We have nearly 2000 square feet of house, a barn, two sheds, two attics, five acres, and I’m still trying to find a space to contain my serious amount of sh*t.
I have too many hobbies and too many tools, supplies, and accessories for each hobby.
Anyone got any ideas for me? Cheap ideas are good. Free ones are even better.
Falon says I just need to finish one project before moving on to another. I think she may be on to something.
That could be the problem. I just hate to admit it. How many character flaws does one have to ‘fess up to in a lifetime?
Tomorrow is a new day. Perhaps I can begin a new leaf, finish all the loose ended projects, and start fresh on Friday. What a thought. Clear the minutiae. Clear the desk. Clear the head.
Who am I kidding? My efforts at organizing are legendary in their failure. Bob just waits until I’m not home and throws stuff in the trash.
I try not to notice. Wonder if that’s what happened to the missing sewing foot?
My friend in South Carolina called this afternoon. She designs and makes wreaths. I asked her about my inability to organize. She knows me well. We’re both suffering from an attention problem. She suggested I do what she does. Close the door to the workroom quickly before things fall out. I can do that.
I’m still tired of wasting time looking for things, or going to buy more. It is such a time eater-upper. I know you’ve heard of eater-uppers. Right?
My mom used to say people who weren’t too quick on the uptake were eaten up with it. Eaten up with dumb-a$$. I won’t tell you how she defined the ‘f’ word for me when I asked. Suffice it to say she didn’t even come close.
Mom worked as a psychiatric nurse in the state hospital. One day she came home chuckling about something unknown to us. She chuckled occasionally while preparing dinner. We finally heard the tale. One of her co-workers left the ward to go home. Mom was standing at a window as the woman sought her car. Mom noticed her abruptly stop in her walk across the parking lot. She stepped to the side, shook one foot, and bent to retrieve her loosey-goosey panties from the ground where they had fallen and pooled around her ankles. She put them in her purse and continued to her car.
I’d a died ‘fore I picked up them drawers. And I don’t think I would have returned to work the next day. Losing my britches in public is not funny.
Now someone else losing their britches is hysterical.
I is so bad.