Organizing My Kids' Closet Out Of Necessity (And Not OCD).

As many of you know, I am currently 82 months pregnant with my third child. Thusly, the Big Girls (as they are suddenly/weirdly being referred to) are going to share a room. 

This means they need to share a closet. 

And being as this is still the fixer-uppiest home on the northwest side of Chicago, I have yet to fix up Nora's closet. We've been way too busy with things like exploding sewers and rats in the kitchen. (Come visit!)

I mean, we definitely [immediately] re-painted her closet and room from its garish hot pink, black, and obscene graffiti combo to its current Sunshine Yellow and white...but that's about it. 

Here's what it looked like a few days ago:

Sure is a poor use of space!

Hot Messville.

And since- as it turns out- babies are expensive, our budget was limited for this closet project. Thankfully, The Container Store was having an Elfa sale. (I swear I'm not getting paid by The Container Store or Elfa or People Who Hate Bad Design.) And the kind folks at The Container Store promised me that this whole shebang could be done in a cinch.

WE'LL SEE ABOUT THAT, I said to myself. And to P.J. And to the girls.

So I stripped everything out of the closet and got to work. (Because P.J.'s agreement to "take care of it" sounded way too vague and in the future.)

Not a bad space, size-wise. But good Lord, is it scufftacular.

Turns out, there was a bizarre trim around the center of the closet (mid-board? Non-ornate wainscoting?) that needed to be pried off.

By hand.

Yes, I'm aware that I make the weirdest faces in the whole world.

And honestly? That was the hardest part. Clearing out my own junk. Because the framing went up in under ten minutes.

Why yes, I should have painted. But I'm pregnant. And lazy.

Pro tip: "Leveling" means nothing if the "house" and "floor" aren't "level."

And once the framing went in, the shelves snapped into place like Whoa. And I organized two little girls' impressive collection of tunics, jumpers, and tutus into one smallish and extremely organized space.

Why yes, they are better dressed than I am.

And obviously they're gonna keep this space immaculate.

Because I've just put everything within arm's reach.

Dammit.

Christmas Makes Us Crazy, Part 29.

Helping!

So here's a thing.

Over this past weekend (when not putting out the blazing fire that was my toddler's 104 degree forehead), I had a realization: People cannot wait to de-Christmas.

Keeping in mind that the merchandising of the season starts roughly on September 1st...the actually acceptable Christmas Celebratory Decorative Period starts the day after Thanksgiving. That's when it's cool to wrap lights around beams and drag trees through foyers and inflate reindeer atop roofs. And people have stuff. Entire storage spaces full of ornaments and tinsel and German boots for mulled wine- lined up on window sills like so many confused little elves. (Ahem.) Fake snow is layered with smallish scenes recreated on any available counter space. Stocking are thwacked onto mantels or wall hooks. In a relatively short period of time, a goodly bunch of folks downright quadruple their existing clutter in the name of BEING FESTIVE.

But then, on December 26th? Boom. Back out come the bins. The bubble wrap for the delicate ornaments. Snowman hand towels are stacked away for another calendar year of disuse (because let's be honest; most people are way too freaked out about getting the "fancy" hand towels dirty that they probably don't even get used in the actual Christmas season, either).

We stand there and look at the corner currently being rented out by a drooping tree and say to ourselves, "Man, it'll be nice to get that space back again!" Like we're talking about finally getting the roof repaired after nearly a decade of being a main thoroughfare for squirrels.

And it's more than a little ridiculous.

Because even if you leave your decor up until January 6th to celebrate the epiphany...or to celebrate your own laziness...

That's less than five weeks between purposefully emptying the contents of our closets directly onto any nearby flat surface and the world-weary de-cluttering which is usually reserved for an episode of Hoarders.

Next year, I may just slap a few tinfoil snowflakes onto the front window and consider myself done.

Except for the army of boot-mugs. (They're so cute...)

What A Charming Little Hoarder.

