As in “anthology.”  As in, Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces, Norton Anthology of American Literature, and Norton Anthology of English Literature Volumes One and Two.  And this is how I know I have a problem.

For those of you not familiar with the Nortons, they are not the most charming of books.  Heavy, chunky, ultra-thin Scripture-like pages, tiny print, no illustrations.  You could probably kill someone with one of these bad boys, without even trying all that hard.  They’re like the Steven Seagal of literature - not much in the way of nuance, but they get the job done with brute force: “You fuck with Catullus, you die.  You fucking know who wrote ‘The Death of Ivan Illyich’?  Do you?  Why don’t you turn to page 1943 and say that to my face, muthafucker!”  Hauling these books around has been like doing penance for some horrible literary crime, like - I don’t know.  Seeing the movie instead of reading the book - which I would never do, of course.  (Except that once with that one book by that one guy.  You know who you are, One Guy.  You are a terrible and long-winded writer, my friend.)

Still.  While writing this post, there suddenly appear to me a heavenly host of reasons why I should keep the Nortons, praising their usefulness and saying, “Keep these books, you dillhole!  Where else will you find such a vast array of literature gathered in one location and so convenient for referential purposes?”

But the truth is, that my attachment to these books has nothing to do with their usefulness.  I mean, really. When would it be, exactly, that I would have a sudden, urgent need to reference Francois Rene, Vicomte De Chateaubriand?  Well…actually, maybe if I ever need to - okay, not the point, nothing to see here, moving on -

The point is, I am attached to these books because they have been there with me through everything since I was 19 years old:  countless moves, countable boyfriends, my mid-20s midlife crisis, deaths and births, my mid-30s midlife crisis, living in Seattle, living in Korea, living in Idaho - they’ve seen it all.  And because I have moved around so much and so often, my sense of home is often a bit skewy and I have a hard time attaching the concept of ‘home’ to a geographical location or particular living space.  In a quiet way, in a small corner of my mind that I don’t really notice most of the time, I have never really felt that I had a home.  Or, rather - I have felt that I carry that idea of ‘home’ around with me.  And when I come to a new place, a freshly-painted vacancy behind a numbered door, the thing that sparks the home heartbeat and lets me know where I am is my books.  Out on a shelf, adding weight and substance to what were at first just empty, hollow rooms.  Having a bookcase full of books in a room is like having a fireplace there.

So anyway.  Sending the Nortons on their way now, after all these years, is making me rather anxious, but I think it is good.  Good to be divesting myself of those things I cling to for the sense of security and continuity they provide, but I think ultimately, that sense of security is false.  And I think that I would rather be awake and scared, than asleep and safe.  

At least at this stage of the game.  Talk to me in a few days (or even later this evening) and I may be singing a different tune:  ”Put me to sleep!  I don’t care!  Just - where’s the scotch?  Gone??!  What the - okay, here - take this Norton Anthology of English Literature Volume One, and just heave it at my neck, will ya?”

AHA!  A use for the Nortons!  

Maybe I should keep them….

It’s all pioneer days up in here, y’all.  Lose the dead weight!  Throw it out of the wagon so we can get across the damn river!  And Grammy!  Toss her ass to the - (well, not the curb, now would it be) - to the prairie grasses!  ASS to the GRASS, old woman!!

Seriously.

I tell ya.  I’ve been ruthless, all day, just - completely without ruth, and hoo!  My dogs are barkin’, yo. Exhausting to be the Scourge of La Jolla.  Exhausting, but necessary.  Sometimes there’s no substitute for a good ol’ scourge.  Maybe not as discriminating as one would prefer, perhaps a bit overzealous (”When I said ‘Throw everything off the wagon,’ what part of EVERYTHING did you not understand?  How about “My boot up your ass”? Understand that???)  but gets the job done.

And so, via various self-threatening techniques, I have reduced the number of books in my possession by…well, maybe a third.  Which is not half (for those of you who are following along mathematically). Ahem. But, I would like to point out that I DID reduce the number of boxes of books by half.  Magic!  I will leave you to ponder this magical feat of engineering, for I must now hobble into the bedroom where I will wrap a hot towel around my head and sleep the sleep of the just about.

The Short List:

(There is a Long List, but due to my humanitarian leanings, I refrain from sharing it with you.)

1.  Book reduction underway.  Failing utterly.  My powers are weak.  The Force is not strong with me.

2.  Someone tried to scam us on Craigslist.  I, being a sucker but not a fool, opened my jaws, but did not bite.  Instead, I would like to invite all you scammers out there to BITE ME.

3.  Lactose intolerance is no joke, my friends.  Damn the spinach manicotti.

Take it to Goodwill, muthafuckah!

I am comin’ to you live from the backside of Day Two.  Making progress, sold a few things on craigslist today, took a car load to Goodwill, and tossed a bunch of crap in the garbage, such as:

1.  Cotton halter-type bras in such an advanced state of disintegration that you could probably blow on them and they’d float off like dandelion spores.  What?  They were only seven years old.  Shut up.  

