Lately (as in, this week) I’ve been overwhelmed by the feeling that Life Is Good. This is, no doubt, in large part thanks to the fact that autumn has arrived. This week has seen the first few days of crisp, cool autumn temperatures and breezes here in the Crescent City.  Which is fantastic, because I love autumn most among all the seasons. (Neverminding that we’ll no doubt have a few more oppressively warm days before the coolness is here to stay.)

And I’m adjusting to law school.

And this little apartment is feeling more and more like home.

And, while complaints necessarily arise from time to time, right now they are minuscule, replaced instead with a sense of gratitude for all of the fortunes (non-pecuniary, mind you) and blessings that are present in my life right now, and that feels good. What it comes down to is that right here, right now I feel immensely satisfied with my life. And I intend to relish in it and extract all of the joy that I can from each and every moment.

And I would be well served to store up this happiness and bury deep inside my mind and my heart, to fortify me against the inevitable difficulties I will face as I travel farther along the road of my life.

The Move is over. I’m mostly unpacked. All in all, the process of settling in is going well.

For a while we didn’t have internet. (AT&T was in absolutely no hurry to give us connectivity.) But now that we do, I still haven’t felt much like blogging lately. (I mostly blame the rut in which I’ve found myself in the absence of a routine.)

So, in the absence of any real content, I offer this room-by-room account of the new place as a compromise:

The Kitchen here is of a decent size, which is more than can be said for many New Orleans apartments, but smaller than that in my last home, so I’ve had to get used to not having an abundance of counter-space. And the stove/oven is gas here, which has also necessitated some adjustment. Although I learned to cook on a gas stove and I was previously under the impression that I preferred a gas stove over an electric, after 3 years of cooking on the same electric stove I’m not so sure about my preference. I do like having instantaneous heat or lack thereof, instead of waiting for the electric element to heat up or cool down, but I still miss my old stove; I had simmering down to an exact science before but now it’s a struggle not to singe omelets or burn a layer of rice to the bottom of the pan. I’m fairly confident that it’s just lack of experience, and so I’ll remain hopeful that I’ll get it under control yet. I just wonder how long it will take.
The Living Room and Dining Room are one and the same here, which is much like it was at the old house. Unlike at the old house, the Living/Dining room here also houses Hubby’s desk-and-computer, as well as all of the media that was previously distributed throughout the house. Granted, we both did some major discarding of unnecessary/seldom-used books, CDs, and DVDs (and the VHS tapes have been stored with the In-Laws since we elected not to bring a VCR or TV now that most of our entertainment can be accessed online and DVDs look better on Hubby’s PC with its HD monitor and kick-@ss video card). Even still, our shelves are full to overflowing, and once I hit the campus bookstore next week we’ll officially have too many books once again. The bright spot in all this is that, for the first time in far too long, all of the books are categorized, not only into fiction and non-fiction, but non-fiction has even been sorted according to subject matter, from Cooking to Politics, and everything in between. Yay for organization!
The Bedroom is decently sized here, too, though not as large as the old bedroom. Still, ’tis big enough for our large, solid wood and thus heavy chest-of-drawers, the bed, a bookshelf (which has more folded pants on it than books), and my new desk. That’s right, after far too long working at the dining-room table, I once again have a desk of my own. Yay! I figure that a desk will come in handy during law school, but in other news, the bedroom lacks a door. ‘Tis not a studio apartment, because the kitchen and bedroom are distinct rooms with walls and doorways, but the only two doors in the place are (1) the door to the outside world, and (2) the door to the bathroom. So I  improvised, and we have a curtain hung in the bedroom doorway.
The Bathroom is in the bedroom, and it is wholly lacking in counter-space. The sink is one of those wall-mounted things (and it was obviously designed for a midget, as one must bend halfway over to wash one’s face or brush one’s teeth), so there’s no vanity area around it, and there’s no cabinets or counters anywhere else. (The wire shelving in the bathroom closet doesn’t come in very handy when looking for a place to set down one’s comb while pinning up one’s hair). We’ve improvised with shelving, but it’s frustrating at times. The other weird thing about the bathroom is that it’s in the bedroom; there is absolutely no way to get into it without walking past our bed and my desk, which is fine and well for Hubby and me, but will present a lack of privacy when it’s time to host guests.

And that’s it. ‘Tis a small place.

Out back, there was a lovely Courtyard when we viewed the place, decided to sign a lease, and when we moved in. But since we’ve arrived, the courtyard – formely full of New Orleans charm: fountains, foliage, and ironworks galore – has been ruined. Supposedly one of the fence walls was unstable and so it – and all of the foliage in front of it – was removed, and has yet to be rebuilt. Not being the property owners, only lowly renters, we don’t know what’s going on. All that’s for sure is that our once-secluded and private courtyard is no longer secluded and private. Instead we have a gaping hole on one side with a not-so-charming view of our neighbor’s not-so-lovely courtyard. So that sucks; I just keep hoping it will be fixed soon and restored to its previous private glory.

