I live in a small house. All space needs to be used efficiently, or it drives me crazy. I get no end of pleasure from things organized well. That’s not to say that I actually have everything organized well, just that when I do, I am happy. Nay-sayers who claim that any organized space in my home is contrary to my true nature are vastly misinterpreting what it is that I am. Or they’re completely balmy.

This week has been devoted to removing the clunky, inefficient bookcases and instalilng shelves beneath the large windowsill that spans the front of the downstairs portion of the house. I did it mostly myself, with some preparation and errand running from the JeT. We teamed up to actually get the books from their holding area on the dining table to the shelves. I think they work quite well, though in order to fully utilize the space at hand, most of the books have been placed on their sides with their spines facing out. The front door interrupts the sill; on the left we’ve placed non-fiction, and the right, mostly fiction. I say mostly, because in addition to fiction there are a couple of memoirs, games, and a few other things I can’t think of right now.

This is not an interesting post, but I’m not really doing much of anything interesting. Unless you count waiting for the call about the second job interview and waiting for the cat to shit as interesting. I’ve been watching the World Cup while putting up the shelves and the aforementioned waiting, but I don’t actually know how to write about sports. Oh, I’ve also been reading, but I don’t write very well about books, either. I’m never satisfied with how I write about things I like. I should find more things to dislike so I can entertain myself by writing about it.

Pretty much a waste of a post, really.