Still on the post Christmas exhalation

I had an idea last night for a post that I'm sure was absolutely brilliant. Unfortunately, it's evaporated. This happens to me a lot, though less so lately; the less so having more to do with the lifting of depression than some inspired move towards organization in my life. I'm working on the latter. Getting ready--or, more accurately, fearing getting ready--for the big move has pushed me to begin packing (my kitchen was dismembered anyway, so why not put the things we rarely use into boxes instead of putting them away?) and to begin doing my own personal deaccessioning. (Look it up. It's a word I learned my junior or senior year of college, when I took one of my favorite courses of all time, museum curatorship. The teacher, Susan Casteras (you will have to scroll down in the link to get to her) was fabulous, and I got in touch with her a couple of years ago via email to tell her how much her course changed my life. Didn't create a purpose for my existence or anything, but forever changed the way I experience art in museums, the way it's organized, explained and hung. As usual, I digress.)

Anyway, as part of the pre-move get rid of stuff I don't use, need or want project, I bought more clutter, namely, this, which I spied on the shelf of a dear friend who, while not, I suppose, impeccably organized, manages to gracefully keep multiple family, career and friend balls floating in mid-air. And her husband, like mine, prefers a clutter-free, minimal-possession world. It's well-written, somewhat to my surprise, as I had never jumped onto the Idiot's Guide juggernaut before now.

more to come...


Late, just like my Christmas cards

If you're thinking, hey, we got a card last year, where's our card from the O family this year, rest assured, you probably haven't been cut from the list (or, the loose amalgamation of thoughts kept only in my head about who to send cards to. There was a list once, but it disappeared along with most of my other organizational capability when my second kid was born. Sorry...) but rather, will be receiving your card, with any luck, in time for the new year's eve traditional disappointment. I do my best, which is often not quite good enough. What can I say. In the meantime (imagine me singing here:)

Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.


Lurky friends, please say hello

So, one of the things about having a site meter is that when I check my stats, even if there's no referral for a visitor (that is, they didn't click through to me from another site that the meter captured) I can often see where they are located. So, for example, I know a couple of people very dear to me in spite of not much regular contact over the last few years have been reading. If you live in an unusual place, I know who you are. So say hello. I miss you, and would love to hear your news, or your comments on mine.



Just to clarify...

The previous post was from Friday night, but didn't post until just now. So I am not sitting at home in a darkened room with my kids, getting sloshed on eggnog, in the middle of the day. No. I save that for the end of the day, of course. (And, truthfully, I didn't get sloshed. Just a little more relaxed than I was previously. Later, I'll post the pictures of my house in its current state, and you will understand.)

Is it drinking alone if my children are here?

Happy holidays, I say, in spite of the chaos that reigns like mean old King Herod in my happy house. That's eggnog in the picture to your left, healthily spiked with Knob Creek Bourbon and Myers Dark Rum. You need both; trust me on this. Bourbon alone tastes too mean; rum too tropical, but together, they are, like Little Bear's porridge to Goldilocks, just right. And you can use supermarket eggnog with no ill effect (and no risk of salmonella)--in our neck of the woods, that mean's the good stuff from Broguiere's Dairy, in lovely old-fashioned glass bottles.


Be afraid.

Every once in a great while, like bloggers everywhere, I check my stats. They're not that impressive, frankly; my readership is small (but loyal, it seems--thank you!) and has grown a bit lately, thanks to NaBloPoMo and my program of self-outing. (Apparently I'm becoming more of an exhibitionist in my advancing years. You'd think the H would like that, but not so much. That's not one of his fetishes--when it comes to being watched, he's a bit of a prude. But I digress.)

