One Less Desk, Six more piles

My son needed a small desk for his office/laundry room. Since he has given me four beautiful grandchildren and a granddog I attempt to kiss his bottom and help out when it is feasible. I have two desks I really don’t use for anything except stashing and piling things on and with my great skills in both stashing and piling, I have decided I can get along without one of the desks in my office.

I was in my usual hurry this morning. I was supposed to be 90 miles away in two and a half hours. I like to be early…hate to be late and in this case refused to be late as I was going to babysit the grandkids…but I decided to measure the door of my car and see if the desk would fit in the back seat…an idea my husband had scoffed at on an earlier trip…Hey! Surprise! It was just tall enough to possibly squeeze in. I figured I had about 15 minutes to work with so being the amazing time manager I am, I grabbed a couple of boxes and started emptying drawers. I dumped and stacked the drawer…dumped and stacked the drawer…seven times. Then, I started dragging the desk around the table in the middle of the office toward the door. Oops, bumped my Mary Kay delivery bag box…they crashed on the floor. No time to pick them up. Crud, knocked off a box of catalogs and samples. No time to pick them up. Next, while wiggling the desk to get past something on the right, I nudged something on the left, tripped into one of the boxes I’d emptied drawers into and watched one pile of the to-be-filed sales slips slip to the floor. That must be why they are called slips. Okay, drag and pull, push and wedge…after one grand attempt, to re-thinks and a massive surge of strength, the desk was ensconced in the back seat of my car.

I felt a huge sense of satisfaction and a large amount of smugness at proving my husband wrong. Then I raced into the office to grab the last two drawers. Oh, shoot, what a mess. If I had found just a few minutes more, I could have stashed and piled my way to at least a little floor space, but the clock was ticking, the grandkids were waiting and I had to go. Tomorrow I’ll work miracles…Or they’ll work me…don’t know which. It’s just a few more piles.

One Less Pile, One Cat Watching

There it is, staring me in the face.  Reminds me of a cat I once knew.  He would sit in the window and stare at me.  He was a wild cat, lived outdoors all of his life, I didn’t even know where he came from.  He’d sit on the windowsill and stare in, observing my comings and goings, using my life as his entertainment, judging me.  He didn’t really like me.  He would disappear as soon as I opened the door to put out more food for him in the dish I obligingly filled every morning.  I was his necessary provider and something to occupy his time.

So why does the pile under the end table remind me of that cat?  Guess it’s because it makes me feel guilty.   I feel guilty the pile is still there waiting to be sorted through…the cat, well, maybe I should have invited him in.  That pile seems to be staring at me…taunting me…The cat did that too.  He stared and seemed to be laughing at my inability to live a real life.  He knew I’d never caught a mouse with my bare paws or fought for my life with the neighbor or sat on a fence post singing for my love.  Hah, Mr. Cat,  I might have done that last one.  Anyway, the pile is taunting me.  I’m not a psychologist so I can’t say where this weird thought association came from, but still, it’s there.

Difference is…I can get off my kazoo and go through the pile.  Toss most of it.  Save what I REALLY need and say goodbye to another guilt.  Then it will be gone.  And I am proud to say it won’t live on in my memory like the cat.  It will just be one more pile gone.  I’ll dust the end table and go on with my life just a little less cluttered.  I kind of miss that cat.  I’m pretty sure I behaved a little better when I knew he was watching…cats can be so judgmental. 

Duluthian Organizational Excitement

Man, I just took a hit.  Dude, it was soo good.  Mmmm.  Yeah, the best catalog ever..lots of organizational goodies to straighten out my life.  Cab organizers for the truck…on-the-go desks…briefcases for the real human being…the coolest tool belts and tool bags ever.  Gosh, I love Duluth Trading Post…and I’m not even a man…I can’t imagine how high I would get if I were a construction worker.  Well, not too high…I’m afraid of heights, but an organizational high.  Really, so blooming cool I want to order one of everything and then run around singing and giggling.  I wish instead of enjoying the gadgets and thoughts that go into organizing I could actually put the effort into doing it in my own home…but then that might take the excitement out of the entire process. I’m a better fantasy organizer.  

Oh, and let me tell you about the catalog.  For those of us with a weird sense of humor, the catalog is entertainment in itself.  A kind of cross between “Mad” and “Reader’s Digest Life in These United States.”  Very creative.  I’d imagine if you lived in the frigid cold of Duluth, Minnesota you’d be pretty excessively creative also…or pregnant all the time…what else is there to do during those long winters?  Clean house?  I think not.  Work overtime?  Excuse me.  Not enough hours in the day as it is.  Learn to snow sculpt?  Sure, if I can use some of the fascinating tools and clothes Duluth Trading Company hawks.  Oh, and how about one of those incredible luggage sets they have to haul all the the incredible clothes in and oh, I could use one of their mug organizers to put all my pens and pencils into when I’m not drawing the plans for the ice sculptures…oh, and what about the neat roll up tool bag that my carving tools would go in…Gee, I almost forgot…sorry.  And…well, I could wear the long-tail tee shirt so I wouldn’t have plumber’s crack when I’m working on the base of my sculpture…ooooh, I’m getting high again. Heart’s pounding.  Breathing rapid and erratic…pulse boom chickety boom…gotta go. I just got an e-mail from Duluth…their e-mail ads are awesome too.  

