I just wrote an entire paragraph here and then I deleted it because IT FUCKING SUCKED. You'll have to forgive me, I haven't had a drink yet this morning and the thunder kept me awake all night, and no, that is not a euphamism for Gray's schlong, although if he asks you, tell him it is. You'll never have to buy him another birthday gift, although he may ask you to put it in writing first.
Speaking of putting things into writing, I just realized that today is my submission deadline for my October column so I should probably get around to, you know, WRITING IT, and stuff. I can always count on a deadline for school to strink sudden inspiration into my blog life, and a blog deadline to inspire in me a expansive/pointless craft project and the threat of a looming deadline like, oh I don't know, HAVING TO PACK OUR ENTIRE HOUSE SO WE CAN MOVE IN FIFTEEN DAYS, to make me realize that I haven't been doing nearly enough sock drawer organizing lately.
It's bizarre, living in the mind of an anal-retentive procrastinator, because I want everything to be exactly perfect all the time, but I don't want it to be exactly perfect right now, tomorrow should be soon enough, except that in the meantime I'd like to develop ulcers over that pile of unwashed laundry in the corner that I'll have plenty of time to do next weekend.
I have decorated every square inch of our new home in my head - it's keeping me up at night - literally down to the new house numbers on the new mailbox, but I haven't yet joined one cardboard box with one crumpled newspaper with one piece of our worldy possessions. This seat-of-my-pants packing schedule makes me realize that a part of me must believe A) all my shit will magically appear at the new place and put itself away like this is some kind of episode of Sleeping Beauty except my fairy godmothers are all red-headed and well-accessorized and B) that upon arrival at the new place, all said shit will magically transform itself into a bunch of shiny NEW shit that coordinates with each other and gives the illusion that I'm this masterful decorator, yet all the while I'll be dancing naked around my house singing the soundtracke to Anne into an empty chapagne bottle and stopping only to make ill-advised, online furniture purchases.
In other words, it's probably not going to be all that different after all.
*Go here. Then it will seem like I did something.*