And now, a smattering of the kitchen cabinets that are abysmally disorganized and full of weird junk. (Don't worry, I'm purging the oddities as I go. I'm not just, like, hoarding and cataloging. Much.)

Here's first of three cabinets which house our seltzer. THREE. Ain't no one needs that much seltzer. And there are so many random boxes of stuff all shoved in here- this, our narrowest cabinet- that the box of stretch fruit got compromised. Poor stretch fruit.

And ah yes, my pride n' joy- The Island Of Misfit Kitchen Stuff. Let's see; we've got three more bottles of seltzer, a repeatedly glued and repeatedly shattered ceramic tray (wholly unfit for future food service), Mugsy Balone over there in the corner, a baby cup sans handles (rendering it a pretty awful "baby cup"), a jug of popcorn shoved onto its side, sample tiles that we never ended up going with for the downstairs bathroom...and a shoebox that contains- I KID YOU NOT- the contents of our previous apartment's junk drawer. 

 

 

But fear not, for here's the first pile of stuff banished from the kitchen. (Well, "first," as long as you don't count the major purge I did a few months back. I'm rather impressed/dismayed that this stuff all made the first cut. Like, "Oh no, I'll be needing that tile. Right there. No, don't move it. I make all of my bathroom tiling decisions on the kitchen floor.") It's all safely on the other side of the baby gate...

...Where it'll remain until it gets moved to the garage to languish.

Baby steps.

The Mug Of Your Dreams And/Or Nightmares.

The year is 1999. My sister Chelly is 12 years old. (I am...roughly six and a half years older. Still am.) Her assignment in middle school ceramics class? Make a mug. But give it a face. Some personality. Maybe a tetch of creepiness?

And oh, how she delivered.

The mustache, the eyeballs, the world weary sentiment that reads: Just One Of Those Days. (Which is hilarious on many levels, but especially when you think about how it came from the hand of a hopefully non-world weary sixth grader. I half wonder if she almost went with the idea to create a kitten mug, you know, just "hanging in there.")

Now, years later, for reasons not entirely clear to me- the thing is in my possession. (I hear my other two sisters chiming in that I stole it or some other shenanigans, but here is my defense that would hold up in a court of law: Did you look at the picture? That thing is un-stealable.)

It was unearthed this past weekend in a major kitchen storage overhaul (which resulted in some embarrassing purging of non-critical "kitchen" items...but more on that story later). What follows is the actual, unedited text message conversation between my sister and me:

Keely: {sends picture of mug} Your handiwork, I believe?

Chelly: ...I know it was made as a gift for Dad...but who could want that?

Keely: Maybe someone who's having "just one of those days?"

{Moments later.}

Keely: I am including a special closeup, in case you missed the completely creeptacular stoned-out eyeballs.

Chelly: It's actually the worst thing ever made.

Keely: And doesn't that warrant preservation?

Chelly: It warrants a bonfire and some sort of ritual involving sage.

{A few minutes pass.}

Keely: So...no? You don't want it?

Chelly: ...Is it that my texts appear to subliminally WANT the cup?

Keely: I mean, yeah.

***

And at press time, people, the thing is still in my house. Leading me to [obviously] believe that it was meant for one of you. That's right. One of you is about to be REWARDED. Rewarded handsomely. Want it? (What a stupid question- OF COURSE YOU DO.) Comment below and tell me why. That's all. No hoops. No signups or forwards or chain letters. Just...please explain to me why you're so dazzlingly cool and/or decor-challenged.

So the next time you're having One Of Those Days, it'll be like I'm right there with you. Nodding empathetically. Agreeing wholeheartedly.

And staring at you with my bulbous and haunting discotheque-era features.

Weekends Aren't For The Weak.

Close-up of ugly door.
Close-up of blogger's old promo pic.

P.J. loves it when I start a new weekend project. No really, he just adores it. What's not to love? Go on, honey (he says), why on earth would I prefer to sit here and pound through episodes of Firefly? It would be much nicer (he agrees) to help you prep, clean, facilitate, and be the sounding board for all of your ideas and/or misplaced anger. And even though my preferred color and state is white paint/unadorned walls (he acknowledges), I can totally get on board with a Mayan red door and Cajun red walls. Since you've already begun.

