Don’t ask me what I’m doing on Tuesday.
Or, what’s in the freezer.
That’s called “being organized” and I’m not that.
But, I l-o-o-o-ove organizing.
As in, Zing goes the organizer!
Don’t put that on your dating profile.
Take it from what they used to call A Very Late Bloomer.
So, not good for catching Plenty of Fish.com but let’s say, you want to get your cupboard or closet in some semblance of order on a Saturday night: you should call me.
What else would I be doing on a Saturday night, besides dreaming up ways to make your cupboard or closet a thing of beauty? I can’t drink alcohol (I’m a frequent fainter), I can’t dance in a really fun club, even though I love to dance (I have chronic vertigo), and I can’t even look around too recklessly (I am the proud owner of a left optic thingy–with a cherry on top).
I’m basically a middle-aged woman in a 90 year-old body.
Except, that’s an insult to my Grandma Verna, who is 90 and can (and does) do all of the above, with style and in disco ball high heels, no less.
We are moving and downsizing (someday, if I can manage to be not quite so picky so we’ll actually find a house) so, we are purging and organizing.
I just love me some going through of things, straightening of things, putting “like” with “like”, colour-coding of things, and that sort of hulapalooza.
Can we say, “Control Freak” boys and girls?
Pegboard and some hooks are my drug of choice.
Even better if pretty boxes or polka-dot file folders are involved.
Not so much for Practical Man. His idea of hulapalooza is problem solving or rescuing someone while making a mess. Preferably, while out in The Nature.
Opposites attract, what can I say?
I am messy too, I must confess. But, we are messy in different ways.
My mess is very much indoors and usually involves food.
As in, food flings itself all over the place on the rare occasion I am preparing it. Don’t ask me how the spaghetti sauce got on the ceiling but, I have no kids or pets to blame that on.
A few weeks ago, we attacked The Bombshelter, as I affectionately call our cold room. Even though Practical Man leans to the Boy Scout, “Be Prepared and Buy Things On Sale” type, what with the pending (heaven knows when) move and all, I happened to catch him when he seemed less concerned about a looming apocalypse. For a while, we were sorting and tossing like some kind of fainty/dizzy/messy Cirque du Soleil act.
Zing, zing, zing!
“Likes” were stacked with “likes” and I confirmed that we have four fondue sets, which I’m sure you’ll agree, is absolutely the perfect number, especially when preparing for a possible looming apocalypse.
That’s not a joke.
Fondue sets are essential in any bug-out kit, my friends.
Before we knew it, The Bombshelter was an organized thing of beauty.
Well, organized at least.
And my office mates, who are chronic victims of disappearing utensils in our staff kitchen, are the lucky recipients of a giant bag of sealed knife/fork/napkin/salt/pepper packets accumulated from 15 years of Swiss Chalet take-out.
You. Are. Welcome.
Today, I went down to the Bombshelter to get something and there was a vintage Tupperware devilled egg carrier just flung on any old shelf. I got a little thrill when I put it in its rightful spot.
Because now, it has a rightful spot.
So, please call me for your next linen closet re-arranging party. (Does anyone even have a linen closet anymore??)
I am a strange and cheap date.