So for non-artistic people who aren't in a sexual relationship, this is supposed to be a time when they could beautify their immediate surroundings. I'm not sure that taking every item of clothing one owns and piling it on the dining room table qualifies as such, but that's exactly what I did, congratulating myself that once it was all sorted through and either thrown away or put into a closet or dresser drawer so I knew exactly where it was I would never have to do it again.
Remembering the storage closet in Randolph cast somewhat of a pall on this wildly idealistic notion, but undeterred, with Neptune oh-so-appropriately trining Saturn exactly in the middle of the day, I soldiered on. Surely it was that - or Pluto beginning to sextile Mars again or, even more likely, both of them combined - that had me get out the hammer and the nails and do my handyman impersonation by banging together the broken bits of the bottom drawer of the tall boy that was making my dressing room a reality - truly, I could care less, as my adopted country-people always say, what it was so long as it will end up with my finally getting some kind of handle on this house.
Maybe turning the laundry hallway into a somewhat down-market dressing room would be considered "abstemious and self-denying" (astrodienst, as usual) by some, but for me, having all my undies in one place for the first time in eleven years instead of scattered between walk-in closet, drawers under day bed and cupboard in office in Silver and Manhattan and Cambridge (forget about Randolph for the moment) is tantamount to lying on a featherbed in heaven watching the original Upstairs Downstairs on Youtube with Bogie, Fluff, Sweet Pea and Ginger curled up next to me not fighting and a tin of mixed nuts and a packet of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups by my side. It's all relative.
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