In my dreams, I'm the Martha Stewart of bloggers
But. The whole experience has, alas, exposed my tendency to clutter. And that of His Bertness as well. His Bertness, who keeps ragged shirts and shorts, because he might wear them one day when mowing the lawn. Or pruning trees. That is, if he could find them in the furthest, darkest, scariest corner of a bottom drawer. If. And that, dear readers, is not very likely. In fact, it?s not likely. At all.
So. This is our dining room. Today. It?s the one room I usually keep spotless. Clear of detritus. Clean. My oasis. I know. You?re skeptical. So very.
But. It's the room that we stored everything in while the carpet was laid upstairs. Everything. Shoes. Hats. Books. More books. Boxes and boxes and boxes of books. Believe it or not, we?ve actually made progress on putting things back. Really. We have. It?s true. I cite this as my proof: The dining room box towers are only half as tall as they were Thursday night. I know. You're shaking your heads. Gazing skyward to underline your disbelief. Go ahead. I forgive you. The amount of stuff we crammed into the dining room was amazing. Astounding. Totally. Peter Walsh would be stunned.
He would, I?m sure, be pleased as punch that we are doing a clean sweep. We are. Truly. So far, we?ve filled three boxes with various items to donate. And we?ve filled a couple of trash cans, too. After all, does anyone really want a 20-year-old pair of Top-Siders, complete with scuffs the size of tire tracks? I think not.
So. Anyway. Back to the sorting. Back to the piling. Back to the discarding. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. And all that.