Work Space Confessions

Mrs. Taggart told my mom that my desk was messy.  She showed her all the incomplete worksheets, and complete worksheets, crammed into my pocket school desk.  I don’t remember or not if she dug out the love notes from Christopher or not, but they were in there, too.  I remember.  That was first grade.

Today, for the umpteenth time, I reassured a concerned and embarrassed parent that their child - guilty of cramming study guides and other such paperwork in the bottom of backpacks, leaving them strewn and tucked about in a classroom, or “accidentally” throwing them away before they had a chance to make it home - would be OK.  Once again today, I confessed my own history of congested administrative arteries.  My own paperwork circulatory system has long been crippled.

This is not the first time I’ve confessed these office sins here.  But, yet again, I feel the need to bare my truths. 

Truths, like this…

 

Go ahead. Click on it to dig deeper.  It’s quite revealing.

Just outside of this photo you might find other random items, such as: a used ink cartridge waiting for me to take to school for our corporate contributions drive, a spool of pink grosgrain ribbon, a bottle of nail polish, two bobby pins, two pen caps from the remaining MIA writing utensils after BabyGirl’s weekend round of oh-so-NOT-cute game of “Pen Bandit” (i.e. hiding uncapped pens all over the house, sending me into a mad panic as I franticly envisioning large pools of black ink on my upholstered furniture), a scratched pair of sunglasses I need to throw away (Never mind. Just checked that one off the list.), and – le pièce de résistance – a 3/4-inch plastic dog tail.  Not the dog…just the tail.

 

While I am an extremely cyclic person and tend to have bouts of neat & tidy organization followed by stretches of “I’ll deal with this later – bigger fish to fry today,” disarray, I have come to accept my piles.  It is a love-hate relationship I have with them.  I hate the actual piles and feelings of dissatisfaction and frustration I get from them, but I love the processes from which they result. 

1. Good intentions.  Look – I buy a book about organizing my space and my life…I read some of it…I get overwhelmed by the first week checklist telling me to get a minimum of 7 hours of sleep per night (I wish), jot a To Do list each morning (Have you met my daughters?), start a journal (check), limit television (check), schedule 2-minute breaks two to three times a day to “just be” (whaaa???), practice meditating (I’d love to…), schedule time to exercise (I try), schedule more “me time” (more than the six minutes per day???), eliminate energy drains on your life (You want me to retire and move away?), and “take control” of your time (This lady’s an idiot.)…ALL IN THE FIRST WEEK!!!  If I could do that in a week, why the heck did I need to buy this freaking 52-week guide to organizing my life???

2. Creative endeavors.  Cooking, sewing, writing, photography…This is the good stuff. I love these things. If those parts of my life leave evidence on my surroundings, so be it.  I will leave my mark happily.

3.  Thrift. On second thought, perhaps this should go in the “good intentions” category. 

4. Motherhood.  Ask me why I have pink grosgrain ribbon, a crumpled-up-no-longer-sticky post-it note with a butterfly drawn on it, random pen caps floating, a funky popsicle stick flower stuck in a wooden pot, a Lois Lowry chapter book, a sea green crayon and a Hello Kitty digital camera on my desk.  My babies.  I love my babies.  This is my life and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

One of my favorite quotes comes from an unlikely source.   

“Homes are for free expression, not first impressions.”

My piles are not a problem, they are a side effect of an alive and wonderfully diverse mind.

 

 

Now, my desk at work is a whole different story…but that’s another post entirely.

This post was submitted as a part of the {W}rite-of-Passage: Challenge #9. 

Crackin’ Open a Can of Christmas

The sun hadn’t even set on Thanksgiving Day and my “so-called friends” were posting pictures of their Christmas trees on Facebook, making me feel like a slacker.

Then, I went and hurt myself, somehow, and was incapacitated for a day and a half, in a house freshly cleaned from top to bottom in preparation for decorations.

Then, BigGirl woke up with a raging 104.4 fever, and another day was sidetracked.

Gosh darn it, I became hell-bent on putting out some flippin’ red and green already!!! In a typical neurotic fit, I began unloading the Rubbermaid tubs in the garage patiently awaiting my attention. One by one, we smiled at the pillows and cutsies and greeted them like old friends who’d come to visit. “Awww, I remember that…” BigGirl would say.

“Mommy, it’s not Christmas yet. I don’t want you to make dat,” BabyGirl chimed in.

As I, once again, found homes, some new and some the same, for all these familiar faces, I realized how many stories I pull out of the attic every year. (Well, more accurately, FireDaddy pulls them out of the attic…I pull them out of the tubs.)

Like the “crystal” candy dish my little old next door neighbor gave to us the year we were married, Mrs. Russell. I can see her face and remember the worry we had for her when she was hospitalized for a month or so. I remember her purple God awful reflecting ball she kept in her little courtyard by her front door, and her excitement as she called us over to look at her century plant in bloom. I never would have chosen this for myself, but it reminds me of friendship.

