"you know things are going to be different"

...was Abby-at-work's response when I told her the sad tale of how, mysteriously and in the process of moving, I lost my beloved dad-coffee-table and ONE of my favorite shoes. Yup, the right dansko is missing. The coffee table was parked on the porch awaiting summer afternoons with beer and iced tea needing a place to rest, and someone effing took it. I guess it's because I wrote that thing here about maybe (maybe!) adopting it out.

The shoes are a bigger problem, because I wear them basically every day. And they were from my mom. Hm: one dad item, one mom item. I'm growing more independent every day! I struggle forth in sneakers (bad for ice), boots (slightly cramped in the toes), and super-destroyed old junkers from an adolescent fling with dELiA*s.

Abby's comment reminded me how good it is to let go of things, and to let these mishaps be (somehow?) signs of new things to come. Ghastly but possible: the dansko era is over? I think I'll probably save up some money and replace them.

Practice for letting go of the bigger things. Next up. You know.

momentarily starstruck

If you look under the comments on my NPR post, holy mackerel! Maiken Scott left one! I feel foolish. She thought that I was annoyed by the pledge drive. Now I have to write something clever about how much I really like it. (I do! the drama, the psychological tricks, the pathos, the prizes!) It's amazing to think that really anyone is reading this, much less a Local Personality. Maiken, if you're here, tell me: did you Google yourself? Is there someone at WHYY whose job it is to track blog references?

pack em up roll em out git along

I am 98% done packing for the (rather low-key) move, and wow, where did all these paper clips come from? As I finally reach the surface of my desk, mining down through the paperstrata, and excavating the hardwood in that one derelict corner, under all the postcards for mediocre shows I didn't go to and ticket stubs for those I did--there are wild roaming paper clips. So many! I don't remember the last time I used one. (Thus, the roaming.)

Also, so many things to give away. There's a big swapfest planned for mid-March, and I am equipped. Then there's the stuff I want to adopt out only to good loving homes. If anyone needs a coffee table handbuilt by my dad and painted by me when I was eight, it's available (with or without memories/guilt).

The real guilt-engine is finding things I meant to work on or do something with--yards of unused fabric, half-written cards, piles of charity solicitations. I actually ended up sending out a bunch of checks for the latter. Well, that and the last Verizon bill.

I am really going to miss these roommates. Last night I was baking tofu and doing laundry (triple-tasking!) and took a break from packing to eat fresh hot banana-chocolate cookies by Becky in the kitchen with her and Colin and Jen and Jon. We talked about Inuits not needing to develop lighter skin pigmentation (large amounts of vitamin D in the diet) and putting the cat in the washer and the relative merits of Vegan Treats and V is for Vegan brownies. At midnight.

Well, onward. Hazel Avenue, you done good by me.

other people's problems
obsessed with NPR and its fascinating personalities

This afternoon I cooked an elaborate brunch for myself (cinnamon raisin french toast, smoky seitan) while enjoying the WHYY pledge drive/Car Talk/Prairie Home mashup. I had a rough couple of days this week and spent a lot of yesterday crying out some frustrations and feeling sorry for myself. As Garrison Keillor wavered sweetly forth, I started cleansing the kitchen of my minimal, and my housemates' maximal, mess.

In the midst of my self-pity and soapsuds, the pledge drive alms-beggars are Mike McGrath (You Bet Your Garden; the most overenthusiastic host on the airwaves) and Maiken Scott, his producer. I know her as the gentle cynic occasionally heard on Voices in the Family, greatest call-in advice show ever. Apparently she produces Mr. Annoying as well. Anyway it seems they don't get along--he kept loudly proclaiming that she was laughing ten times more at the PHC "Pretty Good Jokes Book"* than she ever had on his show. She gently and firmly agreed. They repeated this type of exchange, with varying concealment of nastiness, for two hours.

I figure, if Mike McGrath can have a fairly successful show on a major NPR station, while conducting an amiable siege with his producer, what right have I got to cry over my self-perceived lack of homemaking skills? Just saying.

Ooh! The icy February wind is making my windows shudder and my window-wrap flutter. Letting in the cold, of course. Now is the time to fill my Rubber Ducky hotwaterbottle, Anachronism of the Year, and adjourn to my dear sweetheart's warmer apartment.

*What do you get when you eat onions and beans? Tear gas.