Nothing to cap off a neurotic week like an even-more-neurotic weekend … after settling a week-long internal "should-I-stay-or-should-I-go" (yes, exactly as Mick Jones sings it) debate — this involved lots of numbers-crunching, lots of random stream-of-consciousness conversations with friends and family (BTW thanks S. for lending an ear on the IM) and coming to the conclusion that — since my mental health is priority numero uno, and since this little mental tug-o-war is making me physically ill, that the only option is full steam ahead even if the taxman says "one for you, nineteen for me" at the end of the line. So there’s that. At least I’ve got that.

And what else have I got. A self-storage space in Columbia filled with my belongings. How does this come to pass? Well, since i am selling sooner rather than later, and since my realtor wants my condo to resemble the abode-of-Ward-Cleaver-and-the-Beav, that means the excess scheise had to go. Rented a cargo van to accomplish this over the weekend, only to find the weather to be hot, the TV loud, and the motivation low.

But faced with a 9AM Monday morning deadline to return the van, and with it creeping towards 10PM Sunday night, an urge to clean, to organize, and to purge said excess scheise swept over me. Which I did. All. freaking. night. Paring down layers of mess to reveal the beautiul condo underneath. At 6AM I dropped the boxes at the storage facility. At 6:30 I dropped off the rented dolly, at 6:45 I topped off the van with gas, and at 7 I dropped off the van. Ahead of schedule. And at 8 I hit the IHOP. So take that.

At 9AM, as most of the world was at work, I passed out in my bed, nearly everything accomplished save the lemons in the garbage disposal and/or various other seller’s agent’s tricks.

But the thing is — the more i clean, the more I feel the need to clean. But I think I’m done. It’s time to bring in the professional scrubbing bubbles. The Jedi masters of clean. Because I recognize that "clean to me" is a dangerous sentiment, indeed.

I’m so completely unmotivated … it’s the dog days of summer, I’m sitting in my condo. Watching TV. Fiddling around on the internet. Writing this post :-) I could be out doing something else … but it’s hovering in the mid-90’s with a heat index that’s just plain nasty. So I’m here, watching the O’s and making mental overtures towards cleaning, organizing, and/or packing up my stuff. But my body says, no, uh-uh, physical movement "wouldn’t be prudent at this juncture" (as Dana Carvey’s Bush 41 might say).

My new home in DC, starting Sept. 7. The search is over. I ran into my friend Scott over at John’s place last weekend. Had been meaning to talk to him, as I knew he did some work on properties in SW DC. He said he knew the manager over at WT and said he’d inquire. Turns out he came through huge! The place seems nice — 2 pools, fitness center, garage parking (a BIG plus in DC), quiet neighborhood. Spacious floorplan, in fact, I’m losing very little in terms of space from the place in Columbia. Some nice attractions in SW. To name a few:

1) The fish market on Maine Ave.,
2) The Arena Stage theater (right next door),
3) The "proposed" new stadium for the Natty Nats (OK not built yet, but hey…),
4) The "planned" redevelopment project that will revitalize a currently run-down Waterfront Mall,
5) The Millenium Arts Center,

And so on and so forth. And the best part, it’s about 15 blocks (or 5 blocks + 2 metro stops) from LOC. Hall-e-lu-jah for that. I cannot overstate the importance of this on my mental health… it may end up being the very thing that keeps me from fleeing the area entirely.

So, yes, I will soon be, for the first time — a (relatively) Young. Urban. Professional. God help us all.

Headed over to Camden Yards this weekend to see the O’s with my brother Rob and friend Kate — ate some ballpark sausages, watched some ball, and tried to catch some fan action with the mini-video recording feature on my camera.

Highlights:

This one rascal was screaming at the relief pitcher, "yer a bum, Kline" as Kline was busy blowing the save. I tried to catch him in the act but only caught "Yer a b–". Still, it was funny, he was old-school, a throwback screaming "yer yella" in a 50’s Brooklyn Dodgers game, derby cap and chomping a cigar.

This one old guy was doing a dance, something like the Curly Shuffle but a bit more-ass wigglin’. The first time I got tried he went all subdued on me, but you should’ve seen him during the John Denver "thank-god-imma-countryboy" interlude. Classic.

Two more old guys standing watch in front of us, one wearing the most hideous fluorescent green O’s cap. A couple of "wave" sequences. Rob munching on a chicken finger.