I'll admit it. I blindsided him with this weekend's project. But the front foyer and door had been staring me in the face with their ugliness for close to three years. And we're not talking just outdated or just a state of disrepair.

It was both. A lot of both.

The foyer was a yellowish hue, punctuated with poorly sanded holes, poorly covered holes, and smears of pink handprinty-type things. (And/or faded bloodstain handprinty-type things. Nothing surprises me anymore.) The door was chipped, water-stained, and rather warped "original" wood residing in a chipped, rusted, brownish frame.

Super old pic of Nora.
Super discolored foyer. 

You know how, sometimes, things are so bizarrely ugly and impossible to deal with that your brain actually stops seeing them? That's the only way I can explain how this entry point into our home lasted like this for so long. (Unless you factor in exhaustion. And laziness.)

Well, the fog finally lifted on Saturday morning and I had to do something. So I ran to Home Depot. Bought new edgers, new paint (Mayan red for said door and Eurolinen for said foyer- the latter of which is just a fancy word for...cream.)

While there, I racked up a two hundred dollar bill for...absolutely indeterminate items, but that's an entirely different story. And issue. (And credit card.)

Once home, I realized that we were down to one sole paint roller. And my project would require [at least] two. This revelation- while potentially explosive- was tempered by P.J.'s cautious suggestion that we could make a run on the following day and just focus on the door for Saturday. Whatta guy.

So I sanded. And wood-filled. And scraped. (And removed Mayan Red paint from an eight-foot radius. Because I become positively Jackson Pollock-esque when I renovate.) I had literally no fear about turning the front door into an eye-catching thing of awesome...as opposed to its current life as an eye-catching time capsule from the 1970s [after some natural disaster had occurred].

And you know what? It looks awesome. There wasn't much I could do about the rather dated diamond shape window facing the street, but the door's new deep mahogany color at least says- Hey, we're trying.

I felt quite proud. Prouder still once I managed to finagle the doorknob and dead bolt back into place. Whimsical poll: Do you know what makes a doorknob incredibly difficult to secure? Previously stripped screws and/or painted hardware. COME ON, PEOPLE/PAST OWNERS. I AM NOT A MAGICIAN.

Close-up of door at night
(in incredibly poor lighting.)
No artistic blog awards, here.

The next day- once the paint rollers were secured- I began the spackling and sanding and priming and painting of the foyer. It was a time of discovery. For instance, I discovered that the wall underneath had previously been teal.

This part was really easy. In fact, at one point I proposed marriage to my paint edgers. (P.J. yelled from the other room- You can HAVE her!)

Then, I touched up the trim and baseboards with white paint. (See, P.J.? Compromise.) However, it's a slippery slope from painting the trim in one section and not letting it drag you all the way around the house. Because where in a home's identical trim do you stop and say, "Nope, this area can remain dingy even though it's attached to the other twelve feet of newly shiny baseboard?" But seriously, that conversation needs to happen, or else you're painting the staircase railing and adding another layer of tar to the roof.

But it was when I was wrapping up the foyer/door project when I noticed the interior door frame. Perhaps, even moreso than the previously ugly door, the rusty spikes by the doorknob would act as a Feng Shui deterrent. (Maybe also burglary?) So I sanded and painted and hammered down spikes. (It'll just take a sec, I told myself. And P.J. And Susannah, who had now been waiting for someone to just feed her since roughly 8am on Saturday morning.)

New door, new trim,
new walls, same ugly tile,
same crazy miniature person.

During this time I was kept company by my next door neighbor's attempt to sand a bike that may or may not have been his. The weather, however, was so warm and pleasant that I paid no heed to fact that the potentially hot ten-speed was being stripped of colors that may or may not signify a certain gang. And across the street, my neighbor blared an incredibly loud homemade mix tape that consisted solely of Linkin Park and Nickelback.