Don’t Forget Your Underwear

We are going on a long trip this summer.  Driving across Canada and parts of lower Alaska in a pickup camper…two dogs, husband and me.  My husband will be packed, parked and repacked at least a month in advance.  He will have his boots for hiking, boots for fishing, sandals for showers and all of his foot needs cleaned, polished and neatly placed in little bags inside of big bags 6 weeks prior to our departure date.  His fishing gear, rain gear, travel gear and special gear for anything that will go wrong will be in the camper neatly arranged and ready at a moment’s notice.  His underwear will be rolled and stashed in a special pocket in his travel bag way before we leave.  Really.  He actually has enough underwear to pack them ahead of time.  I, on the other hand, will be praying there are underwear to be had in Canada since the last two clean pairs I own are probably somewhere at the bottom of the clean laundry pile in my closet and of course I forgot to dig them out before we left. 

We’ve been married for 30-some years and he has always had this problem of being prepared.  He doesn’t understand the excitement of waiting until the last minute to delve into the dirty clothes hamper for that one sock that matches that other one.  He’ll never have to check to find underwear with no holes because he buys new packages on a regular basis and then proceeds to throw any old pairs away…AWAY!  Yeah, I know he’s got a problem…he thinks the problem is me and my disorganization.  Boy, do I have a surprise for him.  I’m actually getting some of the important things put into a special bag so I won’t forget them.  Yeah, I’ve bought two new sudoku puzzle books.  I’ve bought a new purse…one of those organizer bags as seen on TV and I am ready to fill it full of everything from bandages to dog biscuits, AND, I’ve actually thought…yes, even studied…how many razors I will need for a month’s worth of leg shavings, AND, I might even shave them before we go.  Yah, surprise, Sweetie!  

So, to the man with extra underwear, don’t worry, I’ll be ready.  Kind of.  I’ll be packed.  Kind of.  I’ll be in the truck ready to go.  Kind of.  Hmmm, I think they wear underwear in Canada, don’t they?  Not the long kind…the wide kind, grandma underwear. I should be able to buy some somewhere, shouldn’t I? Maybe I need to do a little research…he’ll be impressed with that.

Sink Reproduction

My sink is fertile, so very fertile.  I empty it.  It grows spaghetti sauce encrusted plates.  I scour it.  It breeds forks slimed with scrambled eggs now turned to cement.  The pot my husband created his best-in-the- world breakfast concoction in…is now just a rock hard oatmeal receptacle.  When I left for the day, that pot, two cups, two bowls and two spoons were all that was in that fertile sink.  When I got home the sink had grown the amount of dirty dishes needed to have fed the entire high school football team, cheerleaders, coaches plus the band that played at halftime and the house was empty except for the dogs.  That sink.  So very fertile.

So what form of sink birth control is needed?  Guess it’s simple.  EMPTY THE DISHWASHER AS SOON AS IT IS FINISHED OR AT LEAST AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.  Then, LOAD THAT PUPPY UP AFTER EATING!  I’d imagine I could teach myself to to this…it’s only two steps…Empty.  Load.  Empty.  Load.  Empty.  Load.  Yeah, I can do it.  I know I can.  I learned to ride a bike.  I was potty-trained at a fairly early age.  I know how to spell blog.  Yeah, I know I can do it.  I just need to accept the fact the sink is reproductively out of control and the dishwasher has been neutered… 

That ain’t good…

I knew as soon as I drove up and she met me at the car.  She’d rolled in something dead…really dead…and that ain’t good.  It’s 10:30 at night.  I’m tired, a bit cranky and my border collie just greeted me with that look on her face.  I don’t claim to be an animal psychic, but I can read what she is saying a lot of the time and this is one of those times.  Tess is saying, “I’m fine…smell me, baby.  I’ve had a gooo-oood day.  I have a little surprise for you and I LOVE ME!”  

I have never understood why dogs relish a good roll in dead, smelly things or why they appear to  be so blooming proud of the overpowering reeking stink they emanate afterwards, but they do love the stench and they are soooo proud.  I don’t know, maybe it relates somehow to that greeting each other by sniffing the wrong end thing, but, hey, I think I’ll pass on overanalyzing this little habit and just assume they have some weird attachment to really gross stench.  

It seems each Spring our little ranch comes to life with baby kildeer scurrying to hide beneath their mother’s wings, wild iris painting the hillsides lavender, the changing of the brown of last season’s leftovers to the vivid green of lush grasses and…of course, the odor of rotting carcasses from the winter’s kills thawing in the forests around the place…Personally, I could skip the road kill…not the dogs…they have that sniffing the wafting fragrance of icky, sticky, super stench down to a science and as soon as I slip away for a few hours, they follow their nose right to their little smell heaven.  YUCK!  Disgusting.  And so, instead of writing about a really cool organizational tip this evening, I am writing about bathing the dog while gagging.  

