Everybody is doing it – Decluttering

One of my most liked recent posts on social media was the before and after photos of the day I “KonMari’d” my closet. It elicited all sorts of comments like “amazing,” and “I’ve been meaning to do that.” But, the most prevalent comment was “I’m doing that too.” If they didn’t read the book, Netflix got their attention. How could anyone not know about it? Everyone is talking about it, or maybe I should say “wise cracking” about it. Like the this morning at Target. A slightly overweight lady holds up a bikini she might have been able to wear decades ago. Her friend asks, “does it bring you joy?” The wise woman giggles and puts the tiny triangles back on the rack.

Back to my closet. I broke a couple of rules. I didn’t run around the house and gather every article of clothing out of every closet, drawer, hamper, dryer, and floor. Instead I went through my drawers first, tossing the things that don’t bring me joy (mostly workout clothes from 20 years ago when I was still mountain climbing). The keepers were neatly folded the Marie Kondo way, except I folded my T-shirts with the graphics on the outside so I’d be sure not to wear my “I find myself to be exorbitantly superannuated for this feculence” shirt to work again.

The big job was the closet. Well, two closets actually. My full closet and the half of my husband’s closet that stored my off season clothes. And six suitcases of six decades of I-might-need-this-again-someday stuff. You know what I mean, the argyle sweater knitted in high school, running shirts, vacation shirts, Halloween costumes, and the wedding dress (yes, I put it back in the suitcase… you just never know). The three foot mountain covering the entire queen sized bed was daunting to me but a new playground for the felines.

Three hours later I hauled six cardboard boxes down to the curb for the re-use pickup and three garbage bags of unmentionables and threadbare rags for the big dump pickup. For once I’d get my money’s worth out of our garbage service.

My spring-summer wardrobe now hangs in eye-pleasing, color coordinated order, with easy accessibility. My husband is pleased to find he can now claim two thirds of his closet with my fall-winter wardrobe squeezed into the other third. Maybe if those suitcases in his closet stay empty, we can use them for what they’re meant for (just a hint that I’m ready to travel in case he’s reading this).

The stack of hangers left on my bed could support an entirely new wardrobe. What to do with those? Keeping extra hangers in my closet would be a danger I’m not willing to risk. So I get this brilliant idea – if I put them in JJ’s closet, he could hang up all his t-shirts, jeans and jackets that now carpet his bedroom. I leave a neat row of empty colorful plastic hangers on the rod. I don’t say a word when he comes home from school. I wait. Quietly. In my office. He opens his door. Slams it shut. I hear his backpack land on the floor. “WTF” echoes into his barren closet. He rushes into my office. “Grandma, someone stole all my shirts.”

The Butler Did It

It’s just the angle of the camera. Honest. Keeping a sense of humor is a good thing. #100daysofsummer Day 5

Purrsistence

Are you sure you want to delete this file?

Update: In response to one of the comments left below, I began to feel guilty (maybe more like petrified) about using this picture of a print. In order to avoid the copyright police I did the best I could to find the artist – not a difficult task and it came with a bonus. Check out Art That Makes You Laugh but be forewarned – you will laugh, be inspired and want to own one of his pieces. And just so you know, Jeff Leedy responded to my confession and says the picture can stay.

What the heck happened this year? And the blog? Where did it go? I just realized the titles for my last three posts could tell a story. Three months ago I mentioned I wanted to write. Nine days later marijuana had arrived. Two months after that I looked at the news feed on Facebook and saw it was I Love to Write Day.

So here’s the story. I felt trumped. No amount of word tweaking, plot twisting, or new endings could turn my 90,000 word memoir into the Erma Bombeck kind of masterpiece I had imagined in my head. It was just not going to happen. In an angry moment I placed Trumpette (our neurotic cat) dangerously close to the delete key.

But, a miracle happened. Marijuana had arrived. Trumpette inhaled a hefty dose and the next thing I knew she was attacking fireflies at the patio door in the middle of a sunny day. Wait. I got that wrong. We don’t have fireflies in California. I guess it was night time and they were moths. It seems I was in a kind of fog, maybe a contact high? I found myself back at the keyboard. Magic happened. While Trumpette purred off the pot, I rewrote the entire book. In one night. It was done. I sent it off to the publisher. And then I quit writing until I-Love-To-Write-Day came.

Remember that Bullet Journal I had started a few months back? I began a new list:

Blog – maybe consider fiction
Send Trumpette to rehab
Find out why the publisher hasn’t contacted me
Revise – try again

I Wanted To Write

I wanted

to write a book that would tear your insides apart with laughter, not heartbreak.
to write tiny bites of my life with enough humor to leave my readers with howling belly aches over exaggerated blimps and bleeps.
to write the best selling memoir full of wit and wisdom, one that would live on the nightstand of every parent on this earth who might need a quick dose of humor following a particularly harrowing day.
to write with a keen sense of humor to keep my readers turning the pages (or swiping their Kindles) to the very last word.
to write the takeaways that would lead to joyful resolution for all who read my words.

Meanwhile I have

written the necessary 90,000 words of a pitiful and shitty first draft (ala Anne Lamott), just to get over it.
highlighted the questionabull, deleted the distractabull, rewritten the sustainabull, and added the conceivabull.
hit the muddy middle and squirreled away at least sixty hours of mindless FaceBook gaming in the last thirty days.

The time has come

to send away the critics and bring in the clowns.
to let go of the past.
to write that final chapter.

If nothing else comes of this

I can say I wrote a book
My inner self will be sufficiently mended.
I can be a better person.
I still have a sense of humor.

BUT maybe one day I’ll sit at the Algonquin table in Dorothy Parker’s mink coat signing copies of my phenomenal book.

Foiled Again

After 374 sleepless nights I have discovered it really is true that cats hate foil. The “nameless one,” has stopped climbing the blinds since I redecorated my bedroom with one full box of foil.

Several months ago I discovered scat mats. Cats hate electrical shocks. The “nameless one” has stopped rattling my closet doors since five foot scat mats guard each door.

So, I’m getting smarter in my old age. But now I must wear a sleep mask to avoid the glare of morning sun on foil and slippers lest I forget about the scat mat when choosing my morning attire.

The nameless one was such an sweet tiny thing, black with a sprinkling of gray, a quiet meow and a kinky tail. She begged to come home with us. My intuition was lost in the sorrowful gaze of this poor abandoned kitten. She crossed impenetrable boundaries and leaped into my arms. I’ll admit it – she has provided plenty of distractions from the serious side of life – but there needs to be a bit more balance. Which brings me to why she is called “the nameless one.”

After posting frequent exhibits of her behavior on Facebook for the last year, no one has been able to come up with a suitable name. There were great ideas – everything from Amber to Zelda. A couple of days ago I wanted to name her “Eve” after an “Eve of Destruction” (note the tattered edges of the blinds). She has been addressed as Shadow, Samantha, Mystic, Storm, Superwoman, Sabrina and many other names. She won’t answer to any except at dinner time. Then you can call her anything you please.

Next issue – the Nameless One has been thinking outside of the box. Ideas other than spraying my pillowcase with essence of lavender every night?