), I received an offer from A. L. to “help me find the best painter in my area.”  This phenomenon was repeated after I had my carpet cleaned and my lawn mowed.
• Since February I have sold my house, made an offer on a house, terminated the contract on the latter, moved into temporary housing, closed on my house, made an offer on a second house, and closed on the new house. Here are some things I have learned throughout this process: 1) considering how small my house was (976 sf), I have a lot of crap; 2) you can only donate so much to Goodwill before they stop offering you a tax receipt; 3) you should always trust your weird feelings, because sometimes they mean something really significant, like “Hey, this isn’t a house, it’s a pit of mold, rot and contagion”; 4) the ease with which wallpaper is removed is directly related to the skill and care with which said wallpaper was applied; 5) moving, living in temporary housing, and home repair/renovation directly impacts the potty training process; 6) sleep deprivation from sleeping on a shitty mattress really does mimic chronic fatigue syndrome (I read this somewhere but now cannot find it because, duh, I am suffering from major sleep deprivation from sleeping on a shitty mattress).
• You will notice, if you made it through my blindingly bulleted AND numbered list above, that I did not mention moving INTO the new house. That’s because I haven’t. I keep setting deadlines for the first sleep under the new roof–and missing them, because I have this dream of moving into a house that is, well, move-in ready. And right now it is so not move-in ready. This Friday is the day, though, I can feel it. There are sofas there now, and a bed in my room, and only a few unpacked boxes remain, so I am hopeful.
• My daughter, who began showing signs of a temper very early in life, has apparently made it her life’s work to perfect the tantrum. She is freakishly strong and can resist a diaper change or a car seat buckling with such force that I am often afraid my efforts to triumph in these areas will result in injury for one or both of us. She has also become a picky-at-best eater, loudly voicing her preferences (yogurt, apple sauce, and cheerios) and systematically ignoring nearly every other food in existence. She is also quite verbal now, and when presented with something she doesn’t want to do, she loudly proclaims, “I don’t want to ____ ANY-MOW-AH!” Activities that have filled that blank lately include, but  are not limited to, bathing, wearing pajamas, wearing clothes, being safe (in the car seat), sitting (as opposed to standing) in a chair, eating anything resembling a vegetable, picking up her toys, having a wet diaper removed, having a dry diaper applied, allowing a grown-up to brush her teeth, getting a haircut, and having her uncut wild tangle of hair pinned back out of her eyes.
• Despite her, eh, high spirit, I am more in love with my little wild girl every single day. She is reaching an age where she is intentionally funny, and nothing tickles her more than making someone laugh. She knows the words to several songs and asks for them by name; her current favorites are Jason Mraz and Colby Caillat’s “Lucky,” Rob Thomas’s “Little Wonders,” and “Shake Your Booty” (K.C. and the Sunshine Band?). She is easily embarrassed when asked to perform on demand, but last night, without an ounce of reservation, she did a spontaneous little shimmy/booty shake/tree in the wind dance in front of 20 strangers at a restaurant. She is intensely curious and has a frighteningly good memory, and even though her reply to my “What do you say?” is often, “I don’t want to say please any-mow-ah,” she rarely forgets to say thank you, and if I am lucky enough to be at home when she wakes in the morning, she smiles and says, “Good morning, Mommy.”
• And finally, this post has been brought to you by the fine people at Pfi.zer, makers of Zo.loft, without which I would not be sitting calmly at my desk munching on tortilla chips and typing these bullets.