If nothing else, it really drove home that I needed to hurry up and finish this frickin' project.

So I did.

And, at the end of the day, the walls were one color, the trim didn't extend onto the hardwood floor, and the door actually latched. And locked. (Twice.)

You can't be too careful.

After all, there are Nickelback-lovers right across the street.

Non-Squalor Home: Check.

About a month ago, we had contractors come and quote us for a couple of projects around the house. Among them was an estimate to finish the downstairs room- what was once a second kitchen, and was now a very real eyesore/storage unit amalgamation of awesome.

They asked us what we wanted to do. We answered with the usual; new shelving, finished walls, maybe a new countertop, definitely a wet bar, perhaps a gas fireplace, a pool table, a craft table, an indoor swimming pool, and a good place for Jazzercise. We weren't picky. We got two quotes. One for 5k and the other for 8k. We scaled back our requests- okay, maybe just make it a liveable space? Still 5k and/or 8k.

Looks clean in this pic. It ain't.

Now, if you'll remember, this room has been a source of crazy since Day One. It was originally a lumber yard when we moved in- a place to build necessary things like doors, baseboards, and wooden spikes to stick in one's eye when full Homeowner Realization set in. Then it was an apartment storage unit for a good friend. (For a year.) Once all of that got cleared out, I carried all of the remaining building supplies out into the yard during an exceptionally long nap of Nora's. (Then I spent the next day tending to my sprained arms, legs, and face.) I scrubbed. I painted. I shelved. But it still looked dirty, grimy, and mostly unfinished.

Some of you will recall that, this past summer (whilst hugely pregnant), P.J., my sis Kate, and I undertook some minor demolition of a Formica island (which would be a good name for a slasher flick) and found...water damage, rot, and holes drilled directly into the [ugly] ceramic tile.

So we got an exceptionally good mold remediation/demolition team to dig out, eradicate, and repair. They did a great job. But, when they were done, we still had a half-painted, fully plastered room with loads of storage junk in it.

Pregnant gal. Water damaged
floor/wall.

That brings us to this weekend. And since 8k is way too much to spend on an auxiliary room in our home (and since spending 8k on any room would instantly make it The Nicest Room In Our Home), I decided to Get. It. Done. Myself. (A game which P.J. haaates.)

We donated a ton of, well, junk. Threw out bags n' bags. We sold some more. We Craigslisted a very comfy- but very much so on its last legs- easy chair...which, moments after we placed it out back was vandalized and stripped of all metal springs and supports by a marauding scrapper truck. (Darn you SCRAPPERS!!!) I scrubbed and scraped some more. Painted and edged and painted and edged. Pale spring green and white and pale spring green and white. Covered a teal window well with five coats of white paint. Decided that the bright green horizontal blinds in the small window would have to stay. Decided that the cracked vinyl of the picture window would have to stay. Decided that the ceramic tile styled after a Miami hotel from the 1970s would have to stay...for the entire level.

But the ugly, greasy, and chipped cabinets gracing an entire wall? The holdover from when this was a garden apartment's trashed kitchen, complete with broken, water-filled appliances (the only ones in the house upon our move-in)? Those, I could do. I painted and refaced and painted and refaced. (White and white and white and white.)

It felt good that I was reclaiming an area of this house from its former squalor.

It felt good that this room no longer incited me to vomit and/or cry.

The lighting does this pic NO favors,
but it's the same angle as the first pic. And
yes, there is fruit on the rug. Baby steps.

I kept going, painting a green Formica corner shelf. (Painting things white is my way of saying- there now, this never happened. Shh.) We hung up a vintage framed Volkswagen poster. An 8x10 of Peter Sellers. An 8x10 of Scott Bakula. ('Cause, if you'll remember, I know him. From this time period.) Shoved a papasan chair in the corner. Plugged in a lamp.

Now we have one really cozy little corner...and a gigantic, extremely clean, and extremely empty room.

