[Note: I have been without internet access at home since 12/17, hence the delayed topics for posts thereafter. Tomorrow we should have renewed access, at which point I will steadily continue to catch up to all the posts I've been meaning to share.]
Every four months or so I develop a substantial itch to change something, be it a purge-cleaning of the apartment, rearranging a room, or sometimes simply getting a haircut. But the itch isn't as benign as it seems -- for every day I continue to ponder the itch but delay satiation it grows in factorial intensity. It is especially intense if it goes unrecognized for six months instead of four, as was the case this time around.
Since the latest itch struck at the start of our two weeks of finals, it emitted its own aura of anger that had Nathan quite worried about me. Needless, to say, Nathan has shown great patience with the whole thing. I mentioned my need to fix the situation to my mother over the phone. At a certain point she asked, "How are things with Nathan? Are they okay?" I replied "Yea, they're fine. Why do you ask?" After the fact I realized she misinterpreted my manic wrath of the piles as displeasure with our relationship. Oops. I am just glad that the itch helps my failing-due-to-grad-school housekeeping.
I like to limit my belongings to a small assortment of functional items. Clothes I haven't worn in a year get donated (aside from a select few nostalgic pieces), I'm not into filling my space with chotchkies, and I like having visible wall space. Nathan has much the same set of preferences, though his heterosexual male self is belied by his method of "organization." Piles exist, floor space is exposed, nothing is rotting in corners or underneath crawl spaces, but the walls are lined end to end with said piles without much heed as to how and where.
I've been there with working in retail, where after a long day or sorting through dirty items and constantly cleaning up after inconsiderate shoppers who disassemble an organization you moments ago achieved through three hours of tedious work. And the holiday season?? Forget about it. When you get home after work, particularly since work shifts never end on time, the last thing you want to do is pick up your own living space. You take solace in knowing that is all your items that are all over the place, so you don't mind living in the clutter for a few more days that turn into weeks. Since Nathan is the store manager, he tends to put in as many as three extra hours per shift on any given day. I don't expect him to come home and scrub or clean.
The other caveat: there is only one closet available to Nathan and I, a 36-inch wide closet in the bedroom that we must share. No utility closets, no storage in the basement, nothing. So piles exist because you have to acquire a structure on which to store them.
Voila, an itch boiling over for two weeks encapsulating the entire friggin' apartment.
Last post I mentioned sleeping for nine and a half hours after going to bed at 8:30 p.m. the Saturday following my last exam. I awoke Sunday on a mission that mostly maintained its momentum for the next 48 hours. By then we had two 72"-high metal wire shelving units standing in parallel with a little room between for a few extra, larger items. Boxes from all across the apartment finally have a home. The damn guitar case that flops everywhere and tripped me every three days for the last who-knows-how-long is now stored. The shipping material from the various Ebay things Nathan has intentions of selling (in what I hope is the near future... *ahem*...) is now out of sight. I even moved my four-drawer file cabinet out of the bedroom to be included in this makeshift closet. Now I just need cheap, wall colored sheets to cover the outside and it'll be done.
It is fair to say the manic two weeks of the semester became a manic two days of desperate cleaning. Even now, over a week after completion, I find myself standing in front of the configuration with hands on hips exclaiming "Hah! I win!" at inanimate objects. Yet another quality that makes me prime debutante material.
Miss Sadie, on the other hand, immediately took to the challenge. The units have a three-inch ground clearance. I barely had all the boxes stored and brushed the dust off my hands before Sadie wormed her little self beneath one of them. Took her twenty seconds of squirming to get under. I don't think she accomplished much aside from laying on her belly scratching at the floor like a walrus to turn directions. Then it took her a full minute of squirming to get out. I just stood there, glaring, saying "I told you not to go under there. I won't say 'I told you so,' but don't expect me to help you get out, either." She didn't mind. Miss Mischief needs no assistance.
That guitar case I mentioned is stored on top due to its irregular shape. Sadie loooves to lay on canvas of any sort. One sheet covers the unit's kitchen-side temporarily, perfect for scaling her way to the top. The first few attempts had her turning horizontal and crawling in an uncoordinated zig zag until she finally got to the top. Sadie's feline name has acquired a new addition of spider, upping her ante to spiderabbitdolphinsealworm. Seriously....
No comments:
Post a Comment