If one wants good things to enter into one’s life, one must make room. Or at least that’s what the organizational gurus on Oprah say. But after huffing and puffing and hauling a truck load of “making room” over to the thrift store this afternoon, I don’t know if I want anything else coming into this house besides food and water.
My mother always says, “My house looks fabulous if I don’t have my glasses on.” The trouble is, I don’t wear glasses. But I have metaphorical glasses: Company. Yes, nothing quite like house guests to make the clutter correctively crystal clear. They left yesterday. We purged today. Why am I always a day behind these things?
My dear husband’s domains remain immaculate. The garage, the yard, his office…all pass the white glove test. Yes, our garage is the envy of the neighborhood. He cleans it out every month or so while he listens to an audiobook on triple speed. No joke, triple speed. (The double speed was beginning to drag on, he said. Some might label that sort of behavior as ADD. He just calls it efficiency.)
Whatever number of cars our garage is supposed to hold, that’s how many it holds. Passersby would assume by our open garage door that the inside follows suit…but alas, I’m getting to it. The kids keep growing, the clothes keep shrinking, and I’ve been meaning to get to that pile of papers on the counter, just give me a minute. Or a day. Or a month…or a…
The point is, yesterday morning my nine-year-old nephew came into the kitchen where I was occupying every single square inch of counter top real estate in an effort to serve a lovely breakfast to my house guests, and commented, “I just saw a museum downstairs. Why is there a museum in your house Aunt Margaret?” It took me a minute to put it together… “No, honey. That’s just your uncle’s home office. He likes it nice and clean.”
You’d think he was a CIA operative with the way everything goes into the shredder. But it was the juxtaposition to the rest of the crib that transformed his occupation from salesman to curator in his nephew’s eyes.
So with all the junk that left the premises today, the law of karma would lead me to believe some velvet rope, bullet proof plexiglass and a cozy cafe will soon come into my life.
I’m okay with that, as long as the cafe comes with its own kitchen staff.
Margaret Anderson is a BYU graduate, returned missionary, freelance writer, and the mother of five small children. Read more at www.jamsandpickles.wordpress.com