I have this crazy, random blue metal basket with Santa on it. Every year I pull it out and wonder exactly what I will do with it and where I will put it. But I don’t have the heart to give it away. It was given to me by a sweet, sweet friend I taught with in a past life. She was as country as country gets. And she would give you the shirt off her back, and the diesel dually she rode in on. The basket was filled with sausage (from their own pigs, I believe), corn bread, and bean soup mix. I miss her.

There’s the toy soldier my mother made, in her toll painting days. He’s so handsome. I have a thing for toy soldiers, I think. You know, being a man in uniform and all. I remember sitting in our kitchen watching her paint these projects. I was impressed with how easy she made it look, and how cool it was that water worked like an eraser when used correctly. I was thrilled when she said I could have it – for the girls, of course.

I love my green table runner with little red birds appliquéd on it. It’s cheery and looks semi-homemade. (Sometimes illusions are a good thing.) I love all the fabrics that come out of my tubs. Pillows, dolls, animals, stockings, napkins, runners, and more. Fabric has such a warming, inviting effect on a room. And what house doesn’t need a little more warmth in it for the holidays?

I love my basket of Christmas books, a second generation tradition. Since my girlies were so small when I started collecting, we have board books and everything beyond. As they mature and grow, so will this special collection. And, I’ll save the board books for friends’ babies and cousins and nieces and nephews and, one day, grandbabies. I love that it was the first item I pulled out of the garage. I presented it to BigGirl like her first gift of the season – and she received it as such. Both girlies immediately plunged into the basket of treasures, promptly browsing one after another after another. Quietly. Enjoying.

All of these stories and memories and thoughts fumble and bumble around my head like blind little mice. And we haven’t even touched the five (or more) tubs of ornaments yet. That’s another post entirely…

I love Christmas. I love that, like many things, no two are exactly alike. I love that with every little tchotchke I put out every year, I am surrounding myself with memories and faces. I love that decorating your home for Christmas each year is an act of creating. Creating memories. Creating a mood. Creating a backdrop for time spent with people you love.

Christmas is coming. Just you wait.

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Psst! Did you hear? Barking Mad is having a Crazy Christmas Giveaway! A $300 TARGET GIFT CARD!!! You know how I feel about Target, y'all...Anyhow, here's her link and all that jazz - go check it out!

"Dinner" is a Dirty Word

Pain in my butt: it's what's for dinner.

Being a wife and mother has COMPLETELY taken all the enjoyment out of dinner. So much so, in fact, that I'm seriously considering banning it. Quitting dinner all together.

For real.

Some people quit carbs. Others quit meats. Why can't I quit dinner?

Nine days out of ten, all I'd really like to do for evening nourishment is grab a handful of wheat thins (or two), eat a bowl of cereal, pop a bag of popcorn, or scavenge for leftovers in the fridge. But, the world does not revolve around my needs and desires, I put aside my own wishes for the health and well-being of my family. (What? Even if it's McDonald's it's better than starving them, right? Hmmm...jury's out on that one...)

What's more, dinner is a pain in my butt before it is even TIME for dinner. It starts early in the day when, just for a moment, your mind wanders to the future tense. "What am I going to fix for dinner?" This question has plagued my existence since the day I said "I do." I'm 90% sure that I even murmur this in my sleep. In fact, I'm probably thinking about it WHILE I'm eating dinner!

Perhaps this problem is unusually severe for me because I bore so easily when it comes to meals I prepare. I had a friend growing up whose mother assigned a meal each day of the week. (Monday = meatloaf, Tuesday = chicken casserole, Wednesday = Taco night, etc.) The schedule NEVER varied. They even scheduled in a take-out night! I could NEVER do that. I need AT LEAST a few weeks in between repeating menus. (I'm the same way with my clothes...it's part of my neurosis.)

Additionally, FireDaddy has this odd preference for pork. (I blame his Tennessee and Kentucky roots for that.) I, on the other hand, being a Texan, strongly believe in beef (in all forms) as my "go to" meat. So, on the frequent occasion (I guess I don't learn quickly) that I, once again, ask him for dinner suggestions or preferences, his reply is predictably, "Something other than red meat." At that point I feel like throwing in the towel. You see, he also doesn't really "do" vegetarian dishes. If there isn't a meat, at least in a sauce or concealed in a noodle, it will be noted.

But, really, this is just one third of the problem.

Enter BigGirl. She could live off of chicken nuggets alone. That is ALL she EVER wants anymore. I take that back, on occasion she will request spaghetti (with meatballs or meat sauce).

Now, enter BabyGirl. She, in sharp contrast to her father and sister, is like a pint-sized vegetarian in training. She will eat EVERY vegetable and ANY fruit under the sun...but does NOT like meat. Any meat. With the exception of a chicken nugget or two (under intense parental pressure) and beef enchiladas (my girl), she manages to avoid meats at nearly every meal.

