I Meant To Call You....

Don't hate me, don't hate me! It wasn't like that, honest. I meant to call. I lost your number. I've been sick. Yeah, that's it. Sick. But I'm better now, promise!

No, not really.

I actually went out a bought a new bookcase, so my new office daybed wouldn't be lonely. And then a new desk, to go with the new bookcase. Which I have justified by noticing suddenly that my home office is trapezoidal. I've got one crooked wall that, for no apparent reason, follows the property line rather than common sense or the laws of physics, hence my old 90 degree L-shaped desk never fit my 120 degree office corner. I've lived with it for 5+ years, but I really want to reclaim that wasted space. So in my search for more space, I got and assembled my new desk before getting rid of my old desk. Which means I can't really get into my office right now.

Yeah. I know. You don't need to tell me.

If that wasn't Panda-brained enough for me, the new bookcase thing has devolved rapidly into a new obsess... I mean hobby. Now that at least half my books are consolidated into in one bookshelf, I have started "organizing" them. And for those of you who are huge fans of the Dewey decimal system, I'm not quite that organized.

I've got the "foreigner in another country with a big honkin' house who can afford to have charming adventures in remodeling while wandering the countryside eating exotic meals and I have to sit here drooling because I can't afford new vacuum bags for my L.A. rat trap much less to travel outside of this country since 1991" books at the end of one shelf. Those are snuggling up to the "non-fiction with a disclaimer added post-publication so legal can stop their brains melting out their ears" memoirs... and you know who you are! Next come all the anthologies of women who travel/women's spiritual journeys/women and men who travel and get paid to write about it books. And just before I ran out of room, I squeezed in my favorites of the Literature/Memoirs (to be continued on the next shelf), those whose prose has been widely praised and is deemed deserving of the Bestowing of the Capital Letters.

I'm not going to bore you by walking you through the rest of my shelves, but Isabel Allende's memoir-ish book really should be next to the rest of her books. That's not going to work, however, because fiction is the next shelf down. So do I split up Isabel's works into solitary orphans scattered here and there, or do I keep them huddled together and leave a lonely fiction stranded in the non-fiction?

What? No, this couldn't possibly be more procrastination. Don't be silly!