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anti-anti-clutter movement

so Thursday i made attempts at fighting off my “potential-Hoarder” disease.  if you followed my recent post  Collector’s Anonymous, you know that i am something of a, errrr, hobbyist.  i like to collect toys, books, and stupid things that you find in a large landfill.  i have label stickers that i rescued from the trash bin and re-use for projects, empty cardboard boxes that used to hold rolls of tape that i will decorate and use to present homemade jewelry in, and a plethora of odds and ends that haven’t yet told me what they want to be when they grow up.

but Thursday i went to work: emptying boxes, tossing old notes, recycling long-forgotten-unused-VHS tapes, and working up a huge sweat.  i was at it all day, scolding myself for holding on to things for so dreadfully long, and laughing at myself for thinking that some things would be useful, when they are so obviously broken dollar store rejects.  i also praised myself for the excellent odd book collection i’m developing; we have tons of classics and interpretations on classics, as well as art books, film and TV books, and architecture goodies.  worth keeping for sure.

by the end of the day i was fairly pooped.  so on Friday i gave myself the day and evening to fart around at nothing.  which led to the following fun, and therefore this blog.

my nieces showed me a website about a trillion years ago, when they were just little things with no boobies.  it’s been in my favorites bar now for years after we played there,

i had no idea this site could actually take snapshots of me and my sister Bodhi (Tobie) but check these out!



this is EXACTLY what my sister Tobie looks like.  well, her hair is a little more red and blonde…


and this is a pretty damn good likeness of me,

except that i’m juicier in the mid section and -umm-


yay for lazy computer days and dress up games!!!


i’ve heard a million times (wait, a bunch of times, i’m not sure i have the attention span to count to a million)…i’ve heard a bunch of times that the brain is a computer. good stuff in, good stuff out. bad stuff in, bad stuff out. our memories get wired together with emotions. we get programmed by the time we are five. my syntax is incorrect and giving me errors. whatever, i get it.

what i don’t get is the recording button. where the hell is the recording button? i need a damn dictaphone for my computer! this happens to me, i don’t know how many times a week (sorry, the calculator option in my brain’s computer has never been correctly calibrated): i’m in the shower, and come up with a great paragraph for my book. a PARAGRAPH mind you, in the shower. when i’m all naked, and sudsy, and rubbing my hands all over my luscious skin and distractingly plump bosoms and … oh sorry, wrong blog. so i have this awesome paragraph in my mind, and i run to my room to jot it all down, and by the time i sit down wet and still naked and luscious, and get out a pen and paper, well damn! it’s gone! it was this brilliant piece to my book! just vanished!

then this happens to me when i’m driving. who cares where i’m headed, it’s more of the same thing. great idea. great lines. great blog. but then it’s gone by the time i get near a writing instrument.

what happens here? all of the words are right there, coming out of me…flowing out of me like a stream of brilliance. and then i try to capture it and my brain gives me the “i’m sorry, this does not compute” message. or the creepy 2001 message in a deadpan voice, “i’m sorry, dave, i really can’t help you, dave”. but i’m like “HAL, you dumb controlling creepy computer, my name isn’t dave!” (although i could date a dave, i suppose, and then if i married him i would be MRS. dave, but i don’t think HAL actually ever says MRS. dave)

if only i could find the manual for my brain. i’m sure it must have some feature like a DVR, and i can work those fine. i’d just like to be able to hit the back button a couple of times and replay these fabulous stories and blogs and masterfully crafted chapters and revolutionary literary pieces that would surely win me some prize or honor, and i would stand and give a modest speech about how i thought up the whole book in the shower. but maybe that’s mike myers’ thing, making scripts for movies in the bathtub, so i don’t want to rain on his parade. nobody likes a copy cat.

so i guess i either need a dictaphone, a better memory drive in my memory drive, or maybe a personal assistant who doesn’t mind co-ed showers and who also happens to have waterproof ink pens.