Eating the Elephant

The return from Paris, a little less than a week ago, went fairly well all things considered: all flights on time, all connections made, all bags arrived. Not too bad, all the way around.

We came home, however, to an apartment that needed some serious attention. I won’t go into the details, except to say that it was Bad. And then there was the twelve weeks’ worth of mail, both at home and in the office, and the million errands that needed to be run, in order to get life back on track here. All of it together was positively overwhelming; as R. said, it feels like you have to eat an elephant.

Of course, the only way to eat an elephant? One bite at a time. So that’s where I’ve been since our return to SoCal: taking that bite, chewing it thoroughly, trying not to think about how many bites remain.


  1. The cats are fine, thank goodness — I’d rant about that if they weren’t, trust me.

    And: bugs, no. But: mold, yes.

    And remind me to tell you sometime about the macaroni.

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