I’m not really sure how that happened.
One day I’m looking at a perfectly clean and organized house and then in a blink it looks like a crime scene or burglary. Boxes and bins turned over, drawers emptied, contents spilling out in random piles. Trace evidence of intruders are present in inches thick of dusty prints. The bathrooms are vaguely recognizable. In fact, I wonder if the public restroom at the corner gas station is cleaner. It surely smells better. The house is at a point of no return, I’m afraid. The point where I’m ready to light a match to it, file an insurance claim and just start over.
Of course, if I were The Fly Lady, this would never happen. She taunts me, you know, sending ridiculous emails and reminders each day about how “easy” it is to keep a clean and organized house. (As if a clean sink is going to make all the difference the next morning.)
“I want your bedroom to be a haven for you each evening when you put your head on your pillow.” ~FlyLady
I had become sort of numb to the whole situation, living in a sleep deprived state of denial. Until I needed something from my craft room. Nothing major, but necessary to the success of my weekend of stamp camp and card making coming up in a few days. Space. I needed space to work on my card swap project.
Okay, and supplies. You can’t work with what you can’t see either. They were buried somewhere under the rubble, under months and months of projects that were never put away. It had crossed my mind that buying new supplies and renting space might be easier, but not exactly cost effective. I tried to chisel away at the giant mess a little each day over the weekend, weeding out trash and lack luster treasures. My piles for the garbage man were growing rapidly over the piles for Salvation Army, and yet I felt like no progress had been made. It took three days just to make a path into the room, and then a half a day to make it possible for DW to remove the old computer desk and bring in our old farm table that has been hiding in the basement.
By Tuesday morning it actually looked worse than when I started. DW merely looked at me in disbelief, shaking his head in confusion. There wasn’t much time to tackle it again during the school day. My plan was to go at it again after dinner. Two glasses of wine and a forgotten stash of Valentine chocolates later, I finally went to work around 7 o’clock that night, feverishly purging.
My craft room is in our loft above the garage. It is a small room adjacent to a much larger space for the playroom, spanning the length of our 3-and-a-half-car garage. As I cleared out space in the craft area, a few piles of discarded items, trash bags and random things needing to go in the basement might have found their way into the playroom.
This process went on for several hours until I suddenly realized it was close to 1 am.
And the wine and chocolate ran out.
When DW came home from work yesterday, I was eager to show him all of my hard work. Surely he would be so impressed with my ability to turn chaos into function.
“Um, this looks great,” he said slowly, looking at the newly organized craft room.
Then he turned around, surveying the discombobulated playroom adjacent to my oasis.
“But what happened here?” he questioned.
“Yeah, that,” I said confused, “I’m not really sure how that happened.”