Last week we took a break from work and moving to go on a long-planned vacation with my husband’s family. We stayed at the Colonial Majestic Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic, and I can attest that it looks as beautiful as it does on the site. High marks for scenery, rooms, friendly staff, lower marks on food, if you’re looking for a place. We spent the whole week with my one-and-a-half-year-old niece as well, which equates to what I call Kid Therapy. (Note: I don’t think this works if it’s your own kid.) Kid Therapy is when a snuggly small child hugs you, cuddles with you, or says your name repeatedly, and you decide that everything in the world is going to be OK after all.
…it is a pretty stark contrast to the current state of our apartment. I don’t know if clutter bothers you, but when clutter or mess gets to a certain level I can’t think, or focus on anything; I just want to put everything in its place. (A strange trait for someone with an otherwise artistic temperament, I know.) Because of selling furniture that holds stuff and because the movers are coming next Wednesday (can you believe it?), there are massive piles of un-categorized STUFF everywhere. There’s piles of books (unread, read, unsure if we want them). Piles of clothes (dirty, clean, questionable, need to go to dry cleaner). Piles of kitchen objects improbably mixed with score cards I received in concerto competitions seven years ago. Piles of framed photos mixed with the equipment that cleans camping hydration packs. So many piles that when we actually want something (say, the packet from the movers themselves), we can’t find it.
And in the midst of this I’m trying to concentrate enough to finish copyediting a very long novel. So if you can’t find me, look under the piles, OK?