Shit. She’ll be here at 12:30. It’s 11:30 now. Can I clean up in time for her arrival? I worry about her presumptions. Does she expect a neat home? I got this!
I strip the bed and toss the sheets in the laundry. The kitchen table is the catchall for stuff: Mail, lipstick, hubby’s belt… (I don’t know why his belt is there. Did he come home and say, “Dam, this belt is tight?”) I go through the mail. Some I don’t open. They look salesy, especially if it’s addressed to “Resident.” The recycle pile grows. There’s a clothing catalog, Garnet Hill. I haven’t purchased from a mail catalog since Before Internet (BI). I flip through the pages. A one-piece bathing suit catches my eye. It has an extra flap of fabric that covers the tummy, like a scarf hanging off the chest. I’ve seen it advertised on Instagram. I dog ear the page and put the catalog in the “bills” pile. But then I open the credit card statement and scrutinize the pages. Dang. How many movies did we rent last month? Why do we have so many streaming services? What the heck is IG2 for $3? I put the kibosh on spending… again. B’bye, Garnet Hill. I find a bill I forgot to pay. This one is a warning. 30 DAYS PAST DUE in bold red. I feel like that warning is shouting at me. “Okay, okay,” I say to the bill. I dog ear that too.
The “keepers” (bills and what-nots I can’t deal with right now) go in a basket. I have a collection of baskets as though they keep me organized. They don’t. It creates more crap for me to go through. (Note to self: write post about my odd, worthless collections.) I remember our last move. My friend and real estate broker asked me, “What the fuck is with all the baskets? You got stock in Michael’s Art Supply?” (No, but if you’re curious, it’s at $84 today, down 2 points.) I admit to my friend that these baskets have seen every residence since Northern California—4 moves ago.
(Unpacking kids in Northern California. Circa 2003ish.)
“Not anymore,” she says and gathers twelve junk holders that either have protruding, fragmented wicker, grime clumps wedged in between stiff wires, or, cute containers that are perfectly fine. She dumps them in a give-away pile. Did I mention my friend/broker extraordinaire also stages homes too? She’s a find. (Hi, Diane.)
Now I’m worried that I’ve introduced the false narrative to my kids. When they moved away a few years ago I encouraged baskets. “They’re great for organizing your what-nots.” (What exactly is a “what-not?”)
Both kids wisely told me, “It’s okay. I have a file cabinet.”
“A file cabinet,” I thought. What a novel idea.
But what if they’ve recently discovered the art of keeping crap in baskets? Or worse, stacking empty ones for future crap? (I feel obligated to note where the word, “crap” comes from. In the late 19th century a pluming entrepreneur invented the toilet. His name? Thomas Crapper. His last name was later shortened so people could refer to their bodily detritus as “crap.” It’s also a useful word if you tire of, “Dam,” or, if you hoard a boatload of dense matter.)
(Side table in my office/guest room. Stacked fabric baskets adorn the table top, laundry hamper on floor— too small to use but me likey this woven container from Target. Like=keep.)
I realize that believing I’m organized is an illusion. I’m a sucker for pretty containers. They merely hide those endless to-do lists, or they gather dust along with magazine articles I may refer to—someday. My favorite wooden container once had three dead flies and a living spider crawling between stacked books I was planning on reading. Was this spider fly-picky? Maybe he chomped on baby flies, a delicacy. I pictured the spider cleaning out his mouth with a toothpick. (Actually, arachnids have a mouth shaped like a drinking straw and suck their prey. Yuck.) Seymour the Spider is having a party later, serving the dead flies to his annoying cousins. I pick up the spider and dead flies with a tissue and throw them down the toilet.
Ultimately, moving has been a blessing. Instant spring cleaning. Or rather, forced spring cleaning.
(Standing desk with baskets and empty floral letter container. Circa 2023. Letter container from the 1990s.)
I’ve become hardened though. When I hear about folks who have been in the same home for 30-50 years, and are faced with moving, well, I’m not the most compassionate. For hubby and I, every move has been because of financial reasons. Either hubby lost his job due to a failing company or more recently, our house value increased, (first time since five houses ago) so, we moved, and were able to pay off our daughter’s college. Woohoo!
Because of all our moves I have great recommendations for those who are newly transplanted, or neighborhood challenged. In fact, I almost started a business. My plan was-- I would send the new homeowner or renter toilet paper, paper towels and plates, plastic utensils and discount cards from local neighborhood restaurants. And all these items would, of course, arrive in a basket. Well, I didn’t take the business plunge because I was worried, we might have to move again. Plus, the idea sucked.
I can’t imagine fifty years in one home. Maybe I’m a tad envious, wondering what it would be like to stay in the same place, one constant home for my entire adulthood. I recognize that hubby and I have been lucky to experience so many neighborhoods, states, even homes. I’ve loved each dwelling. Except for the rental in Los Altos Hills, CA that was rat infested. People have asked if hubby was career military. Nope. He makes video games.
I hide the baskets in a closet. I hang up the jackets that were thrown over the dining chairs, slide dishes into the dishwasher, sweep medications from the bathroom counter into the top drawer. Finally, I scrub the diarrhea splashing’s from the toilet. (Still trying to figure out my digestion issues.)
It’s 12:30. Our house cleaner arrives.
* Are you a basket case?
* Have you read one of the semi-useful Marie Kondo books? She’s a famous organizer who recently admitted that she can no longer take her own advice due to having her third child.
I can't help but wonder why people clean up their house before the cleaner arrives. She is paid to do that job! It is almost like going to a restaurant and telling the waiter don't bother, I will pick up my own food and bring it to the table and then tip him.
I'm a sucker for pretty containers you say. Me too! Particularly ones that are opaque and un-stackable. What goes in rarely comes out. Like a mini garage in each room. They do a (possibly too good?) job at containing things. Like life in prison.