I have very little to report, but it’s okay. I’ll just throw some shit down here and see if the simple act of typing takes over, as it so often does.
Disclaimer: Magic didn’t happen. Please skip this read unless you want to become bored and or drowsy.
It was kinda warm and sunny today. Sierra had President’s day off, and so we treated it like a holiday which meant taking baths instead of showers, braiding her hair, watching cartoons, running around on the beach, eating at least one meal that consisted entirely of junk food. Nice day.
After we got home, I launched into Cinderella fury. This must be a particularly feminine characteristic. I’m comfortable with a somewhat chaotic habitat, most of the time. I don’t like nastiness at all, but piles of books seem like a natural part of the ecosystem. I still throw my clothes on the floor until the pile gets big enough that I either notice or trip over it, then I kick it into the hall and lug it up to the laundry. “Stuff”, meaning the indefinable detritus of everyday life, tends to cover every available surface before I notice it enough to dutifully clear and organize and start the process over again. We do take pains to keep the living room neat for Meredith’s sake. But my room and our hall space/bathroom is what you could term a ‘cheerful frenzy’.
More? You masochists. I’ll tell you right now what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna describe my virtuous if a little nutbar cleaning tendencies just as if anyone cared.
But then this thing happens where I’ll walk through my space and suddenly feel the need for absolute, deep-seated purity.
Yeah, purity. In Cinderella mode, I don’t ‘straighten’ or put wayward belongings in a more fitting space. I’ll like, take every single book off the bookshelf, dust the shelf, touch it up with furniture polish, let it sit overnight, then organize all the books by genre, author and title in alphabetical order.
I won’t do the laundry and toss the sheets in, I’ll pull every item of clothing out of my drawers and closet, sift through and dump anything I don’t wear anymore, wash and iron anything that looks wrinkled, and sort the clothes not just by shirts/jeans/underwear but into sub-categories like sweaters, t-shirts, ‘gap-wear’…. jeans, slacks, workout pants.
I won’t even tell you about the paper-work/junk-mail/misc. papery type thing aspect. It’s too horrifying. Paperwork sucks donkeyballs. I hate shredders, I hate filing things and balancing things and digging through and opening mail I’ve ignored for 5 weeks, but in this mood it gets done with horrid thoroughness. I probably hate the process so much because I make it so hard.
See? I told you. You coulda stuck with the abridged version.
Right now I’ve gotten through the books, the clothes, the ‘stuff’ in the hall, and arranged the paper crap into separate piles for their separate fates. And I’m tired. I just stepped outside to wheel the recycling bin into the garage though, and the cool night air felt so nice on my warm cheeks. February is usually a bastard, but ever since the 11th, the stars have been visible; little pinpricks on the broad swath of eternal violet.
(I could have just typed that last sentence and left it as my entire entry for the day. But nooo.)
So despite the squat, boxy shredder waiting there like a smug executioner, I am all rather pleased with my world.
And then the morning comes…