We got back from Robbie’s parents’ house on New Year’s and being there always fills me with a mania to get things accomplished around our house when I get home, because their house is an oasis of neatness and serenity compared to ours and things are perfect there that it never even would have previously occurred to you could be perfect, until you see them there, and then you realize the hollowness in which you’ve been living. (I’ve never read “The Allegory of the Cave” but I imagine it’s like this, if, as I suspect, it’s mostly about interior design.) For example, Robbie’s mom showed me around the gutted shell of what’s going to be her new bathroom and told me that the cabinets in there are going to be so excellent that when she dies she wants me to have them removed and distributed among her heirs. I’m not sure what we’ll do with ours but I’m sure that, even then, it will significantly class up the place.
So, upon coming home I launched my annual purge of everything we own. (Well, okay, it’s not a real purge of everything we own, though left entirely to my own devices I’d probably throw out everything other than that mug Heather got me one Christmas and the shawl I bought in Italy, but I go through everything, busily purging.) This is by far my favorite household task--I get a real visceral thrill out of carrying boxes and boxes out of the house--but I think this year it’s not going to be quite as fulfilling as other years because last year, being eight months pregnant, I was essentially unstoppable, to the point that I realized a couple of months ago that I had fewer long-sleeved shirts left than there are days of the week.
Anyhow, though there’s not all that much to purge it’s going well, except for a freak Rubbermaid accident at Lowe’s the other day in which I ripped off half my thumbnail. When discussing stoicism in my childhood my mother always told the story of when my grandfather shot an arrow through his hand and drove to the ER with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel and the arrow still stuck in place right through the meat of his hand, unable to be pulled in or out, and I figured this would be a similar chance to teach the children valuable life lessons, but instead Henry was just appalled that I’d sucked on my thumbnail rather than drip blood all over the storage solutions aisle and asked loud, pointed questions about what I was eating. So, that didn’t go so well, but I got the Rubbermaids we needed, at any rate.
Yesterday’s area of organizational excellence was the hall closets, and I made quick work of the Harry Potter closet under the stairs, because it’s used almost exclusively for storage of various bike accoutrements (not to be confused with the storage of various bike accoutrements in the garage, in the basement, or by the kitchen door). The cats’ nail clippers and all visual recording equipment are also kept there (go ahead, tell me your filing system is more logical), along with a stack of things we’ve been meaning to return to other people, although I think the statute of limitations has expired on nearly all of that stuff. So, that left the coat closet, where I found my old purse and my old backpack.
I’m reasonably sure that when I put each of them in there I knew I wasn’t going to be taking them out again anytime soon, so you’d think I would have cleaned them out a bit, but no, they’re little time capsules, like they were pulled from the ash in Pompeii or something. Apparently the last time I used my backpack I was going to the gym, because I found a towel, a heart-rate monitor, and squash equipment. I’ve only played squash a handful of times in my life, and I think I actually remember this one, because it was two or three days before I found out I was pregnant with Henry. I worked out once at the gym a week or so after that, I guess with a different bag, and I had to leave the elliptical in mid-workout, not because I was tired or nauseated (those came later) but because I was so unbelievably hungry that I had to eat something right that second and I started freaking out and had to go beg money off Robbie and then I wandered CMU campus, desperately searching for an open food stand. And that, now almost exactly four years ago, was the last time I was at a gym. I gotta be honest, I don’t miss it. And, come to think of it, I abandoned my purse about a week after I found out I was pregnant with Peter, because I found the little vials of essential oils that Niki and Carissa handed out at their wedding in there, along with a lot of receipts from our trip to New York. I guess being pregnant makes me want to stop carrying any other receptacles around, which makes some sense when you think about it.
Today we embark on the living room, which I’m guessing means a negotiation about Robbie’s CDs. We don’t have anywhere to play them anymore, which makes keeping them out seem a bit silly, but there’s something about relegating them all to the basement, or worse, that’s vaguely unappealing, and anyhow if we clear those out they’re just going to be replaced by stacks of children’s toys. So we’ll see how that goes.
