I have a lot of resolutions this year. A lot. I guess I have a lot of issues. But the one that I have enjoyed the most of all my resolutions, is
ORGANIZATION 2013. (Monster truck rally voice).
Changed my life, this has. I'm serious. Seriously serious. Serious as just having eaten four bran muffins, downed a big glass of prune juice, and being stuck on the freeway in a traffic jam, serious.
I have scoured this house-- every nook, every cranny, every single closet--
you know what I've learned? Besides that we have (correction: had) a serious amount of crap?
It takes 3 times, yes, 3, to finally purge a house. That's what it took for me to finally be level headed and completely, honestly thorough about what must stay, and what must go.
3rd time around, I was walking through the house, inspecting closets, and thinking in my head,
"Oh puh-lease-- I have gotten rid of everything we don't use. You cannot bleed a turnip."
(Spongebob exaggerated french accent voice)
Bam. I filled my entire mommy van with stuff. Just. . .stuff. Shiz. Crap that clutters and causes chaos and makes the linen closet impossible to close.
NOW. Now you can't bleed this turnip. Everything not needed in this house has either been sold, donated, or spewed out into the garbage.
And it feels good.
Um. . . what are we looking at, here?
Nothing. We are looking at nothing. We've hit an all time low.
But that's the beauty of this-- we are looking at nothing under the bed. In fact, there is nothing under all my beds in my entire house. This is unprecedented! Glorious! Unreal!
Couple other things I've learned the hard way:
--Said it before and I'll say it again: absolute direct correlation between keeping a house organized and not bringing more crap in. Since we know I'm grounded from shopping, nothing new is coming in, thus giving me nothing new to find a place for. And it's beautiful.
--I have a choice: I can either complain and feel chaotic because my house is unkempt (90% of my life), OR, I can bust my buns to put things back where they go. Which leads me to. . .
--The "leave a room better than you found it" advice has really gone a long, looooong way for this place.
I like to think of that last one as similar advice from Coco Chanel:
Now, this does not apply to me on a personal level, as I don't wear jewelry typically, and so if I were to do this, I would have to leave the house with only one shoe, or without pants. BUT,
I do do this in my house. I take away something from the room-- especially anything that doesn't belong there. OR if there's nothing left to take away, that means I try and dust or straighten something before I leave.
Does this mean you will come to my house and think I'm a good housekeeper? Ha. Snort. No. It totally doesn't.
Just for kicks, I took a picture the last time someone popped by unexpectedly, and in my head, the joint was clean.
Yep. Totally clean in here, right? Kids were just playing with these toys, so it's clean, alright?
I've discovered something else about my complex and confused personality--
I build crap. I mean, crap. I mean: contraptions.
I had no place for all the cards in this house. We play a lot of cards.
And I thought it needed a box that looked like a big domino. Or dice or something.
And a friend popped by when I was finishing this, and she was all,
"You know, normal people just go buy a little container at the store."
When have I ever said I was normal??
And then I threw together this p.o.s. shelf to hold stuff I didn't want the baby girl to get into near the vanity table,
because there was a time when this kind of crap happened. A lot.
("You wear too much eye makeup. My sister wears too much eye makeup. People think she's a whore." name that movie)
And then I think it's wise and prudent to pull out a shelf, take it down to the garage, screw in some random pieces of pine in there,
so I can actually organize my daughter's undies. I had no idea she had like 60 pairs up til now.
Contraptions, people. Contraptions.
And then, I decided I didn't like how my curling iron and blow dryer were sitting on/around my vanity table, and they needed to be holstered, somehow.
Took this stuff I found in the garage-- I don't even know what it is so it's probably for plumbing or something--
screwed it in behind the legs on my vanity, and bam.
My guns are holstered. Off the floor. Hidden.
Oh my heck-- I build crappy contraptions. What will this take me to? How will this end?
And will you find me in my house at the age of 70 with a jimmy-rigged stair chair zooming up and down my stairs with a weird wooden drink holder? Complete with a slot for my glasses and my Metamucil?
'Cause that's the road I'm on right now.
'Cause that's the road I'm on right now.