The other sh*tty thing about the present situation is that the house itself is for sale. Our lease will transfer, so we know we can live here happily until July ‘10, but each and every potential buyer must view our basement apartment in addition to the “owner’s cottage” above. The interruptions started out as slightly annoying but have progressed to intensely aggrivating. And, in addition to the interruptions, in the back of my mind I have to worry about whether or not the new owners will let us renew our lease, or if we’ll be once again settling in come this time next year. I keep hoping for the best, but ’tis a chore to keep the anxiety at bay.

So it begins

This weekend I began the arduous task of packing, which is more difficult this time than it has been in recent memory. For this time we must downsize. We must downsize our living space, and consequently our possessions, but also our lifestyle. For five years now, I’ve played the part of the Responsible, Mature Adult: married, working at a professional office and earning a living wage, while keeping a lovely home which was modest, sure, but in which I could comfortably host gatherings of friends and family.

{One of my fondest such memories harkens back to Hurricane Katrina, when much of this part of Mississippi was without electricity. Somehow, our home kept power throughout the storm and afterwards, and so we opened our home to all of the hot (it was August, and the heat was more than oppressive to those without electric-powered air-conditioning) and hungry people who had nowhere else to go in those dreadful hours and days following the storm. The day immediately after, I raided my freezer and my pantry and managed to cook enough food to fill and satisfy 12 grateful, happy folks. I had makeshift tables set up in the living room, and extra chairs crowded around the dining room table, and in the midst of all that hurricane madness, it was one of the happiest evenings of my life.}

Now, as I prepare for law school and a new stage in my life, I must take a step backward before I can move forward. We cannot afford a two-bedroom home in New Orleans, and so the dining room set is being stored with my grandparents. Our front room couches are being gifted away, and at least one bookcase must be left behind. This means that I cannot keep all of my books.

And that has been the hardest part. The paring down of the books. It literally pains me to place certain books in the library-donation pile, even though I know I’ll likely never read the book again. Some books were easier to slate for donation than others, particularly ones that were gifted to me which I never requested and in which I had little interest. Others, no so much. Some of them hold fond memories, but I cannot justify the cost of moving and/or the thought of cluttering up our new, smaller place simply for those memories. They’re books, for Christ’s sake! I can borrow them from another library later. Others, still, I was able to convince myself to part with. Certain reference books, on subjects like sociology and politics, I reassured myself could be replaced with the internet. (Although an irrational part of me screams, “But what if!? How shall I glean this knowledge in the event of a catastrophic, internet-ending event?!”) And so I was able to amass a decent-sized give-away pile:

the donation

Even with that, my “books to move” piles remain sizeable:

keepers

more keepers

even more keepers

and those which have yet to be boxed

The good news is that I’ve sorted almost all of the books, save those that are in hubby’s studio. (And that’s a chore he gets to tackle.) All that’s left to do as far as books is to pack the few stragglers.

The bad news is that we’re now living in what I call “box house,” which is inevitable around moving time, in both the old house and the new house. Alas, ’tis not a pretty sight:

boxes boxes everywhere

But much remains to be done. I must pare down my closet, the expanding size of which is the stuff of another post. I’ve got to scour every nook and cranny of this place and examine all of our personal effects, deciding at every turn what will make the trip to the new home, and what will be donated or trashed.

It’s like Sophie’s Choice for me, I’m that sentimental and that much of a packrat. The idea of moving, yet again, and continuing to store my notebooks from junior college, or the everlasting flowers from my 2005 garden, seems absurd. But at the same time I cannot bare the idea of throwing these things to the garbage heap, for they are not worthy to be donated.

I did throw away the junior college notebooks — botany, sociology, honor’s english literature, and more — but I couldn’t part with the flowers.

a sentimental keepsake

Some things are just things, and they shall fall by the wayside. But others are irreplaceable. The flowers will one day turn to dust, but knowing that I grew them with my own sweat, in spite of the heat and my allergies and the creepy-crawly insects, I’m just not ready to part with those special mementos of time spent in the garden with my father-in-law. And my 5th grade journals are coming with with me, because of gems like this:

A future Job I’d Like to Have-
I want to be a teacher. I think that it would be fun to teach. I would do alot of projects with the kids. I like playing school now. Thats why I want to be a teacher. Because if it is fun playing then it will probably be fun in real life.

