We’re moving in twelve days. Ish. We’re moving in twelve-ish days. Also? The final, final, finally-final edit of our book is due in fourteen days. (No “ish,” there. Fourteen days. Two weeks from today.) Those are two very big things that I am doing in two weeks. So.
This final book edit includes all the art that will be in the book, which includes not only the excellent illustrations by our devastatingly talented illustrator (as well as additional images by a multi-talented blogger you may be familiar with, and if you’re not, you should be) but also all the public-domain clip art and photos we’re relying on because 1) illustrations are expensive (if worth it!) and 2) did you know that the authors have to pay the illustrator out of their advance? Or their trust funds? Whichever? The things you learn!
So I'm a little busy. It’s a good thing I have these beta blockers to abuse, I’ll tell you what. Plus fistfuls of Xanax. I am so goddamn mellow.
Let’s talk about our apartment, shall we? We got an apartment. I’m really excited. It’s the only apartment on the third and top-most floor, which means there shall be no one above us to stomp around and/or murder each other. (Of course some pigeons might engage in a final showdown up there. As they do.) No one will even be walking past our door. And if anyone approaches our floor, we have permission to kill them. (I think. I have to check the lease.) Also, once it is built and barring any acts of God etc. we will have a roof deck. Roof. Deck. All to ourselves. Party at our place!
The place is sunny and high-ceilinged and has many other fine attributes, such as a washer/dryer (every apartment dweller in New York just got woozy when they read that), and Henry loves his new room. It's going to be great. In the meantime, though, we have to move, which is unfortunate. Who wants to help us pack? We’ll supply the boxes and packing tape. Where are you going?
The good news is that we’ve seriously streamlined since last year’s move, when we owned a quirky and vast collection of teapots and numerous vintage suitcases filled with tortured diaries and, oh, an an entire basement crammed floor to ceiling with baby items. I’ve discovered that I enjoy nothing more than getting rid of stuff. I am the anti-hoarder. There should be a reality show about people like me. “Squanderers.” “Throwers-away.” You can watch me stacking gravy boats on the curb with a sign that says “FREE! GET IT OUT OF HERE! FREE!” while Scott pleads with me to keep at least one, for God’s sake, surely at some point we will use gravy on something. Get on that, television executives.