This dreary, misty week has given me a chill. And maybe the oak pollen casting a yellow cloud over everything in the Texas hill country has something to do with it. But I am not thinking very clearly this week.
For instance, I am obsessing about Spring Cleaning. Here. Now. Get-‘er-done.
As Mark plans to watch Virginia Commonwealth in the Final Four this weekend, I am making a To-Do List. I am bound and determined to get things in order. And I am making a plan.
As I grow older, I think I am showing signs of early-onset hoarding. I like stuff. I have a hard time letting go. I need to nip this in the bud. This weekend.
What was Patrick’s room until he fled the nest, is now completely empty unless you count the new permanent home for the ironing board, which I quite honestly have not used since the Bush Administration. HalleyAnna’s room still has a few things in it. I will make a schedule and start at that end of the house.
Should not take long to pick up the remnant rolls of Christmas wrapping paper, the Scotch tape and scissors and ribbon left over from the holidays – trimmings that transformed Patrick’s room into the holiday staging area. Two stray Christmas stockings are still tossed across the ironing board. Somehow, they missed getting packed away in the attic with the other holiday trimmings. So I’ll stash them somewhere, and wonder where the heck they are next December. 15 minutes.
Then I will take another run at excavating HalleyAnna’s room. She has taken everything she wants for the new digs in Austin. The Weezer poster and her high school letter jacket didn’t make the cut. Well-worn CDs that long ago lost their jackets are dealt like a hand of cards on the floor next to an old jam box. Kacey Chambers. Cake. The Best of Hank Thompson, Vol. II. No time to dilly-dally. I can come back to reminisce later. 15 minutes.
Next up, my office. It looks like a cyclone hit. Receipts and tax forms are still sorted and piled, waiting to be filed away. But clutter reigns in a cozy way in this little corner of my world. I’ve been meaning to go through the stuff in that footlocker… and organize my CDs… and, is that my Flannery O’Connor anthology? Ah, so that’s where I put that box of Aunt Helen’s old letters and pictures. Been meaning to read throgh those letters. Maybe I will save this room for later.
On to our bedroom. Open the windows. Dust and vacuum. Fluff the pillows and swifter the ceiling fan blades. 30 minutes.
And then into my closet. Really, does a political tshirt ever become a collector’s item? How many San Marcos High School Band Booster Mom shirts do I really need? Do I really think I am ever going to fit into that “skort” – or want to wear it? What was I thinking when I bought that awful linen cropped pant suit? And that short denim jacket was on triple markdown sale for a reason.
But I am not throwing out my dream jeans. My skinnys. No, not those trendy “skinny” jeans of today. Just a faded pair of old favorites that I can’t bear to think will never fit again. And exactly when does a single digit dream become fantasy? Enough. Forget about the pile o’ shoes for now – it’s time to move on. 45 minutes tops.
What do you call the bathroom counter? The Vanity sounds so – well – vain. Dump the drawers and sweep off the counter top. I am giving it 10 minutes and a large garbage bag. This accumulation of product has got to go. I have seen how I look when I leave the house. It can’t possibly take that much product to get there. Open drawers and dump.
And then, back to the office. Take a break time. A frosty Topo Chico with a squeeze of lime will be in order. Shove that pile of stuff off the sofa. Stack those magazines in the corner. 5 minutes.
Crank up the iTunes and settle in with Flannery for a while. Enough is enough.
Listening to: Bob Seger- “Old Time Rock N Roll”