Anyway, procrastinating today (I need to get to work on my paying job, not to mention my current career in home remodeling--remember, we list in less than three weeks!) I went to my little site meter. It turns out that more than one person in the last two days found me by googling "Lindsay Lohan." Now, that's sad on a couple of counts. First, who actually needs to Google L.Lo. to find her? She's as ubiquitous as dust in my kitchen. (It's being painted, which means first, it's being sanded, which means first, everything had to come out of the cabinets and be piled hither and thither on kitchen table, dining room table, dining room floor--you get the idea. It's so sad you have to laugh, and I have pictures to prove it.) Second, if you google her, and get to me--well, that's just wrong. I am the least celeb-focused internet presence I can think of, except maybe Mieke and Alyssa. So for those of you who've come looking for Lindsay's manifesto, or Brit-Brits hootchie, I am sorry to disappoint. Well, the hootchie-hunters, anyway.

The check's in the mail

We did it. Signed the contract, paid our deposit. Escrow begins any minute. [deep breath in. hold. breathe out.]

Maybe I need a paper bag.

Mostly, I feel excited. Occasionally, I feel adrift. The H's moods are up and down (this is not new, nor is it caused solely by cross country relocation. He's an...emotional...guy.) The friends are either laughing or shaking their heads.

I am going to sleep.

BTW, early next month, the site I'm writing for will go public. You might think I'm more interesting when you read what I'm publishing over there. (Or not.)



With the illusion of readership comes the illusion of responsibility

I have been bad, bad, bad about posting, and yet, having outed this blog quite a bit over the last few weeks, occasionally intentionally and then often not so intentionally, I do feel some responsiblity (what? to my public? please....) to post. Anyway. I do want to get in the habit of posting because I think after we move this will be a good way for me to keep in touch with friends in L.A., and give them a window into our wacky new life. (Please chime in if you think that's completey obnoxious. It's my week for hard criticism from people I love, so jump right on in--the water's been a little acid, but it hasn't burned my skin off, yet....and that's enough on THAT subject.)

Our house (in L.A.) is mired in the death rattle of polish up brush up prior to being listed for sale in January. At the moment, my kitchen is completely disassembled, as we are having the cabinets (and walls) repainted, inside and out. Have you ever done this? It's SO MUCH FUN. You have to try it. No,really. There's nothing like seeing your children crawling around the kitchen floor with their heads under plastic sheeting covering the piles of food removed from the pantry, looking for snacks. If that's not a holiday moment, I don 't know what is.

As to the farm which might as well be in Africa--we sign and send the contracts and final installment of our deposit TODAY. Did I mention, TODAY? To make me feel better about this, tell me what you think of the picture.

BTW, has anyone been following the Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Nicole Richie cultural multi-train collision/derailment/massive explosion? Who are these girls? And when, oh when, will we stop caring?


Where the hell I've been

So, not only did I not finish NaBloPoMo thanks to my netless adventure to upstate NY at the end of the cursed month o' posting, I've also disappeared from here since my return, just at the point when I finally outed myself to a bunch of friends (hi, friends!) as a blogger. (Good tactic, no? Reveal the existence of the blog, but then fail to post, so they turn away, bored.)

Actually, I've been busy writing elsewhere. I've been hired as a writer and editor for a soon-to-launch website , and it's been sucking up what little free/writing (sadly, for me, they tend to be the same thing) time I can find. As soon as the site goes public, meaning, loses its password protection and eliminates the few remaing bugs, I'll have a link up here. It's a pretty innovative approach to social networking, and I'm enjoying my work there. Mostly, I'm writing about food (and you know I love that) but also about literature, parenting, and whatever else strikes me.

But it does kill the blog energy a bit. So here's the update. We are buying the farm (see picture at the bottom of the site.) These are the things that scare me about it: debt (for a month or two, hopefully not more, we're going to own two houses. This is not something I have ever aspired to, my preppy education notwithstanding.) Small town personal politics. Everyone, where we're going, seems to know and have an opinion about, everyone else. It's a little bit like high school, but with tractors. I find that a bit intimidating. Tractors. Mowing. Land to be maintained, cajoled, probably not tamed. Moving. I hate packing, and unpacking is almost as bad. Leaving my dear, dear friends, who better keep reading this blog so they have some faint idea of where and who I am when I leave behind the life I know and mostly love.