I'm not surprised but I never feel quite prepared

As Jake has duly noted, spring has now officially sprung, which may at least partially explain the mad nesting in full effect — but not that kind of nesting, mind you.

Although in my case, "nesting" means graffling and re-graffling the basement until it looks poi-fect and ready to go. Then there's the matter of clearing and organizing to pave the way for the floor guy to come in. At some point the larger basement project will require a bit of demolishing, which I am gleefully looking forward to.

I actually started a bit of the clearing/cleaning/organizing project yesterday, and the poor cats were so freaked out by it. Well, Fatso took it mostly in stride, but Spotso was clearly terrified, hiding, and meowing like crazy. Poor crazy Spotso.

. . .

I finally remembered to put a hold on JPod at the library, and I'm glad I didn't put it off any longer because I am only number 2 in line to read it, which means I'll get it straightaway after the library receives it. Yay for me!

I wasn't quite so fast on the draw with The Yiddish Policemen's Union and so am down at number 24 on the list. In general, however, it seems as though the SPL has much shorter hold lines than KCLS for new books. I wonder why that is.

. . .

An excerpt from Eleanor Rigby, the last Coupland book I read (thanks, bill!):

"Where does loneliness come from? I'd hazard a guess that the crapshoot is that family has more than a little to do with it — father's a drunk; mother's an agoraphobic; single child; middle child; firstborn; mother's a nag; father's a golf cheat . . . I mean, what's your own nature/nurture crapshoot? You're here. You're reading these words. Is this a coincidence? Maybe you think fate is only for others. Maybe you're ashamed to be reading about loneliness — maybe someone will catch you and then they'll know your secret stain. And then maybe you're not even very sure what loneliness is — that's common. We cripple our children for life by not telling them what loneliness is, all of its shades and tones and implications. When it clubs us on the head, usually just after we leave home, we're blindsided. We have no idea what hit us. We think we're diseased, schizoid, bipolar, monstrous and lacking in dietary chromium. It takes us until thirty to figure out what it was that sucked the joy from our youth, that made our brains shriek and burn on the inside, even while our exteriors made us seem as confident and bronzed as Quantas pilots. Loneliness."

. . .

I should be noted that while I was writing this, the cleaning ladies came and tossed me out of the house so I did some light gardening. Gardening! You see the madness, people?