Just perfect for putting down a Jazzercise mat.

No Room For R. Kelly In THESE Closets.

You'll put this away over my
dead, fiberglassed body.

For all that I whine about my home, the place has a ridiculous amount of storage, closets, and crawlspaces. Ceiling fans that wouldn't decapitate someone six feet tall or over- no. Rooms with miniature doors- yes.

But every now and again, those spaces become crazypants crammed. So yesterday's Big Dig was tackling Susannah's closet, Nora's closet, and the gigantic crawlspace off of Nora's room.

I hear that some other tackling went on yesterday as well. Sports!

To start, I removed stuff that Nora had [slightly] outgrown...and walked most of them right down to Suzy's room. Because Nora, at age 2 years and 3 months, just outgrew a pile of 6-12 month onesies and shirts. I am not joking. And her sister, a worldly 4-month old, is totally ready for the 6-month gear.

They will be the same size by Fall.

Anyhow. Nora's closet was fairly easy, especially since I've kept it pretty darned organized since she was but a flutter in my tum (and her closet was festooned with maroon, teal, and eye-popping graffiti). There were a couple of details slowing down the train, however. One was that, since I was sorting a wide array of sizes of which to store, I needed a lot of separate piles. The second reason also influences the first reason; Nora really wanted to help.

There's no door on Nora's closet. This is, in part, because a) it's rather busted and painted red and white and leaning sideways in the garage, and b) Nora likes to play in her closet- things like Shoe Store and Dora the Explorer and Gypsy Pirate.

This made pulling things out even more difficult, as someone would see me remove some items from hangers and decide to pull down more items. In fact, all.

But eventually, I made my way to Susannah's room. Girl has an awesome closet, which is most likely due to happenstance construction on this house. (I know, I was surprised too.) They shoved a bedroom and closet right up by the foyer and enclosed a little space with glass block windows and crazy shelving. It gets fabulous sunlight- but is also positively Arctic this time of year.

Unfortunately, it's also the perfect size for suitcases, hanging bags, wayward hardware, and a few [ahem] Spring coats. It has also been known to host a travelling Gypsy Pirate.

So we gave Susannah back her closet. I cleared out toys that, to the best of my knowledge, didn't belong to anyone. I pulled out all of her newborn to 3-month clothing (yeah, maybe I cried a little, no big deal), and packaged it up into Baby Girl and Gender Neutral- although, let's be honest. The more I "put things aside for a boy," the more likely it is that we'll find ourselves with a third daughter down the road.

Those projects were decently easy to complete. The really hard part came when I had to sort everything into respective bins in the crawlspace...which is where I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. For two years, I'd been putting stuff away in bins as Nora outgrew them. Except, since she's rather small for her size, it would take forever for her to outgrow 3-6 month pants. Which would, nonetheless, be put away in her "1 year" bin. Because that was the bin I was putting away, now that she was "2 year." (But still wearing "1 year.") And, because of the generosity of past nanny families, grandmothers, cousins' hand-me-downs, and doting aunts (and honorary aunts), the girls' clothing storage boasts bins and bins for each age range. (It's like shopping each and every time. And, unless I'm sorting and feeling cross, I absolutely get the shivers over how incredibly cool it is that I will not need to buy my kids clothing until they are eight years of age.)

But, I got it all sorted during the girls' naptimes. I even found a box of stuff erroneously marked 3T that would kinda sorta work for Nora right now- including a ladybug raincoat and pajamas without holes in the toes. And yes, maybe I inhaled some fiberglass, and- definitely- Ender the cat jumped into a pile of blown-in insulation and caused me to freak out, brain myself on an attic beam, fall out of the crawlspace and onto some [noisy] bags, drag the cat down the stairwell to the kitchen, humiliate him with a sponge bath on his paws and head, and still feel good about the fact that no one had woken up, regardless of my PG-13 language.

So, in total:
-Three organized storage spaces.
-One bin of stuff to donate.
-One slightly traumatized cat.
-One whopper of a skull bruise.
-Zero F-bombs dropped.

