My poor blog has been neglected lately. As has my dirty laundry (and I don’t mean that as a metaphor, though that has probably been set aside, too), my house plants, my good intentions regarding my diet and those mysterious piles of “stuff” that build up in my house — you know the ones. They start out with a small piece of paper, perhaps a piece of junk mail you want to toss in the recycling bin in the garage when you have the energy to take the extra 10 steps to do so, but within a week, like an asexual thing it breeds with itself and produces a pile of . . . of . . . of . . . stuff.
It usually happens on the kitchen counter right beside the door that goes into the laundry room. Another one often forms on the landing spot where the stairs turn. There’s a spot on the hearth that collects and collects and collects. There are others, too numerous to catalog here.
Right now my entire desk is covered with one–don’t even ask me where my coffee cup is. I can find it, but it’s probably a dangerous location for it to be.
Honestly, I think I found the inspiration behind The Trouble with Tribbles episode of Star Trek — remember those furry things that were born pregnant or something? I can picture it: a script writer with a serious case of writers block in a studio so filled with wadded up paper balls that he couldn’t find his typewriter. It looks as if the paper balls bred . . . and poof! The Trouble with Tribbles.
If only my mess would be such inspiration.
I tackle my self-breeding piles every Friday morning. I have to as it’s the day I pay bills and usually, especially, in the piles on my desk, there’s something that needs to be paid. I read, I pay, I respond, I file, and then I’m amazed at the mountain of trash that’s produced from it all.
My desk is always beautifully neat and tidy when I’m done. And I vow to never let it happen again, but for some reason I have a tough time remembering the vows I make to myself (my husband, I’m sure would be relieved to know as bad as my memory gets sometimes, I never forget my vows to him).
I’ve read organizational materials out the wazoo. I’ve taken time management training classes for various jobs. I’ve heard that mantra “only touch a piece of paper once” so many times it has no meaning to me. That kind of stuff just doesn’t seem to function well with my limited amount of working brain cells, which I’m guessing are piled up in random spots inside my skull.
I love systems. I create them all the time to prevent chaos from forming around me. And then I forget I created them and, well, chaos forms around me, particularly in little piles all over my house. But it’s only for limited times, as I usually get it all cleaned up before cocktail hour on Friday nights. So I guess that means I have my priorities right, right? Whew! I’m so glad I can stop worrying about it all then.