All I want for Christmas is a bunny suit

Sometimes I get the overpowering urge to clean everything in the apartment, a memetic trait I inherited from my mother. I jokingly refer to it as "vacuuming for fun," which is not so very far from the truth. It's reassuring to have things clean and in order, and even if there are other things - surfing the internets, reading, smothering my cat with affection - that are more overtly enjoyable, I find myself in spare moments armed with sponges and spray bottles, ready to do battle with the bathroom sink.

This usually coincides with a burst of unexpected energy; today, for instance, I had a cup of tea, which still hasn't quite worn off. (I'm extremely sensitive to caffeine.) I got home, fed the cat, emptied out the refrigerator, and started scrubbing. I then moved on to the kitchen counter, home of the microwave and the seedy, crumby residents of its underbelly. Not bad for an evening usually spent playing Puzzle Pirates. That done, I ventured into terra incognita: the top of the refrigerator.

The fridge being taller than I am, it rarely occurs to me to use it as anything but a place to store my cereal boxes, which don't fit in the cabinets. To my horror, I discovered a thick layer of grime coating its surface, the inevitable byproduct of life in Los Angeles: anything near an open window, or stored on a patio, is covered with the work of Jack Smog. (He also does lungs.) The effect lessens with proximity to the ocean, but it's still enough to make you consider moving someplace with better air quality. Like a cleanroom.

Suppressing the urge to dry heave at the three years' worth of accumulated sludge, I hopped off the chair I'd been standing on and ran to the sink to wash my hands and regroup. It took me a couple of hours to work up the nerve to climb back up, but I finally managed to get the top of the fridge to look like its regularly textured self. 

Lessons re-learned: 1) Just because I can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't need to be cleaned; 2) Los Angeles air is filthy, and so, in all likelihood, are my lungs. 

Write on

For someone whose inner monologue tends to sound like Dobby, this blog post from the Harvard Business Review gave me pause... and got me to hop back onto the ol' blog again.

The past few months, to use cliched shorthand, have been something of an emotional roller coaster. Two weddings, two funerals, and two graduations, the attendant whirlwind such huge life changes tend to bring about, and a partridge in a pear tree, haven't exactly conspired to make the urge to write a vital part of my routine. But rather than flog myself with Ann Landers' proverbial wet noodle, ensuring a continued lack of productivity, I just need to write. Easier said than done, of course, but that's par for the course for most things worth doing.

Stay tuned for further updates on flying a (tiny!) plane, blacksmithing, scuba diving, meeting Patrick Stewart, and making Chris Hardwick laugh!

Kaizen smash

While I've always been goal-oriented, I'd be hard-pressed to define myself as a self-starter. Rather, I start things, but have difficulty completing them unless I have a firm deadline. And unless this deadline holds some kind of imminent doom, I tend not to take it too seriously.

This morning I signed up for the LA Triathlon. This means I have 269 days left to train my sorry carcass to swim, bike, and run without keeling over or soiling itself before the finish line. To quote the Talking Heads: "My God, what have I done?"

So with September 30 less than 9 months away, bearing the promise of more physical activity than I've probably done in the previous 27 years of my life combined, I think it's safe to say that my feet are being held to the proverbial flames...