I am, however, determined NOT to raise lifelong picky eaters. I am also determined not to cook separate meals for everyone at the table. So, here's my philosophy:

1. If you come to my table, you will be pleasant.

2. If you want to have dessert or anything other than what is served (i.e. small snack later, etc.), you must eat some of everything on your plate. (Usually it at least one bite per years you are old.)

3. If you don't like what is served, you are not REQUIRED to eat anything. However, you WILL NOT spoil my dinner (which I alone worked to prepare, and I alone will clean up afterwards) by whining, crying, or fighting. You also will not have ANYTHING to eat until the next morning. Period. End of story.

This has been working "OK" for me. I understand I'm dealing with little people and nothing is going to be perfect at first. It takes time.

However, I'm about two seconds away from adding a number four to my list. This one applies to FireDaddy, too.

4. If I am the only one cooking and cleaning, then I am the only one who has input in what's being served. If you want input, you need to get your bootie in the kitchen (or even the grocery store!) and help out.

And, if you don't like it, GO SOMEWHERE ELSE AND EAT! I will be just fine left alone with my bowl of cereal, thank you very much!

Now that I've said it, I feel a little better. But, then again, dinner is over for the night. We'll see how I feel tomorrow night around 5 o'clock.

Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lorna_carlson/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

A Moment for Reflection

Today, I spent a few hours digging deep to the bottom of my desk. (In fact, I'm still not finished...it is clean, but it needs some redesign.) After such a time-consuming, pain in the rear activity, I would like to take a few moments to reflect on my discoveries.

Exhibit A:Please take a moment to enlarge this image, as needed, to fully appreciate the annotations before I continue.

Done?

Great. Here's what I'm thinking:

A) For someone who is decently tech savvy and digitalized, why, oh why, do I still have so many pens and pencils and pieces of paper cluttering up my life? (I know at first glance it may not appear that there is much paper clutter here, but remember - this picture was taken POST cleaning. I shredded two bags of paper today.) Furthermore, why do I still need so many CONTAINERS for paper?

I am moving forward, folks. (And have been for a matter of years now.) I am greening-up my life. I pay my bills ONLINE. I request as many bills and documents sent to me ONLINE as possible. (More companies need to offer this. I would love nothing more than to do away with our world's reliance on the USPS. With rare exceptions, I find it a bit of a nuisance.) I keep my family and work calendars ONLINE at iGoogle. I keep DIGITAL lesson plans. I receive more and more paperwork from my school DIGITALLY. Where is all this paper coming from?? And, HOW DO I STOP IT?

B) I have a love-hate relationship with pencil sharpeners. I do write with pencils quite often, actually, and LOVE LOVE LOVE the feeling (and appearance) of writing with a REALLY SHARP pencil. (It's part of my School Supply Sickness, but that's another post.) However, pencil sharpeners MAKE SUCH MESSES! I cannot stand the lead dust and crumbly pencil shavings that, inevitably, spill out of it. I suppose they are a necessary evil. (Because mechanical pencils, while they are neat in their own right, just aren't the same to me.)

C) I am very sentimental. Notice the "love notes" attached to my monitor? They've been there for MONTHS. They're just little post-it notes Big Girl snuck in and left for me. How can I get rid of these? Also, the little craft project...it's actually a combination of two craft projects. We're talking high quality work, folks. Popsicle sticks, digital pics (of my baby) printed on regular paper (no photo paper quality work) and cut in the shape of a flower with little strips of tissue paper sticking out everywhere, crammed inside a tee-niny little bitty wooden flower pot (with playdoh to keep it stuck). I cannot get rid of this! You are heartless (and not a parent) if you tell me I should.

D) I HATE CDs. And their cases. This box is only one portion (I think) of the software CDs, photo CDs and various other (don't know what they are) CDs I have for the computer. They are dust collectors. What should I do with them? Those little CD album thingies are cute, until you outgrow them and need another. Then you're just collecting notebooks of CDs instead of boxes of CDs. Help! I want to purge!

Finally...

E) I have too much stuff. There. I said it. I'd love to sell the house and get a condo so we would FORCE ourselves to GET RID OF STUFF. In the end -- it's just stuff. You can't take it with you, right? What's important is my family, my children, my memories, and anything I can store digitally.


I need a bigger hard-drive.

My New Friend, The Hornet

I'd like you to meet my new best friend, the Hornet.

She's a beauty.

She's bright. She's colorful. She's powerful. She knows how to get the job done. She's a leader. She's fast and smooth. People clear a path for her when they see her coming! I'm learning she can be a bit high maintenance, but, hey, she who lives in a glass house...right?

Ever have a friend who really can calm you when your stressed? The Hornet is that friend for me. When I'm with her, I can really tune out. I begin to feel as smooth as she is. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and track my progress. She's the kind of gal that helps you feel more satisfied with yourself and your surroundings. To me, she is Wonder Woman.

I love spending time with the Hornet. My life can be in shambles, but within a few minutes with her, I really feel like I've accomplished something. She's almost as good as prozac.