(Verbatim; no edits.)

Day by day I grow more and more weary of my job. Although I’m loathe to leave behind the familiarity of friends and the comfort of intimately knowing a town the way I’ve come to know this Little-Big City, I’m nevertheless eagerly anticipating The Move, and all the opportunities and new experiences it holds in store.

I’ve not before lived in a metropolis as an adult. True enough, as a child and adolescent I knew the hustle and bustle of Big City Life in South Florida, but the realities of day-to-day life in such an environment remain an enigma in my mind. My early memories there are foggy with the ignorance and innocence of childhood. Then my later years there are clouded by the cocktail of early-adolescent hormones. By 16, I had been transplanted to this Mississippi town, which is where I came of age and really came into my own. It is here where I’ve matured, married, and for the most part mastered this thing called life.

The time has come, however, to move on and move away. And so it goes that I’ll be moving to a teeming metropolis, with all of its requisite hustle and bustle. The heretofore foreign things that immediately come to mind, with which I will most assuredly become immediately intimately acquainted, are public transportation, multi-family housing crammed into every nook and cranny, and a pedestrian-friendly distribution of resources.

I also relish the thought of once again being just another face in the crowd; the anonymity that a Big City can offer. This Little-Big City is truly that; degrees of separation are two if they’re one. But New Orleans, by contrast, is so thick with folks that I shall be but one of the huddled masses, which provides a certain measure of freedom.

I’m at once terribly excited and immensely bereft at the thought of moving. And the inescapable eventuality of it looms ahead like death: the particulars – time and place – are unknown, but the inevitability of the occurrence is unavoidable.

‘Tis the sort of thing that causes a girl such as myself to curse my own humanity, or at least the limitations it imposes upon me; that way that the future lurks in front of us, in complete and total darkness, and all we can do is wait, in utter ignorance of how the story of our lives might unfold…

And so I bide my time, waiting to see what the City of New Orleans holds in store for me.

I find myself wondering:
Will there be fireflies in New Orleans?

There were none in the tropical heat of South Florida. Fireflies have always been magical and uniquely Mississippian to me, and I wonder whether I’ll see those twinkling night lights in my new home come this time next year.

*The curse has come upon me* cried the Lady of Shallot

‘Tis a different curse that’s come upon me, tho’ this one –  the Afternoon Sleepies — is no less ferocious or insidious than that which plagued Tennyson’s heroine.

I am half sick of shadows

Why oh why does not American culture allot sufficient time for leisure? The American Work Ethic is so concerned with productivity that we have collectively lost sight of the small pleasures in life. Like afternoon naps.

After lunch, in the midst of an afternoon spent at my work desk, my eyes become so heavy that I often resort to typing with my eyes closed. (Blessed be touch-typing skills!) Why oh why is a half-ass break-neck pace preferred to diligence and conscientiousness? Would that I could doze off briefly in the afternoons! My post-lunch work product would no doubt improve considerably.

But no. That’s not the way we do things here. America lays claim to efficiency and productivity and would be hard pressed to sacrifice those purported virtues, even if it is at the expense of the physiological and psychological health of her citizens.

On Friday, 5/1/09, I officially resumed working full-time. But since that was a Friday, the prospect didn’t seem nearly as foreboding as it does on this Monday morning. With the full week laying ahead of me, knowing that I must spend 40 long hours in that loathsome, stress-filled office over the next 5 days fills me with dread. No more free afternoons to run errands or procrastinate doing my school work. No more afternoon naps.

On the positive side, I can take comfort in the fact that – after tonight, anyway, when I submit my final final iteration of my research paper – I’ll be through with school obligations until August. So at least I won’t be doing the juggling act anymore. On the negative side, the lack of afternoon naps means that the Post-Lunch Sleepies are going to kick my ass.

I’ll now be working the vile 8am-5pm shift with all the other office drones in the world. The sun will be low in the eastern sky when I go in, and low in the western sky when I come home. My days will, once again, be wholly not my own. At least now – as opposed to back in 2005 and early 2006 when I struggled with the feelings of inertia that came from this job and this schedule – I can take comfort in the fact that the end of my time there is in sight, and I really and truly have something bigger and better that I’ll be moving on to soon enough.

Some days are better than others. Today, for instance, was much better than yesterday.

I wrote 1200 of the 1500 words required for the first draft of that darned paper. Although I’m not there yet, I’m very much closer and I feel 1000 times better about the whole project. I now have a much better idea about what still needs to be done, and I don’t feel all that bad about what I’ve already done.

