The countdown has begun: 24 days until I leave for England.

Until then, I have a lot to keep me busy. Mom's out of town for the week, so guess who gets to play Donna Reed? 

Yup. My SNF-cultivated cooking skills are being put to the test - so far I've made a half-decent chicken dinner, a scrumdiddlyumptious risotto, and some horribly addictive pear-ginger muffins. Taking over my mother's duties has also meant driving my sister to school at seven-frickin-thirty in the morning (it's been way too long since I've had to get up that early. College has ruined me), laundry ("look at all the buttons!!"), and grocery shopping (Dad's grateful I'm old enough to buy his beer finally).

But since I'm jobless otherwise, I've also started attacking my comics : filing, bagging and boarding, and of course, rereading. Currently working my way through Gail Simone's run on Birds of Prey, and HOLY MOLY I've forgotten how bloody fantastic (heh, pun partially intended) her writing is. People ask why I read comic books, and all I can do is point to this book. Witty dialogue, engaging characters, heartbreaking and hilarious and thrilling and terrifying, and ALWAYS spot-on characterization. Her Secret Six stuff is equally phenomenal, just a bit creepier and bloodier (to be expected, being about mercenaries and all...). This woman is the best thing that's ever happened to DC Comics.

And that's your drive-by update, folks!
 

I think my laundry's been cheating on me. It's been sneaking out at night and mating with somebody else's.

I don't remember owning this much clothing. Do I seriously have twenty-seven pairs of socks? 

I suppose the more accurate question in this case is WHY IN THE WORLD did I bring twenty-seven pairs of socks to last me two months with access to free washers and dryers??  I can hear my five pillow cases whispering while the eight summer dresses smirk haughtily: "The over-packer in you is strong, Skywalker." 

Some of the excess of textiles I can chalk up to not knowing what type of clothing I would be most comfortable in on the job. Turns out I wore shorts more often this summer than I expected to, which left several pairs of jeans lonely in the bottom drawer. No excuse for the 13 undershirts though. Or the four sweatshirts, six sweaters, two fleeces, and one windbreaker. (I left the partridge and the pear tree at home.) Looking around me as I type, my floorspace - which was quite considerable up until a few days ago - has shrunk to leave a wickedly meandering curve between the door and the bed; and to get to the closet, one must reach over a super-sized tub of hangers, grab fast to the sliding door that doesn't actually slide because that would be convenient, thrust an arm blindly forward and hope for the best.

Where oh where is Mary Poppins when I need her? I tried snapping my fingers and all that happened was that the Beach Boys stopped singing and the Weepies took over on my iTunes. Sigh...time to dive back in, I suppose. Wish me luck!