Three Cheers for Poor Planning

Today we finish moving upstairs. It feels preposterous to say that, because this does not look like the apartment of people who will be living somewhere else in 24 hours. But the next four days are spoken for, so this is our only chance. Yesterday while Eric was at work (thanks to my friends Natasha and Gina, who carried the heavy stuff), I managed to move and put in their places 80% of the books and most of Eric's rocks our knick-knacks, plus the electronics (minus computer) and hundreds of movies and CDs--which are all up there, in the media cabinet, alphabetized. I also cleaned the living room, hall, and bedroom, so the windowsills are no longer black, the mats of cat hair on the blades of the ceiling fan and in between the radiator coils are gone, as are the several things on the walls that may or may not have been boogers.

But--and here's the ridiculous part--that leaves cleaning the (filthy, by my admittedly neurotic standards) bathroom and kitchen, plus moving about half the living room furniture and the entire contents of our bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. And nothing is actually packed. On the bright side, I discovered yesterday that it's surprisingly quick and easy to toss stuff in a box, carry it upstairs, and empty the contents of the box into their proper place. Plus, today I have helpers: Eric is off work, and our friend Jonathan will be our bitch for the day. I think he works for beer.

Still, I'm feeling overwhelmed, like I've been given an hour to eat an entire cow. With a plastic spork and no knife. And since my morning cup of tea is empty now, I think it's time to start digging away at it. Wish me luck and sanity.

My Sister the Rock Star

Tonight I got to see my little tiny baby sister sing in front of a small audience, and I wish you all could've been there. Because her voice is mature and smooth and smoky, like something I could really listen to, and because she wrote one of the songs she sang. She's so talented, I had to smile while she sang, just to let some of the air out of the pride pressing against the inside of my ribcage.

Teresa, I'm honored to be your sister. But--fair warning--when you're famous, I still get to call you "kiddo."

Short-Haired on the Outside

At the moment, the inside is having some trouble identifying with the outside. But then again, it's only been given a couple of hours to get used to it.

This morning, I looked like this:


Then this happened:






The ponytail on the counter used to be attached to my head. Obviously, it's not anymore:


My hair hasn't been this short since I was about a year old, and to me, that just doesn't look like me. But give me a couple of days--I think I'm going to like it.

(Thanks, Natasha, for going with me and taking such great pictures at the salon.)

Not Recommended

Being afraid of your own cat is a pain in the ass.

I know I said I wasn't going to write about it anymore, but forgetting has turned out to be futile. Piper hasn't even really forgotten yet. I thought she had, mostly, because she'd been so cool and normal for a few days, even yesterday when the property manager banged on our door to borrow a pen. But last night after dinner we opened The Window for the first time in two weeks to clear the eye-burning onion residue from the air, and she became a giant ball of kitty tension. This morning she was fine until the other cat and I walked toward her at the same time. Then she fluffed up to about twice her actual size, and I felt compelled to call Eric out of bed to protect me. He's sleeping again now, on the couch, with Piper stretched out next to him. A few minutes ago I gave her some love and some treats, and all seemed well. But Eric leaves for work in an hour and a half, and I'm anticipating a tense day.

I've been reading about cat aggression online. The usual recommendation for a situation like this is to block the cat's access to The Window. Not sure how that's done. I've emailed the property manager. We're moving. Preferably before our lease is up in August. Maybe that's how that's done.

***UPDATE***
I just talked to the property manager. The apartment directly above us will be undergoing a few renovations, and will be available at the end of this month. She showed it to me. I called Eric. We said we'd take it. Time to start packing.

***UPDATE 2***
The crazy has begun to set in. More specifically, the: did we act too impulsively what if the layout up there is too similar to abate the cat's window anxiety oh no I'd given up on that out-of-town job I applied for but now what if I get it and we're saddled with another 12-month lease this is going to cost us more in rent I don't get any of the excitement of moving into a new and different space maybe we should have held out and looked at more apartments I can't believe I'm moving into an apartment that still has a gouge in the door from where someone tried to break in not that long ago now I have to start packing up my house and it hasn't even been a year since the last time we had to move and I have an insecure cat who, according to my imagination, could attack me if I start packing boxes and moving stuff around. You know, the crazy.

Extreme Bravery on the Horizon

This morning, suddenly, apropos nothing, I felt ready to go through with that Locks of Love donation I've been mentally toying with for the last few years. Ten inches will take my hair length up to my chin at least, and it hasn't been that short since I was 14. The thought of giving up my (limp, out-of-control, boring) mane of hair gives me a little spasm, like it would be a lapse in modesty. Like I would need to cover my naked self. That spasm felt terrifying a few months ago, but now it feels exhilarating. I even took the step of finding the cut I think I want (picture Elisha Cuthbert brunette, and less beautiful, please):













I like that it's short without being spiky or extremely head-hugging. Internet? Are you behind me?