Monday, October 20, 2008
Well, I did it. I called my friend who's an extraordinary organizer and a perpetual neat freak and I asked her to help me deal with my life, which seems to have spread out into every single corner of this 3150 sq. foot house.
My stuff has become like the Blob, I tell you. Remember that movie from the 1950s? The big glob of goo would ooze around town, swallowing everything in it's path.
Of course she said yes. I mean, she drops her kids off for play dates quite often, and she probably wonders if she'll be able to find them three hours later in the jumble of chaos that my house has become in the past few months.
But, she's one of those gracious people who knows that despite my clutter, I'm still a nice person. And she secretly breathes a sigh of relief when I finally call her, once a year or so, crying uncle.
"Help! Help!" I whine "I'm not sure where to start! The baskets of unmatched socks have gone Factorial on me! I think they are replicating! I shove them in a corner and get a new basket, but I'm running out of corners!"
And she shows up with a smile and a plan. A plan that surely she has been crafting every day for the past year. A plan that outlines systems and order for a fresh start. And although she may roll her eyes and sigh quietly when she opens the closet doors, it is not sigh of judgement. Just a sigh of acceptance and knowledge.
Because here's the the thing: my family needs ongoing clutter maintenance. We will not be fixed with bright colored bins and garage sales and carting 7 truckloads of stuff off to Goodwill. Eventually, the clutter Blob comes back again.
And my friend knows that. She's given up on changing us over the years. She's just happy when we let her organize us for a little while. She likes it when we can find a video or a game or a sweatshirt that her child has left behind quickly and easily.
She also likes it when she can find her kids when it's time for them to come home.
These professional organizer types have a genetic difference, I think. I'm sure their blood flows in neat and tidy orderly rows through their veins. Back and forth, in lines, like a marching band, probably.
I think my blood splashes around like water in a toddler's backyard wading pool in the heat of summer. My blood isn't bad or anything, don't get me wrong. It's just always looking for corners.