Maybe deciding that I've had enough Diet Dr Pepper and cutting myself off doesn't do as much good if I promptly start drinking coffee instead.

Maybe this is why my hands are shaking.

Maybe I can vibrate through time...

I am a magpie by nature and a flea market aficionado by nurture; I have a finely-honed nose for yard sales, second-hand stores, unexpected caches of used books, and little hole-in-the-wall junk shops on the verge of going out of business. I come by it honestly -- my mother and my grandmother both amassed collections that put mine to shame. In my mother's case, several times, since she keeps rebooting her stash and starting over from scratch. I sometimes suspect that we may be descended from dragons, except for the part where I don't really care much for spicy food.

I have spent the last two days locked in unending battle with my bedroom, where the phrase 'well, it still closes...' has been uttered more than once, and never in jest. I've toted out boxes and bags of debris, given my mother two large boxes of toys to take to my suddenly acquired* collection of nieces and nephews, mailed a bunch of holiday and birthday gifts -- some even for this year -- and taken out three bags of recycling.

It still looks vaguely as though an atomic bomb has gone off in here. Perhaps more worryingly, I'm still missing things. Where's the second volume of X-Men: The Complete Onslaught Saga? Where's my soundtrack to The Slipper and the Rose? Where, for the love of all that's holy, is the cat?

Actually, that's easy. The cat's in my suitcase, hoping to sneak to Seattle with me. Sorry, Lilly. I'm not quite that unobservant.

I don't think anyone can deny that this is an improvement -- all my dresser drawers are closed, you can see most of the rug, both my dressers are totally cleaned off, and my desk is only under about six inches of crap -- but really, I've just managed to get the place to the point where it looks like someone might be getting ready to clean. And I still haven't addressed the question of what I'm going to do with the big CD rack (homeless since the removal of the snake cage), or where the leftover penguins are supposed to go (I'm beginning to consider the garbage disposal).

Dear Great Pumpkin: if you see that Santa Claus guy heading for my place this year, please punch him in the nose and send over a maid service instead. They may need flamethrowers, machetes, and holy water. Oh, and Kevlar, because the cats are pointy and I suspect Nyssa may be undead.

Love, me.

(*It turns out that when your baby sister marries a woman who already has kids, and who has a sister of her own who also has kids, you become an aunt. Who knew?)