After putting in 5 hours on the paper this evening, I went to the pub for an Open Mic Comedy night to laugh off some stress. ‘Twas great fun! Unfortunately, the guys in the troupe didn’t do any of their usual group-improv routines (in the style of Whose Line is it Anyway), but their stand-up acts were all pretty good, even if I had heard some of the material before. The audience, however, was disrespectfully drunk and loud which did spoil my enjoyment of the act somewhat.

Nevertheless, I drove home feeling rather good, because I found and sat with new acquaintances and saw many more smiling, familiar faces and made brief pleasantries as I made my way out. (And the awkwardly-drunk hippie guy who hit on me was somewhat flattering even though it was a mostly offputting and uncomfortable experience.) While this may not sound like much of an accomplishment, it’s a good indication to me that perhaps I’m not actually an asocial freak after all.

All too often I feel so disconnected and out-of-place in crowded dark rooms in public places. Especially when everyone else is imbibing the merry-making spirits while I sit soberly taking it all in. But tonight was a pleasant exception and the plesant mood it engendered was indeed a welcome change of pace from the crappy mood that plauged me yesterday.

Here’s hoping for a continued improvement as the week wears on; if all goes well, come Sunday I’ll be on cloud 9…

Today I set out with high hopes and good intentions. I worked hard and accomplished much at my wage-earning job. After that, somehow, things went downhill.

I spent several hours at the Law Library, where I was supposed to accomplish two things. One, make photocopies of the two Supreme Court decisions that comprise the case-studies for my research paper. Two, begin writing the body of said paper. (Because my first draft is due on Wednesday.)

I accomplished the photocopying task, but I made hardly any headway with the writing task. I did some important thinking, and I now have a much better idea how I will go about writing this paper. Still, it’s yet to be written and time is running short. I hate myself for getting to this point. I don’t mean to procrastinate, but here I am at the eleventh hour without a paper written.

I wish wish wish that my mental states did not exist on a pendulum, constantly swinging from confident and hopeful to doubtful and depressed. And, as for today, I can’t identify any triggers. The pills/time-of-the-month is not right for hormones to take the blame. The springtime brings me more and more daylight, sun-filled hours with each passing day. Today saw no great disappointment to spoil my mood. For whatever reason, I just found myself in a downward spiral ’round about 4:30pm.

All I know for sure is that some days are better than others.

Unfortunately, this has not been one of the better ones. The evening saw a lovely end, gathering with new friends, tasty good, and good beer. But still, back here at home, alone with my thoughts while Hubby enjoys his day/night off with some karaoke, I’m questioning my aptitude for success. I fear I’m just not good enough, that despite all my effort I’m really not working hard enough, and that I shouldn’t be aiming so high with my aspirations. All because of this stupid research paper and my own all-too-high expectations.

I know this will pass. I know, deep down, that I am good, that I do good work and that if I persevere I’ll get through this semester with nothing less than Bs, which is a worst-case scenario.

So I suppose at this point all there is to do is get some rest and hope for the best. Because, after all, tomorrow is another day.

Today marks the 26th anniversary of my birth. Not much is planned in the way of celebration since money is tight, and I’ve been busy today with school work, so I sent hubby out to run errands.

I finally accomplished the closet-purge project that had been on my agenda for so many months, and sent away 3 garbage bags full of clothes to donation and/or consignment. So that’s a relief; no longer will I have so many ill-fitting and/or out-of-style clothes to dig through when trying to find something to wear. Hopefully someone can purchase them for much less than I paid for them new, and perhaps I’ll make a buck or two off of the consigned items…

Tonight, as a little birthday celebration of sorts, Hubby’s taking me to his work for a wine class. It’s mandatory for waitstaff at the restaurant, and he talked management into letting me tag along since his attendance will preclude any real date we might have otherwise had, and it ought to be a little fun anyway. I like wine, and I like learning, so free learning about free wine would seem to be a good thing.

Spring is in full bloom and the days are slowly but surely getting longer. And while the pollen is irritating to my eyes and sinuses, the blossoms and verdant greens are rejuvenating to my soul. And although I’m not looking forward to the increase in temperatures, the increase in daylight hours certainly helps my energy levels, and the balmy breezes, sunny skies, and temperate 70-degree days are a welcome change from the grey-cold days of winter. How wonderful it is to live on a planet with such lovely variation as the earth provides month after month and year after year!

So I’m glad to be alive, appreciative of the opportunity for another year ’round the sun, and eager to discover what awaits me in the future. Uncertainly and disappointment have characterized these last few months, but right about now I’m feeling rather okay about both the present and the future. As my grandmother used to sing: Que sera, sera; whatever will be, will be; the future’s not ours to see, que sera, sera. I’ll take comfort knowing that I’m strong, smart, and capable, and I’ll make the best of whatever might be.