I consider it a victory.

I'd Kill For That Nursery-Cleaning Mary Poppins Scene.

Stop trying to put away the baby.

I have an issue.

Rewind for a sec- I have many issues.

Okay, fast forward back to where we were: I have one specific issue of which I shall expound upon today.

I get overwhelmed easily. And when my level of whelm is through the roof, I become less than pleasant to live with.

Take my house, for instance. (Please.) There are very few people who have not heard me whine about keeping this warehouse o' toys clean. And I realize that, for the most part, a goodly deal of the possessions within this house are here at my request. Or at the request of people that I have directly created. (Peej, for his part, owns a tattered knapsack full of Sega games and a glass baby mug.)

But I have never been able to work in a room that wasn't organized. When I was an Admissions intern at Hampshire College, I would rearrange office supplies. When home on break, I'd sort my Dad's CD collection- which I could see peripherally from the living room where I'd write papers. While working at my folks' restaurant, their kitchen would boast the neatest line of potato bins (unwashed, washed, chopped).

It's no different now, except that I work for two little girls who are a nice blend of whirling dervishes and gigantic Spin Arts. Holding ripped bags of cornflakes.

And while I've gotten quite good at writing in [unexpected] fifteen minute spurts on piles of laundry and willing myself to do projects with the girls without first mopping/dusting/organizing whatever room we're in, I kept thinking that there had to be a better way. And now I've found it. And it's embarrassingly [for me] simple and ridonkulously [for anyone, really] easy.

I plugged reminders into my phone.

Sure, things like dishes and laundry need to be done (and done and done and done) every day. Because miniature clothing expands to epic sizes in the washing machine. It just does. And every evening, without fail, Peej and I get to do the after-bedtime food, floor, toy, and surface bulldozer game. But now, once a day, I get a reminder for that day's weekly task. And sure, the bathrooms get dirty Every. Single. Day. But unless it's Wednesday (or unless something unmentionable happens), I don't have to stress about how dirty the bathrooms are, oh my GOD they're so dirty until the next time I get that reminder.

Okay, maybe this is coming off crazier in print. But the result is that, at the end of each day, the house is relatively in shape and won't make a visitor dirtier for being in any of the rooms. Which frees me up to actually enjoy being with my kids. And to not feel guilty about working on my book (which currently boasts a four page outline. Maybe I should organize that.)

I recently read an essay in Martha Stewart Living (and yeah, I set reminders to tear through old magazines as well- you laugh, but I'm finally reading 'em) about a woman and her quest for an organized life. I identified with many parts of it, but especially the section where she admitted that sometimes she swept toys away from her kids before they were fully done playing with them. (Guilty.)

I don't wanna be that way. But as much as I try to just Be In The Moment (and I do, I really, do), it's so flippin' nice when things are just roughly where they're supposed to go. I really crave order and folded shirts and markers that haven't lost caps and counters one thousand percent free of salmonella.

So far, this system has worked for about two weeks. Things look a tiny bit cleaner every evening- and morning. (I'm still so rotten at mornings. A dirty house in the morning can set me off for months.) And I'd like to say that, even more than a non-temper-tantrum-inducing home, this new method has yielded a gentler Keely.

Cue: P.J. waving a miniature pennant with Happy Wife emblazoned on it.

Now picture him waving it way harder.

Okay, P.J., that's enough.

Now We Can Buy MORE Stuff!

Peej is ashamed. Also, a good cleaner.

Yesterday, I began the process of diggin' out the homestead. (I initially entitled it The Big Dig, but I hear that's been taken...)

It's not that we're being bogged down by too much stuff (which, of course, we are- but that's not the problem), it's that we're being dragged down by the wrong stuff. Or, rather, the stuff we weren't even aware we still had.

I've been feeling this project coming for awhile. Mostly in recurring half-thoughts of- If The House Were On Fire , What- Besides The Babies And Cats- Would I Save?

