Just can't get going, is what I'm saying.
But I press on, nonetheless. Never have I let the lack of mental acuity or capability prevent me from broadcasting my fevered thoughts, so I'm not going to start now.
The labors of the 21st-century home office organizer: Rip all your unripped CDs so you can never be more than a few mouse clicks from mountains of music gigabytes, then try to decide which books you can donate to charity, which ones you can try to sell on Amazon or eBay, and which ones you just can't part with. I'm not overly romantic about books, but I will admit to having trouble parting with any I've accumulated, even if I've never read more than a few pages. I doubt I'll ever again be faced with a test from Geology 101, but can I take the chance and dispense with that textbook?
And what about that box of cables that continues to breed and expand? Every time I buy a new electronic doohickey, it comes with cables both proprietary and universal, and I'm paralyzed by the thought of throwing any of them away, lest I one day find that I can't use my USB-powered coffee stirrer to its full potential. (I'm kidding with that coffee-stirrer remark, of course. My coffee-stirrer runs off the 220 outlet I had specially wired into my computer desk.)
It's interesting to watch the two views of housekeeping The Lovely Missus and I have. I've almost never met an artifact I didn't think I'd need to keep, sometimes to the detriment of living space and to the benefit of dust collection. The Lovely Missus, on the other hand, never met an artifact she didn't approach with the same disregard "Star Trek" directors had for red-shirted crewmembers. They know they're gonna get whacked. It's just a matter of time.
Luckily, each of us has grown to moderate the other's excesses. I still glom onto and hoard things longer than I should, and she still goes "Take no prisoners, give no quarter" on things we end up needing later, but the end result is shaping up to be a rather healthy, middle-of-the-road approach to housekeeping. Except for the t-shirts. Nobody touches the t-shirts. You wouldn't like me when you touch the t-shirts.
As my longsuffering wife will tell you, I'm kind of obsessive about my t-shirts, even though I'm now old enough that there are a few I'll only wear around the house. Sometimes, you just age out of the t-shirt demographic, and I don't want to be "that guy."Jacob is almost walking now, two days shy of his turning 10 months old. He has a plastic lawnmower that he inherited from his cousin Victoria, and if he holds onto it, he can walk a few steps. I've yet to shoot video, but of course you know that it's coming. Oh, and I'm pretty sure he's already figured out he can get away with epic levels of murder as long as he flashes that smile. We're in for a long childhood.
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I don't know whether to ask you where in the world you come up with such an event as the Molasses Flood, or simply tell you that you are brilliant. Maybe both. I enjoy your writing so much!
ReplyDeleteLisa
Believe it or not, Lisa, I have written about the Boston flood, and would have written about the Mississippi one if I'd have had the time to further research it.
ReplyDeleteAs far as how I come up with stuff like that, I'd love to say that you're dead-on, and I'm just too brilliant to be believed. But the duller truth is that I've always have an innate ability to sniff out things like that. If I ever read or hear about them, I can usually recall them, even much later. Not trying to sound overly humble or anything, but that's just a gift.
And thanks so much for the compliments. I really appreciate them!
JD