|Can you even see the little black dog on my lap?|
This is how Sophie and I help—we lie there and watch, and I say yea or nay. Occasionally Jordan sets me to work sorting a bag or something. In one I found tax returns from 2006. If the seven-year-rule holds, I can get rid of those, though Colin will probably want to take them to Tomball where he can legally burn them. (We can’t do that in Fort Worth.)
What was once my guest room is now downsizing central—a disaster on wheels. A friend may spend the night tomorrow, and I’ll have to carve out someplace for her to sleep. Meanwhile, the detritus (a friend used that word last night at dinner, and I have adopted it) is spilling over into the rest of the house. My current project is to try to bring order to the rest of the house and ignore the guest room.
Tomorrow I will take bags to Berry Good Buys, which will make the living room look better, and the garbage carts will be empty so we can refill the recyclable with all the stuff in another corner of the living room. I will try to put away most of the stuff in my bedroom and find out what the boxes are. Yesterday, in cleaning the guest room closet and armoire, Jordan just put everything she didn’t know what to do with in my room. Sigh.
I used to be known for keeping a neat house. I didn’t really care if there were dust curls in the corners, but I wanted everything picked up and not cluttered. Word was, “Don’t set your coffee cup down or she’ll whisk it up and put it in the dishwasher.” I’m afraid those days are gone for at least a year until I am settled in my new quarters. Then I won’t tolerate any mess, loose papers, left-behind ice cream dishes or coffee cups. Small quarters don’t need clutter.
Meantime I’m trying to live with disarray.