It’s over.  She shook and I am drenched.  She smells better.  I smell worse.  The end of a day…So, how was yours?

 

Four Minutes to Get ‘er Done

I’m sitting here watching a black and white “Andy Griffith,” the one where Rafe Hollister refuses to get a shot and Andy describes Rafe’s funeral and sings, “Dig Me A Grave…”  It’s a good one, but the main reason I’m sitting is because I’m tired and the chair looks inviting…until a commercial for Viagra or some type of fiber or a wonderful credit card that will change your life and give you free trips to Madagascar comes on.  Up, get up, hurry…I have four minutes to load the dishwasher and put the wet clothes in the dryer…Kick it in, Chick!  There, that done I race to the freezer out in the garage and grab some ground beef for the meatloaf I’ll be making during “Oprah” this afternoon, well at least during the commercials.  Show’s back on!  I race out to the living room, prop my feet on the chair and sip a little coffee….aaah…Next commercial, clean off a stack of junk mail from the top of the desk, pay the garbage bill and change the birdbath water.  It’s true, I’ve found the answer to procrastination…organize, clean and get ‘er done in four minute slots.  It not only gets a lot of odd jobs done, it also gets my blood pumping so what more could I ask from four minutes?  Hmmm, I wonder if I could memorize “Stairway to Heaven?”  I could then sing it while cleaning the toilet, washing the picture window and dunging a shelf in the refrigerator.  ”And she’s climbing a stairway to he-eea-ven…”

The P’s and and Q’s of Decluttering and a Purple Pantsuit

Yah, there are P’s and Q’s when it comes to getting organized.  The Pertinent Permanent P’s are “Pick up,” “Put away,” and “Pass it on.” 

See that purple pantsuit hanging in your closet.  Your mom thought you would love it.  You don’t.  She thought you would look great in it.  You don’t.  She said you would look thinner.  You don’t.  You really believe because she gave it to you, you have to keep it forever and ever.  You don’t.  So, “PICK UP” your self respect.  ”PUT AWAY” your guilt.  And, “PASS IT ON” to someone who just might love it, look great in it and look thinner.  That’s what they have charity supporting thrift shops for…for all the purple pantsuit lovers in the world.   They are out there you know…you’re just not one of them.

And the Q’s?  Quickly…quit quibbling with yourself over what to keep and what to give away.  Quietly ponder the problem.  You have quite a hang up about the quagmire of questionable items in your house.  Ask yourself…Do I love it?  Do I use it?  Will I miss it after it is gone?  The answers in the case of that purple pantsuit…No.  No.  And, HELL NO!  So let go of the purple pantsuits in your life and let quality rule over quantity.  A quantum concept, eh?

I saw the floor today…

I saw the floor today.

Didn’t look like I had thought.

It kind of appeared magically

when I wiped a sticky spot.

I wiped a little harder,

removed a ketchup stain, 

and when linoleum showed through

I stared in sick disdain.

I used to think it stylish,

but now it’s just plain old.

Underneath thirty years of dirt…

yegads…it’s HARVEST GOLD!

Yup, the color of refrigerators,

bathtubs and 70′s sinks,

either my house is a little dated,

Or my decorating taste just stinks.

That’s what I get for cleaning.

You never know what will show through.

Guess I’ll put my mop and rag away, 

before one clean spot turns to two.

 

 

 

 

Journal Entry: The Files and Me

The first time I realized I had a problem was in an office supply store.  I get just a little high from walking in the door and by the time I reach the actual aisles I am getting a bit organizationally aroused.  I fondle the binders…inhale the smell emanating from the drawers of the little plastic desktop sorters and absolutely giggle in the filing aisle.  Yeah, I’m addicted to organization…or at least the thinking about…the planning of getting organized.  It’s the reality of the doing that is tough.  

Oh, I can do good work.  The best work is when I am delving into someone else’s disorganization.  Love to redo bookkeeping systems.  Get excited about cleaning out drawers in a friend’s office.  Actually salivate when I get to develop a filing system from scratch.  Color coordinated, stamped, coded, alphabetized, numbered, categorized, labeled and placed lovingly in a pull-out drawer of magnificent proportions…oooh, that’s good stuff…I’m getting excited just writing about it.  Yeah, I gotta problem.  

Went to a Target Store today.  The people who set up the store have it out for me.  They put the office products in the front of the store…near the checkouts, candy, health products and baby clothes…all big problem areas for me…Seriously, chocolate, vitamins, fiber pills and cute tiny little frilly girl ensembles right beside the office products.  It took all I could muster to push past the four aisles of heaven beckoning. But I did it.  I have decided I am not buying any new organizational tools until I get MY OWN office dunged out and dunged is the operative word…at least I think it’s a word…anyway, I am going to do it.  I am setting up my own files, finding my own desktop and throwing away…yes, throwing away at least 30 items three times a week for the next three weeks.  When I am done organizing the Disorganized Organizer’s office, I am going to celebrate by getting a fix…I think my reward will come in the form of a new filing goodie…a magnificent piece of molded, preferably made of recycled material, yes, molded plastic. It’s a challenge.  I can do it.  Dung and do it.