Tag: organizing

Onward, with Jazz Hands

Onward, with Jazz Hands

The kids have told me that my half-jokey-but-really-I-was-seriousness declaration of “Onward, with joy!” as our family motto is basically the un-coolest thing I have ever done in their entire lifetimes, so just imagine their (implied) glee when our friend David texted me the Latin translation 

I Mean It This Time

So, we’re putting the house on the market again, this time for good. David’s had to resort to using either the girls’ room or ours as his office, depending on which has fewer people in it at any given moment, so it’s time. We like our real estate agents, I’m not knocked up, I’m getting more than four hours of sleep at night. No time but the present. No excuses. And, if we sell the darned house before the weather gets warmer, I won’t have a chance to weep the tears of longing into a pool that won’t be ours for much longer.

1.14.14. I Mean it This Time. Wreath

So, to that end:

  • There is a desk chair in my living room. It was in the family room, then the girls’ room, and now has migrated there while we wait for the newly-cleaned carpets to dry.
  • Carpets are disgusting.
  • When that much dirt is pulled out of your carpets, it is entirely possible to hear your grandmother tsp-tsking you from heaven with the hand she’s not using to hold a vodka martini (what kind of liquor do you think the celestial bartenders use? Grey Goose?).
  • Get your carpets cleaned a lot more frequently than we do. By a professional. That handy-dandy at-home carpet cleaner you borrowed from your mom and never gave back doesn’t do squat when you have a bunch of fur balls living with you (no, not the kids. They don’t shed that much). Just a tip. A gross, dark, dingy, gag-inducing tip.

1.14.14. I Mean it This Time. Welcome Mat

  • Children make excellent painters. I highly recommend making use of your own.
  • One who loves to live inside walls painted a Mediterranean blue does not do well in ones now khaki. So. Much. Khaki.

1.14.14. I Mean it This Time slainte

  • Paint does not come out of a cat’s fur.
  • Silly Putty does not come out of a child’s hair.
  • There is dust in corners you didn’t even know you had.
  • You own more vases than you know you had.

1.14.14. I Mean it This Time. Flowers

  • And more picture frames.
  • And crayons. So. Many. Crayons.
  • Walls without pictures is a house without love. Not to be dramatic about it.
  • The laundry pile that had been chipped away into a tolerable nugget has gone through some crazy mitosis while were were painting and is now looming like a mountain of doom over our laundry room. It is possible to growl without meaning to at such a sight.

1.14.14. I Mean it This Time. Air Fresheners

There is a poinsettia on the counter, a box of Carnation breakfast mix is in a Target bag on a deck chair (it’s raining), there are bills in various stages of getting paid scattered on the dining room table, there are stuffed animals on all the couches, there is a bathroom baseboard heater that just keeled over and died a horrible death, there are closets stuffed with clothes and a shed bursting with toys, and now there are mangled clementine sections littered on the floor like confetti during a parade of jungle animals. There are fake plants and new throw rugs in places on the exact opposite side of the house of where they’re supposed to be.

1.14.14 I Mean It This Time Papers

The photographer comes on Friday. The listing goes up this weekend. No problem.

1.14.14 I Mean it This Time C playing

At least the carpets are clean.

Hitting the Fan

I totally realize that my entire last post was about chicken stock.  And I am completely aware that those of my friends who work or go to school full-time while raising a family wanted to roll their eyes, bop me over the head and/or have 

Because It Flies, Time Does

In my ongoing effort to reclaim my house from the clutter that has been awake at night, sneaking onto tabletops and into closets, giggling as it stuffs itself into my diaper bag and laundry room, I have finally–finally!–begun the attack on the very last pile 

A Lesson in Avoidance

I really do like our house, honest. It’s cute and open and light, and I actually appreciate that it’s small enough that if I’m in one room, I can hear Saoirse doing jumping jacks on her bed in another. It’s an older home, though–circa Lyndon B. Johnson older–and true to its era, well, it’s got the closet space of a TV my mom would’ve used to watch the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Yeah, that small.



And because of that, we have to do the twice-a-year switcharoo of off-season clothes, which I usually put off until I can no longer get away with wearing lamb’s wool sweaters at the local pool. I dread the Rubbermaid storage containers staged around the bedroom. I weep at the thought of sorting through clothes to give away to charity. And now that I’m post-baby but not quite finished nursing (3 weeks and 4 days to go, now that I’m counting), I have to try on every. single. item of clothing. So I do what any organized person does: I start the project at a really improbable time of day (4 p.m, right before dinner prep), abandon it around 10, and avoid it for the next two days.

This year, the day after my well-intentioned start I woke amid a sea of opened boxes and stacks of clothes, and immediately threw myself into other activities (you may have noticed this by now, but I’m not a multitasker. It’s one project at a time for me. Not such a useful idiosyncrasy when you’re a SAHM). So my mom and I took the girls shopping for sandals. Quinn started feeling poorly, so I focused on her before our nighttime doctor’s visit. Today, I took Saoirse to MyGym, then decided to do a little baking (I’m obsessed with those doggoned scones, I tell you). Anything to avoid stepping back into that project.

But I’ve learned a couple things these last few days. For one thing, if you don’t feel like dusting your furniture, baking with citrus zest will at least make your house smell like you just Pledged the heck out of it.

Also, a 3-year-old daughter does not like an untidy bedroom (“Mom, you need to clean this up. It’s very messy in here.”). And lastly, one does not really need as many clothes as one thinks, especially when her closets are the size of walnut shells.

So, tomorrow, I vow to tackle the seasonal clothes switch and finish the job…right after we go to the park.