How's that for a set of mixed metaphors?
Cynthia posted a wonderful piece today that, sadly, reflects many of my own failures in life. The battle to manage the paperwork is a never-ending one for those of us whose household documents reproduce like mice. A little spaceperson would never guess, after a survey of my house, that we have moved to a paperless society. And while I note that one of Cynthia's commenters has posted the wise, wise advice never to let a document pass through your hands a second time, I note also that that admonishment only works for the kind of people who alphabetize their spice racks. Those of us as likely to find the oregano tossed in with the pots and pans or, better yet, in the living room, have different DNA than the Julie Morgensterns of the world. They make it look so easy but, different species that we are, we can manage the household paper about as well as we can swing from trees.
I'm on vacation for two weeks, and one of my plans is to develop some control over the areas of my life that are forever spiraling out of it. Current papers -- the ones that had babies who toddled through the hallway while I was sick for a couple of weeks -- are on tomorrow's schedule. (There are, sad to say, the taxes. There are some bills that are, uh, unpaid. Hi there -- waving sheepishly at Cingular and Tulane University.) Basement papers -- the piles and files and heaps and hurricane remains that no doubt include essays written by students who have long since become NASA engineers and radiologists --are for Thursday.
Today? Clothing. I could outfit an entire nation from the proceeds of my basement, as long as its citizens were all female and partial to styles of 15 and 20 years ago. (A plethora of sizes is available.)
I've piled about seven or eight bags -- maybe 100 pounds -- of clothing into my car. I've found some places in the basement in which to hang winter clothes and the summer clothes that would look great if only 20 pounds would evaporate... . I've reorganized the racks in my closet. The shelf and the floor where everything fell off the shelf last month still need some work. My daughter's closet, the deep walk-in next to mine (old house) looks like it's been attacked by the grown progeny of the front hall paper creatures. So, actually, does her room. And the linen closet is calling as seductively as the Sirens to Odysseus -- here, here, veer this way.
So is Nancy Grace. And trash TV takes precedence, of course, over my journey toward glory and perfection.