2.  Socks which were hand-me-downs from an ex-boyfriend (!) in the first place, and which I then proceeded to wear well past the appearance of the first toe-hole.  I even developed a system for socks with toe-holes:  wear the sock so the hole is on the outer toes, then wedge underneath and between pinkie and fourth toe.  Might I add that these socks also never fit me properly - the heel part was always flapping up around my ankle (reminiscent of the manner in which darts on dresses built for large busted women flap around my busticle area).

3.  Black fishnet bodysuit.  Don’t ask.

All in all, the day has turned out well.  We reduced the number of boxes we’ll have to move by about half, which feels really good.  Lose weight, feel great!

And tomorrow, I am on to THE BOOKS.  

Yikes!  

More Bloody Mary mix, stat!

(glug) Ha!  (glug, glug)  Take that, Penguin Classics!  (glug)  Is it hot in here?

Starting small, trying to lull myself into a false sense of security.  Sold my desk yesterday to a very sweet Korean family.  Not too attached to this desk, only had it for a year.  Today begins the real task - dealing with all the many, many boxes which lurk with sharpened teeth in our storage closet.  

Stuff like - I have this charcoal drawing of my mother when she was in her early 20s.  What the hell do I do with this?  Can’t toss it out, or give it to Goodwill, it’s my mom, for crap’s sake.  And I don’t think we’ll have a good place to hang it in our new apartment, so…..it’s shit like this that will be the cause of contiguous Bloody Marys.

Be back to report more later.

I realize that the flight was a bit delayed before the boarding process started, and that it was a full plane, and that you simply wanted to expedite our departure.  I also know that dealing with the public as “customer” is often a harrowing task which would singe the nasal passages of any sentient being.  So, in the spirit of understanding, and coming from someone who has worked more than her share of customer service jobs, I offer you this tiny piece of information:

If a person does not speak English, simply raising the volume of your voice will not do anything to change that fact.  Shouting the same three words over and over, with an angry look on your face is not the Rosetta Stone in a nutshell, and will not magically penetrate the confusion.

Perhaps talking in a quiet but clear tone, and directing the person to an area out of the aisle where you could talk to him without the pressure of people waiting to board would have been a more productive option.  As it was, I think the gentleman in question experienced something akin to walking into a formal dinner with his trousers on fire and his dingle-dongle dangling.

I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but now let me just say this:  I hope that next time you encounter such a situation that you will stop to consider what it might be like if it were YOU trying desperately to fit your carry-on in the overhead bin on a plane in a country where you do not speak the language.  South Korea, maybe.  My people are some loud, fast-talking muhfuckers, and I’ll just bet you don’t speak any Korean, do you?  

ANNYONGHASEYO???  YOGI???  YOGIKASEYO???  ANNEEYO!!!

Seriously.

Eat them.  

My shorts.

And have a knuckle samwich and nice surface-to-ass missile while you’re at it.

Eat my shorts.

I can’t go into what’s taken me so long to get back to the hedgehog, my dears.  Nay.  Suffice it to say, I have phantom-kicked Ralph Nader, Howard Schultz, and David Stern in their respective baby-makers with the amount of force in keeping with douchebaggery of the acts they have committed.

Now.

We’re moving.  Again.  To Austin.  In TWO WEEKS.  

Holy-mother-of-mosesmurphy-and-a-shitstick!

(Calmly.  Carry on.)

So what this means is:  I will once again be hellbent-for-leather PACKING ASS as swiftly as may be.  And this time, I must follow the three Rs:  reduce, reduce, reduce-for-the-love-of-GAWD-you-unholy-HOARDER.

No.  No, I did not just call myself a whore.  Please watch my lips: Hor-DUR.  Sigh.  I have had to come to the rather disheartening conclusion that I am, indeed, a hoarder.  And while I am perhaps not a hoarder in the classic school of “stacks of newspapers to the ceiling in every room and cat poo in the spaghetti-strainer,” I have my area of weakness, which is…

My books.

Oh -

(wailing, thrashing, gnashing)

- my lovely books!  Gack!

Um, seriously.  I do think I have a problem.  I mean, is it normal to get short of breath when I think about getting rid of my books, even ones that I know I will never read again?  I don’t think so.  I really don’t.  And I am tired of having so much shit to cart around in my life, especially now it’s obvious that my idea of being settled by this time of life was but a fool’s paradise.

So here’s what I’m a gonna do.  I’m a gonna go through my books, and cut their number by half.  Thunder and lightning (and very, very frightening)!  Yes.  And as I progress through this soul-wrenching, completely asscrackey task, I am going to come weeping through this bloggy door in the dark of the bloggy night, and tell you tales of these precious, booky friends from whom I am now rent asunder (or will be by next Tuesday).

So all I’m saying is…you might want to have nice glass of wine, or a cocktail or two - or ten - to get, you know - properly prepped for this.

I’m gonna.

Ralph?  Raaaalllppphhh?  Just what exactly is it that you think you are doing?  All right.  I’m a go read some shit, about what you said and shit, and when I get that shit straight, I’m a come back here and have some words with you.  Siddown and try not to get another Republican elected President before I get back.