Isn't Ironic? Don't You Think?

In the midst of trying to reduce the mounds of paper clutter in my desky area, I found a multi-pocketed envelope folder that was sent to me after I joined the National Association of Professional Organizers. It was full of stuff. I kept 5 pieces of paper, not counting my membership card.

Decluttering material from an organizing organization? It's like rain on your wedding day.

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I dreamed I was in Blogtopia. Well, first, actually, I was in Chicago, in Buck's flat (only it wasn't his actual flat, it was bigger but it was still in the Marina Towers) and the wind started blowing and the tower was pitching quite a bit but we knew we were going to be OK. The Hat came to clean the apartment and suddenly I was asleep on The Neighbor's lawn and a big black dog came and stood over me and announced "The Iwanski's are here". But I couldn't get up because the dog was standing over me so the Iwanski's left because they thought I was too tired for a party. The good news is that the party wasn't until the next day and they came back. with the dog. Which they claimed was a husky but I'm sorry, huskies aren't black and shaggy. The dog in my dream was, in fact, a very large schnoodle, probably because my dream kept being interrupted by The Dog, who really is a schnoodle, chewing on himself. Which he's been doing to the point of giving himself a bald spot on his right haunch. Yes, we have a vet appointment this afternoon.

Anywhoo, JP was there, but I don't remember what he was doing. Standing on my deck drinking champangya and smoking, probably. Sling was there. Mouse wasn't there, which was ironic in a good-advice-that-you-just-didn't-take sort of way because in the dream she was the one who had organized the party in the first place. This probably owes to the fact that she has been wanting to come out but has to win the lottery first and I know that and am keeping my fingers crossed.

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The Child is giving me fits with frequent Drama-Queen-Teenager-with-'Tude performances. Everything is such a big, bloody deal. There is a veneer of perky calm that, with very little pressure gives way. (An example of little pressure would be, say, a request to unload the dishwasher...especially if it's the 3rd time I've asked so I say it like "Will you please get out here and unload the bloody dishwasher?"). Once cracked, there gushes forth a tsunami of doubt, fear and inadequacy. Then, when asked to calm down and talk about it she wails, "You just wouldn't understand!!!!"

Seriously, when those words came from her lips the other day I almost laughed, it was so typical. But I didn't, of course, because I wanted her to try me. Because if there is one thing I know, it is that there isn't a mote, smidgen or scintilla of teenaged angst that I am not going to understand. Been there, done that, bought the matching hat and shoes.

She's freaking out, naturally, because High School is a'looming. Applications are due by December/January. Entrance exams (one takes entrance exams for Catholic high school) are the first part of December. Applicants are notified by February. She's overwhelmed, she's worried about the tests, she's worried about the fact that up until the last trimester of last year her grades sucked.

Don't tell her this, but it's all freaking me out, too. What I did tell her is that I truly do understand (never mind that my understanding derived more from my getting-into-college-phase than high school) and that the looming, forbidding feelings owe to worrying and not doing; that once she begins studying for the exams and filling out applications and such, she'll start feeling like it is all a smidge more manageable.

She sat down to study yesterday after home work. For half an hour. Good girl.

Except she's still giving me fits about other stuff. Because basically it is all about her and anything that disrupts the perfect little orbit about her is cause for Chernobylesque meltdowns, accompanied by impressive door slammings and stompings. Although, really, she needs fresh material. At one performance this weekend she gave The Spouse a good dose of "I hate you! I hate you! I really, really hate you!", which I found to be predictable and derivative, though it was delivered with passion and verve.

(Note for the record and apropos of nothing: when I write the word "weekend" I pronounce it in my head like a British person, with the emphasis on "end", even though I hardly ever actually say it that way when talking to actual people, given that most of the people in my immediate circle are Americans).

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It's Tuesday and that means nothing anymore. There is still a hole in my life where the "Gilmore girls" used to be. It's like that phantom limb syndrome, where amputees still "feel"the leg or arm that has been removed. I know "Gilmore girls" is gone. I know there is nothing on television at 8pm tonight. But the feeling lingers. Damn you, Lauren Graham!





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