The first post we ever made set the tone for the well-meaning, but oft misled thoughts to follow. The very first post (below) revealed a housekeeping blunder which has shown little improvement with time. It was entitled “Gazinka pin discovery leads to trip down memory lane.”
This was the year I was determined to get organized and recover from my packrattery.
I have become obsessed recently with a blood curdling thought. Since I live alone, and if I should check out of this life unexpectedly, people would come snooping around my house. There would be no one but me to assign blame for the sad state of my closets, drawers and cabinets. They are filled to overflowing with gazinka pins and thing-a-ma-duchies that are doing no one any good and they’re causing me to break out in a rash every time I resolve to address the mess.
Incidentally, a gazinka pin is my name for anything hanging around that has outlived its usefulness – be it my prom dress from 1969 which I’ll only wear again in my dreams, or the box in my laundry room that collects metal gizmos that look important, but may have dropped out of the sky during the last visit by alien inter-galactic travelers.
On “Fight Procrastination Day” I resolved to get serious about cutting the clutter in my house and car. Of course that was months ago and I missed it. But hey, I can’t think of a better way to celebrate procrastination than putting it off for several months!
I did buy several books about getting the house organized and how to tract spending and investments. But so far, all I’ve done is read them. I haven’t ventured forward to actually try any of the tips.
This weekend was pretty quiet and I couldn’t come up with a valid excuse to avoid the inevitable purging of the gazinkas. I got out my notes and began to streak through the house.
My instructions said to set a timer for 15 minutes, grab a garbage bag and walk through my home, quickly removing 10 things I no longer use or love. I could do that. I picked up a bone that Rebel, my Boston terrier, had sucked the life out of and tossed it in the bag. That’s one.
I spotted a wayward price tag that I’d ripped from my new pair of jeans and missed the waste basket. That’s two. I was on a roll.
I scooped up a shoe box I’d been stepping over in my hallway since 1999. Just as I was about to toss it out fell three envelopes of photos – smiling back at me was my late Golden Retriever, Cajun. I sat down cross legged in the floor and began to look through the photos – some were from Christmas of 1997 – my first spent in my old house which is a remodeled 1870s cottage.
There was another of me with spinach all over my shoes. I had just removed a casserole dish from the oven that apparently wasn’t oven proof. Someone clicked the photo the instant the bottom plummeted to the floor spewing spinach casserole in all directions.
These were priceless, and I had almost tossed them. I grabbed my purse and drove to the store to get a proper photo album in which to protect these “slices of my life.”
After returning home and lovingly affixing each photo in the keepsake book, the burning desire to organize had evaporated. About that time I heard the mailman on the front porch. I ran out and retrieved – yup, count ‘em, eight pieces of junk mail. I dumped them in the almost forgotten gazinka pin bag and hauled them out to the trash.
Mission accomplished. I had purged ten useless items and found forgotten treasures. Maybe I would do the 15-minute purge again tomorrow. Maybe not.