- My Country House is closer to the FAKE gallery, where I finally caught Matt North's hi-larious music-and-comedy act, HAIL THE SIZE!, and I hit the wall fast after 11pm (10%)
- The BF is out of town and staying at his place a night or two makes me miss him less (10%)
- I get to enjoy my weekly middle-class treat, reading the Sunday L.A. Times on the deck (60%)
So I wake up, grab a nice cup of tea and my paper, and carry them both to the fabulous garage-roof deck that overlooks the reservoir. Doesn't get much nicer than that; I'm a lucky girl.
Only about three sections into the proposition, my ankles start itching. Like, c-r-a-z-y itching. I mean, I'm starting to wonder if maybe my old pal, Mr. Eczema, isn't making a return appearance. Only this feels different, like...like...
...LIKE A MILLION FLEAS ARE HAVING BRUNCH ON MY LEGS!
At least I think they were fleas, since I hear tell the bastards jump a lot and magically resist death by slapping. I wouldn't know, I grew up in a civilized apartment-hold, sans dogs and avec indoor kitties. What I do know is that when you sit down to relax and find your ankles black with bugs, it does something to you.
In my case, it set me off on one of my tears. I spent the next 8 hours playing White Tornado at My Country House. Fine and dandy: it needed the attention.
More importantly, because really, we are more important than our stuff, since we, and not our tchotchkes, are the ones who go out and interface with the world, so did I. Physical labor clears my head and cleans my psyche, and they both needed it after too many consecutive days at the keyboard. After a full day of focused attention on one thing, the house looked better, I enjoyed a real sense of accomplishment (and actual physical fatigue), and there are clean sheets again for everyone.
Only today, back at the c-trix ranch, things are looking...well, a bit grim. Grimy, in places. Cluttered almost everywhere else.
I give you, for instance, the six bags of books that need to go to the used book store. The silverware drawer that makes me want to eat with my hands. The piles of Stuff festering away, scoffing at my earlier attempts at Getting Things Done.
But really, it's not my fault. How can I Get Things Done when I can't find the Things to Do under the layers of Los Angeles filth that have accumulated on top of them?
So I'm taking a page from my own book, so to speak, and kick-starting my way to a new 'tude with a three-week attitude adjustment program: Cleaning My Damned Apartment™. Sure, walking for an hour or so a day would probably work just as well, if not better, but I know myself. I'll never justify taking a whole, entire hour to "just" walk; I can, on the other hand, trick myself into some meditative time if I cloak it in the guise of usefulness.
Besides, then I wind up with a more peaceful demeanor AND a bitchin' crib.
All seredipitously timed to coincide with Birthday Week...