So, upon coming home I launched my annual purge of everything we own. (Well, okay, it’s not a real purge of everything we own, though left entirely to my own devices I’d probably throw out everything other than that mug Heather got me one Christmas and the shawl I bought in Italy, but I go through everything, busily purging.) This is by far my favorite household task--I get a real visceral thrill out of carrying boxes and boxes out of the house--but I think this year it’s not going to be quite as fulfilling as other years because last year, being eight months pregnant, I was essentially unstoppable, to the point that I realized a couple of months ago that I had fewer long-sleeved shirts left than there are days of the week.
Anyhow, though there’s not all that much to purge it’s going well, except for a freak Rubbermaid accident at Lowe’s the other day in which I ripped off half my thumbnail. When discussing stoicism in my childhood my mother always told the story of when my grandfather shot an arrow through his hand and drove to the ER with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel and the arrow still stuck in place right through the meat of his hand, unable to be pulled in or out, and I figured this would be a similar chance to teach the children valuable life lessons, but instead Henry was just appalled that I’d sucked on my thumbnail rather than drip blood all over the storage solutions aisle and asked loud, pointed questions about what I was eating. So, that didn’t go so well, but I got the Rubbermaids we needed, at any rate.
Yesterday’s area of organizational excellence was the hall closets, and I made quick work of the Harry Potter closet under the stairs, because it’s used almost exclusively for storage of various bike accoutrements (not to be confused with the storage of various bike accoutrements in the garage, in the basement, or by the kitchen door). The cats’ nail clippers and all visual recording equipment are also kept there (go ahead, tell me your filing system is more logical), along with a stack of things we’ve been meaning to return to other people, although I think the statute of limitations has expired on nearly all of that stuff. So, that left the coat closet, where I found my old purse and my old backpack.
I’m reasonably sure that when I put each of them in there I knew I wasn’t going to be taking them out again anytime soon, so you’d think I would have cleaned them out a bit, but no, they’re little time capsules, like they were pulled from the ash in Pompeii or something. Apparently the last time I used my backpack I was going to the gym, because I found a towel, a heart-rate monitor, and squash equipment. I’ve only played squash a handful of times in my life, and I think I actually remember this one, because it was two or three days before I found out I was pregnant with Henry. I worked out once at the gym a week or so after that, I guess with a different bag, and I had to leave the elliptical in mid-workout, not because I was tired or nauseated (those came later) but because I was so unbelievably hungry that I had to eat something right that second and I started freaking out and had to go beg money off Robbie and then I wandered CMU campus, desperately searching for an open food stand. And that, now almost exactly four years ago, was the last time I was at a gym. I gotta be honest, I don’t miss it. And, come to think of it, I abandoned my purse about a week after I found out I was pregnant with Peter, because I found the little vials of essential oils that Niki and Carissa handed out at their wedding in there, along with a lot of receipts from our trip to New York. I guess being pregnant makes me want to stop carrying any other receptacles around, which makes some sense when you think about it.
Today we embark on the living room, which I’m guessing means a negotiation about Robbie’s CDs. We don’t have anywhere to play them anymore, which makes keeping them out seem a bit silly, but there’s something about relegating them all to the basement, or worse, that’s vaguely unappealing, and anyhow if we clear those out they’re just going to be replaced by stacks of children’s toys. So we’ll see how that goes.
posted by JS at 10:52 AM
1 Comments:
I feel I need to clarify how my father could have shot an arrow through his hand, since on first consideration it seems impossible, or at least hyper-athletic. This is what happened:
The shafts of most of our arrows back then were made of wood. One of them cracked as it came off the bow, creating a mini-point in the back half of the arrow, and that's the part--with feathers and all still attached--that went partway through his hand between the thumb and index finger.
As Jess indicates, I tell this story proudly--not only because it displays my father's calm composure under the most trying of circumstances, but also because it gives my listeners useful advice on how to clear a crowded waiting room in a matter of seconds and move to the front of the line.
-eol
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