A few things have gone amuk around here and with two working parents and no extra help save for what two kids can do on top of school work and sports and music…we’ve decided to let some things go. Laundry is one of them. I quit doing socks a long time ago. I have a box and in they go. If people want matching socks, they can look at it like a treasure hunt.
Areas of high bacterial grossness are higher upon my list of priorities, and so, the toilet and circumference tend to get my two bit attention more than what mounds and heaves and pitches and throbs in the room everybody should make sure they have if given the opportunity, and that’s an upstairs laundry room. I would give up a bathroom to have an upstairs laundry room. I’d go all outhouse like my friends do who live off the grid. At least then I wouldn’t have to clean toilets and their circumference! We tend to go until the door doesn’t close any longer, and there is no dilineation between what is dirty and what awaits folding. This is what has accumulated: Mount Saint Laundry.
Today I tackled it. In full assault gear. I put it all on my bed and turned on The View and pretended it was like Christmas. Which one to wrap next? All little gifties for my hubbie and kids. That state of mind lasted about as long as it took for me to think, “Oh, I should blog about this.” So I sit here avoiding the pile, writing this to all of you out there with such a mountain. I have no solutions. Only empathy. And lo…in the upstairs choir I hear a chime. It’s so perky, this chime. It’s telling me that there’s more laundry to fold, warm and clean. And I realize that the Maytag man really is a wise guy, because it literally goes to the syllables of this:
Yooo get-to-fold…the laundreeee!
OK– here I go. Godspeed to us all. If I get lost in it, tell them it was a good life. And that they have to put it away!
I know I am not alone in this: there are things that drive me crazy about the current state of my house. Things that make me so internally berserk that I have stuffed them deep into my toe joints just to make a pass through my house tolerable. Okay, maybe I like to pretend that I’ve actually let them go, but that would be a minor fib. Because, I mean SHIT O. Deer does it piss me off that my garden is still not put to bed and it’s the first week of November. And the hot tub– it’s like the most important room in our house (a family full of back injuries, afterall), it’s been broken for a year and a half, all for a simple, inexpensive, repair job which requires a board being unscrewed…and there it sits. There’s probably a dead racoon floating in it for all I know. But for some reason, that board goes unscrewed, and I’m damn handy with a Makita. What’s my problem??? Oh, and while I’m at it. Why do I tolerate mouse turds on my kitchen counter every morning? Why do I have a sponge that I designate The Mouse Turd Picker Upper sponge, and not call an exterminator to find the actual nest? Why do I just sometimes remember to set traps? Anyone wanna come over for dinner now? Ugh. And then there’s the mudroom. Are mudrooms actually supposed to be as truly muddy as ours is? Like mud from a few seasons ago? And should they contain a cat bed for a cat who disappeared uh– last spring? Again, it’s Novemeber. The cat is coyote food. Throw away his bed. You’re allergic to it anyway. Get rid of it. Sylvester Putty Tat be dead. Deep sigh. It’s giving me a near coronary episode just writing this, but there’s a point and I’m getting to it. Just hang on a second. Also, my office is a mess. There are paper piles all over it. Business receipts and random notes to myself that I can’t decipher but they say PRIORITY and Amazon boxes full of old photos that need homes in lovingly put together photo albums and and and. Isn’t there something called OFFICE MAX? And isn’t there one 15 miles from my very office, where I sit, ranting, sucking the oxygen from the universe with socks that don’t match and an inside out bathrobe? Considering pouring wine into my tea mug at eleven am because not only do I have no idea where my newest working copy of my novel is at the moment, but my computer is telling me that it may have a tropical viral infection, and my microwave is making a sound so weird that I’m pretty sure it’s going to burn a hole through my brain the next time I push Start, and there’s a pack rat living on my front porch, AGAIN (little untrappable fuckers), and I’m afraid to look under my bed, but there’s a certain smell and I’m pretty sure it involves food and a kid and a slumber party that occured when I was on the road promoting my book. That’s what I’m getting to: this house needs a mommy. Six months of being on and off but pretty much on the road is not working. I need to stay put. Welcome summer– oh shit– that’s right, it’s actually winter that’s upon us. How did I lose a season or two?
DEEEEEEEEEP Breath. Do you ever feel like this? Please tell me I’m not alone.
I need to put the garden to bed. That’s where I need to start. I need to write down the top three things that are driving me crazy and check them off. I need to stop passing by them and being overwhelmed. I need to look at them piece meal. Call the exterminator. Easy enough. Find my gardening shears and go out there and spend an hour. Maybe I won’t get the whole thing done, but I can do half, right? Half would be okay, yes? Feel me? What is driving you crazy about your house? Is it easy enough to fix? What won’t cost you a dime but will gain you sanity? Maybe start with a load of laundry. Not the whole Mount Saint Laundry. Just socks. Or maybe don’t do socks. Just find a box and throw the socks in it and grab a Sharpy and write: Sock Box. That’s what I’m talking about. Getting shit done. Solutions. We’ll see how it goes around here, but this girl has a weekend in front of her, and it’s gonna be all about un-driving myself crazy. The end.