Now Where Did I Put That Flame-Thrower?
I had really good intentions for my day today. I was going to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles and finally get my New York driver's license and my New York license plates.
My husband, naturally, has already done that. So I called him to ask for directions and he reminded me that the DMV is going to make me turn in my Texas special-edition "Share the Road Y'all" Lance Armstrong license plates (Mother's Day present c. 2006) and that he'd dug out an old set of Texas plates for me to turn in so that we could keep the Lance ones. Because that is very important to US, you betcha.
So, I came back home to find those plates. And I looked and I looked and I looked. I looked through whole rooms full of mementos that I will scrapbook someday if I am fortunate enough to live to be 8,000 years old. I looked through stacks of my children's artwork and journals that I can't bear to part with, receipts for things I bought back in 1980, notes to myself of things I needed to do for work --you know, when I had a job.
Boxes. And. Boxes of it.
Don't believe me?
I looked in boxes in my office.
I looked in boxes that wouldn't FIT in my office:
I looked through the stacks on my desk:
I looked through the stacks of stuff on my bookshelves.
I looked through the stacks of disorganized sh..stuff in my garage.
I used some language unbecoming to a woman of my breeding and stature. (Oh, hush. As long as I'm having delusions, they might as well be delusions of grandeur.)
I got, really, really, really mad at myself. I realize now why Ana's compulsive collecting of everything makes me so crazy. It's because I have seen the future and it is I.
Because, see, I know just what happened to those dang license plates. I bet you a ton of money that we were about to have guests over and I went through with my cardboard box and stashed all the clutter for another day. Because that's what I do now. Because that's what I've become:
Yes. It's true. My name is Barb and I'm a Crap Stasher.
And then I went upstairs to make the beds and I saw that there is a new sign on Jane Cooper's door:
Me, too, Sweetheart. Me, too.
My husband, naturally, has already done that. So I called him to ask for directions and he reminded me that the DMV is going to make me turn in my Texas special-edition "Share the Road Y'all" Lance Armstrong license plates (Mother's Day present c. 2006) and that he'd dug out an old set of Texas plates for me to turn in so that we could keep the Lance ones. Because that is very important to US, you betcha.
So, I came back home to find those plates. And I looked and I looked and I looked. I looked through whole rooms full of mementos that I will scrapbook someday if I am fortunate enough to live to be 8,000 years old. I looked through stacks of my children's artwork and journals that I can't bear to part with, receipts for things I bought back in 1980, notes to myself of things I needed to do for work --you know, when I had a job.
Boxes. And. Boxes of it.
Don't believe me?
I looked in boxes in my office.
I looked in boxes that wouldn't FIT in my office:
I looked through the stacks on my desk:
I looked through the stacks of stuff on my bookshelves.
I looked through the stacks of disorganized sh..stuff in my garage.
I used some language unbecoming to a woman of my breeding and stature. (Oh, hush. As long as I'm having delusions, they might as well be delusions of grandeur.)
I got, really, really, really mad at myself. I realize now why Ana's compulsive collecting of everything makes me so crazy. It's because I have seen the future and it is I.
Because, see, I know just what happened to those dang license plates. I bet you a ton of money that we were about to have guests over and I went through with my cardboard box and stashed all the clutter for another day. Because that's what I do now. Because that's what I've become:
Yes. It's true. My name is Barb and I'm a Crap Stasher.
And then I went upstairs to make the beds and I saw that there is a new sign on Jane Cooper's door:
Me, too, Sweetheart. Me, too.
Comments
I hate clutter. But I am still drowning in it.
No?
Damn.
I moved from Australia to the US in 1998.
I have some boxes in my attic from that move.
I live to serve! (but not to actually put stuff away you understand, just serve.)
Looking around my room, I now realize that I am a crap stasher too.
You're not alone.
(Um, ahem... "Dude, you just moved! You haven't had TIME to get all your clutter properly organized yet! Go eat some chocolate, you'll feel better!")
Love ya!
(I say that not in the "my stomach hurts, oh my gosh, look, a baby!" sense but in the "I'm done having children now so I think I'll give away all my baby stuff and pack my family to move across the country" sense.)
So give yourself break and go have some chocolate. And a glass of wine if that's your preference...for me, I'll take a quad venti skinny vanilla latte.
Oh, and if you find the flamethrower, can I use it when you're done????