Ladies and gentlemen, it is with distinct pleasure that I announce I am 1 final exam away from finally being qualified to tell you what to do;organization wise. Now, now, I know you’re not as excited as I am. But I want you to know, you’re on the ground floor of what could be a very good thing. In all the text books I’ve been consuming, one thing stuck out: There is no organizational expert for the modern maiden, or man. With chapters dedicated to video cassette organization and paper catalogues, I think I’ve struck upon my niche. Or perhaps, it’s struck upon me. I will be able to create streamlined systems for the tech we have and the clouds we depend on. I will also be capable of parring down your clutter and building new habits and routines. Which will save you time, energy and lead you toward living the life you want. So, as I sit down to take the test that will seal my organizational fate, I’m revved up and ready to become the Modern Emily Post. And I will Post, right here;)
Things have stopped working for me lately. I don’t mean to sound dramatic, or like the sad sack I am behind closed doors. But my life things aren’t working right. I am talking about that special ways I do things. The undefined things that help to work things out. Seeing as I like my life the most when things work out, I strive for that. And things have mostly always just worked out. Of course, they took planning and sometimes long hours and hard lessons, but I always found a way to work it out. And now, none of it is working any more. All those things I had relied on are letting me down and I don’t know what to do to get them working again.
You might say; “Welcome to Adulthood.” But I don’t think it’s that. I mean it’s not just that. Being a grown up seemed so simple to me when I wasn’t one. I remember watching decisions being made. I can see adults working things out. I hear the way they sounded so well informed. It’s amazing what I see now. The all knowing adults now just seem confused; mostly because I am among their ranks which somehow qualifies me as their equal, their peer. Absorbing information I am not ready to process. Adults; we’re all nuts.
You might say; “You’re being dramatic.” Okay, but if I feel confused and overwhelmed, how do people with real responsibility feel? Like, no matter how you slice it, someone, somewhere is way worse off than you. But that doesn’t always help me feel better. I just start feeling bad for both of us…And all those sad sacks in between.
Or you might say; “Just because you can’t see things working out, doesn’t mean that they aren’t, and you should just learn to breathe through all these irrational and energy wasting reactions, cuz it’s stupid to sweat the small stuff baby.” And I would say; “Oh shut it Hubby and help me clean the house.”
Alright, so there’s no grown up manual to how things work. There is no guide to working things out. Even the existence of working things can be questioned…If we want to get metaphysical about it. And though somedays feel like everything is wrong, or unfixable doesn’t mean they are. Maybe we just need to think about what does work and how we can work it out and what it feels like when it’s working. But boy, does that seem like a lot of work.
You are not the most important person in the world. Now, c’mon. The more we get together, the happier we’ll be. You could be nice, it’s not that hard. We all live in this big crazy world together.
You don’t need to run me off the sidewalk. Try single file on tight squeezes. And you could let me exit before trying to get inside. The door is a two way greet. People in, people out. Outbound goes first. Apply this to elevators and subways too please. Also give your elders or folks carrying parcels your seats. A TTC journey should be shared experience. Emphasis on sharing.
Give me a break, Jerkface. You stink at life. The power of one is not stronger than the influence of good. Stop hitting cars while parallel parking, then driving off. Don’t pull into handicap places just because you’re only gonna be a sec. Don’t speed up to sit at a red light.
Stop littering. I carried a banana peel 4 blocks ’til I found a garbage. It’s not that hard. On the topic of litter- your dog poop is the grossest litter and it clots my boot print with icky, yucky poo stink. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Pick it up and put it in the can.
Oh sweet, misguided Jerkface, I know you’re not all bad; you just act that way. Please keep your head up. Look me in the eye and be nice. That’s all I’m asking for. You don’t have to be the Good Witch, bringing cheer and sparkly optimism to all; you just have to make a freaking effort. Please try. At least, so I don’t feel like the only person being the change I want to see in the world. Would ya?!?
P.S. Jerkface your music is too loud and you’re gonna loose your hearing. And you’re too young for that.
At my house, we’re stress eaters. At all my houses, really. We eat when we’re happy. We eat more when we’re sad. Late night snacking; a constant problem. Cereal for 2nd dinner. If it’s in the house it’s going into my mouth. This week’s stress of losing someone special has driven me to empty the fridge, the cupboards and pester the local takeout joints. A stress-eating is a zero benefit side-effect causing my total health train derailment. In the last week I have been avoiding mirrors. Wearing joggers and moping about with a plate or napkinful or tinfoil swan in hand at all times. It was mid-sugar coma that it hit me. Stress is the energy so many folks run on; maybe I could alter my pre-disposition to gorge the pain. We have the technology, we can rebuild me.
Now, if this scheme was to work, I was going to have to plan. What could benefit from the energy that my stress could generate? Well, let’s see, there’s the not so new-oh so untidy house, the cabin fever-ridden dog, the high-flying-skycloud shooting husband, the neglected book, the blog, the ever shedding cat, the storage unit…let’s just say there’s no lack of things that could use a little energy boost. But let’s also agree that a stress case is not the ideal candidate for most jobs. Temporarily sane me finally decided: The best fit for a basket-case is mindless, repetition, keeping my idle hands busy. Logically and with renewed scientific fervour, I picked up a cloth and cleanser. Laundering all the cross-over season clothes. Scouring the entire bathroom, including baseboards and cupboard shelves. Stripping the bed, dusting the ceiling fixtures. High and low, no bunny was safe at our house this Easter weekend. Eventually, though it had to end, and with 940 sq ft, it didn’t take too long. Then, Stress and I found ourselves face to face again. The Pirate cookies “yar-haring” my name from the junk cupboard.
With a clean house I turned to the sofa where the Hubby and the hound were tangled up in blankets.
Me: “Okay, the sun is shining. The world is calling…” As I flung open the blackout curtains.
Hubby: “But look at her, she’s found a sunspot.” Pointing to the dog splayed out with sunshine lighting up her underbelly.
Me: “I bet we can find a bigger sunspot out there. Spring has sprung.”
So, my Hubby left the cloud city he was defending and took his ladies for a walk about. We walked to the park, to play monkey in the middle, cuz Jilly only wants the ball when she can’t have it. This is my first real exercise since Blister-gate March 2013. Stretching and throwing and chasing that little Stinker, all over that muddy school yard. I finally started feeling less stressed. Like the sunshine had squeegeed the darkness, feeling better and brighter. Smiling…actually smiling. I could almost hear the song my happy heart sings. Then I went home and finished a bag of mini Reece’s peanut butter cups. Well, the good news is I didn’t do it because I was stressed…right?!? That’s still progress right?