The answer horrified me. For it was "everything." Also, I wasn't entirely certain what that "everything" still resided. Birth certificates, wedding albums, my leather Frye boots- sure. But what about things like my childhood Buppy blanket? I DID NOT WANT BUPPY TO BURN.

And while organizing our excessive thingitude wouldn't necessarily make it easier to save everything, it might just make it easier to file that ol' fire insurance report. (Boy, January makes some of us a little doomy, doesn't it?)

We began with the hall closet. Easy enough, right? Our goal: to actually offer hangers and/or coat space to visitors. (Perhaps we didn't need twelve coats apiece right at our fingertips. One thing about Chicago: the elements- usually- remain the elements for a goodly few months. There's probably time to swap out a lighter coat before the next heat wave.)

Gotta admit, that's a sweet corncob.

Here's what we found:
-Three separate BundleMe blankets for the strollers and car seat. Not including the one BundleMe actually in use by our single infant.
-A hat, gloves, and scarf set which P.J. fully admitted was "for company." (Listen, if someone visits wintertime Chicago without gloves, I'm not sure I want that brain trust working my stove, locks, or toilet.)
-A really nice Bebe coat that has never fit. It was a hand-me-down back around the time of our engagement. And if Twice Weekly Abs Class/South Beach Diet Keely couldn't shove her boobs into the jacket, Post-Baby Keely should kinda live in the now.
-A box of winter hats for Susannah- even though she keeps all of her winter gear in her room's ginormous closet. (I hadn't wanted her to feel under-represented in the hallway. Which looks even worse typed out than it sounded in my head.)

We got it down to a respectable number of coats per person (which I am not disclosing, lest you be judgey) and freed up room for actual people to place their actual outerwear.

Result: One bag for donation, One bag for trash.

We were so jazzed by this result that I promptly attacked the dining room. I knew that I had collected some junk alongside my treasures (and moved with them time and time again), but it was time to streamline the collections. I didn't think it would take more than an hour. But I should never underestimate the ability of back-of-hutch space to hold an improbable amount of stacked objects.

Blow out your candles, Laura.

Some highlights:
-Moldy cake candles. (Now, without pointing any fingers, someone's idea of "taking care of it" means "shoving them in a tupperware and putting a vase on top of them.)
-Wicker baskets. Lots.
-A corncob candlestick- which, admittedly- we LOVE.
-A gigantic crystal bowl heavy enough to snap our dining room table.
-An army of mismatched plastic forks. Hundreds of them. Why? WHY?
-An ugly handmade mug with an inspirational handwritten message. Not even by us. Or for us.
-Candle without wicks. Because, you know, I liked how the jar still smelled.
-Receipts. (I asked Peej how long one should keep a Dominos pizza receipt- he said three years, just to be on the safe side.)
-And the big one- every dried rose from every event and boyfriend, ever. (If you are a past boyfriend reading this, then yes, I have the rose from that formal dance that one time. And if you are my mother and wondering if I still have that flower from my confirmation- yup!) They were in glass jars and positively ugly vases. And I moved with these things. For close to twenty years. And, since my flower-pressing skillz were not what they should have been at age fourteen, some of these non-dried blossoms got a little moldy. That's right, I'VE BEEN PAYING MOVERS TO CART MY MOLD. Still, it was hard to just toss them. But it needed to be done. It was getting all Glass Menagerie up in there.

Once I removed the bio-hazard mask, I admitted that it felt good to let them all go. I told P.J. that I was fully ready to throw out ex-boyfriend flowers.

He asked if I was sure I'd given it enough time.

Final dining room tally: One large box (and smallish armload) of stuff to donate, one huge bag o' trash and one medium-sized bag of disintegrating petals (also trash.)

I'm not gonna lie- it feels amazing in that room, now. (Also the hall closet, but I haven't yet had the urge to stand in there.)

Can't wait to show it off with a dinner party where I use actual- and accessible- neatly stacked dishware.

Once the room loses the slightly funereal odor, that is.