24 April 2001
Last year: I'm not posting it because, well, we've all seen chocolate molded into amusing shapes before.
I've never really been much of one for cleaning. I like things to be clean, and every now and then if things get too awful, I'll leap into a frenzy of cleaning that lasts for maybe a few hours before the twinned irritants of dust and cleaner completely overwhelm my sinuses and bring me to my knees.
This is why I hired a maid service - would be paying for it out of my own pocket if Matt hadn't agreed to make it a household expense. (In fact, I first hired the cleaning service when I'd paid off my student loans, using that money. Matt was perfectly willing to do his share to clean the house on a regular basis, so I felt I should be the one to pay for the luxury. It wasn't until after we moved to the new house that the cleaning service became a "joint" expenditure.)
My desk at work is always a disaster area. A couple of weeks ago I got sick of it and cleared it all off - filed the stuff that needed to be saved, threw out the irrelevant stuff, finally hung the poster on the wall, thew away trash, organized the office supplies... Two days later, it was once again a mess: papers and documents scattered everywhere, snacks and teabags (the unused bags, thankyouverymuch; I may be messy, but I'm not a slob) and my eating utensils, more papers and documents, pens, various bits of hardware, hand lotion, and an empty box trailing pink bubble wrap like a shawl.
But lately, I've been hit hard with the spring-cleaning bug. I still don't want to clean anything, but I feel this overwhelming desire to get rid of a lot of the stuff that clutters my life. My shelves are crammed with books I only read once and will never read again; CDs I bought for only one or two songs that will probably never again see the CD player; clothes that have gone out of style even if I could manage to fit into them again. That's not even counting the piles and piles of toys and doohickeys.
There is a box in the bedroom of things I rescued from my desk at 3GI when I got laid off. Everything that was in the box that I actually needed or wanted has obviously been removed from the box by now. And yet, I've still hesitated to just pitch the box and everything in it. Why? No more! I will take the box and throw out the stuff that isn't even worth donating to charity, fill it back up with more things I'll never use again, and put it in the garage for the next charity drive.
This weekend, I went through the bedroom closet. I took out all the clothes that no longer fit. (Well, not all of them. I reserved a few things that almost fit, because my weight yo-yo's enough that it's conceivable they could fit again.) I took out most of the clothes that I haven't worn for two years. (I did reserve a few things - like my interview clothes and formalwear - that I haven't worn much because there hasn't been much of a reason for it, but which might be useful in the future.) But those shirts I wore twice and then forgot because they wrinkled unforgiveably in the wash? Tossed! The skirts I haven't worn in months because I changed my mind about the color? Gone!
I even went through the sock/lingerie drawer and got rid of everything in there I have no intention of wearing in the next six months or a year. (Except pantyhose. Pantyhose is one of those things that I can't ever forsee needing, but you just can't do without when you do need it.)
You see, in all these parentheses, my pack-rat tendencies at work. If I hadn't forced myself to be utterly ruthless, I'd have kept even more. ("Oh, I can't get rid of this dress; this was my favorite dress when Matt and I were first dating! Oh, and I paid a lot of money for this sweatshirt, even if it doesn't fit anymore!" Like that.) In all, I came up with three garbage bags full of clothes to be put in the garage for the next charity drive. I could probably get at least one more bag if I forced myself to be even more ruthless.
Then I tackled the bookshelves. I was a little kinder with the books. Any book I could conceive of wanting to re-read I kept. Anything that might be considered "literature" I kept, even if I still haven't read it. Of course, I left all of Matt's books alone. I kept my old textbooks and all the gaming books. Anything that has a memory attached to it or sentimental value (that stupid pink Drat the Dragon, for instance) is still on the shelf.
But that still left me with an enormous pile of books that I bought but will never re-read; things I picked up in used bookstores and remaindered bins for half price that weren't worth the pittance I paid; books given to me on the assumption that if I liked one series an author wrote then of course I'd like the rest. I've only winnowed two bookshelves, and already I've filled a box with books to take to the used bookstore. (You didn't think I was going to just abandon them to charity, did you? Reading is my life.)
There will be at least another full box - most of the paperbacks in the computer room are there because they're books I don't care about much. And I haven't started on the big shelf in the living room, either.
I've threatened to sort through the CDs, though most of those are Matt's anyway. And I'm thinking of packing away a bunch of the movies. I don't think I could actually get rid of most of those, but most of them haven't been watched for years; they could at least be put into storage so they wouldn't clutter up the living room. (No, that's not just an excuse to buy a bunch of storage bins! Though of course that is an added side benefit.) Don't even get me started on the various toys, knicknacks, and doodads.
Yep. I've got the bug, and I've got it bad. Feel sorry for Matt, everyone. And keep your fingers crossed that he doesn't accidently wind up in the charity truck.
Word of the Day:
rectitudinous - characterized by straightness or moral propriety; piously self-righteous
Currently Reading:
- nothing
Current Projects:
- Kris' afghan
- garden