The Great Clean-Out: Part Umpteen

I'm still plodding along with cleaning out.  For my birthday last month, my daughter gave me three 3-shelf bookcases.  I pulled an old one out that I had stored in my garage and then went and bought a fifth bookcase myself.  She was really annoyed that I bought the fifth one and asked me why I needed another one.  Huh?  Did I hear her correctly?  She's in and out of my room all the time and she has to ask why I needed yet another bookcase?

  

This is only part of what is still in my room!

I've assembled two of the new ones.  That was interesting.  I've assembled many "assembly required" items in my lifetime.  Nowadays, Sauder is the brand for self-assemble furniture.  They have a wide range of furniture and varying levels of quality.  I go with cheap.  I mean inexpensive.  These are still better quality than what I had 25 years ago.  I remember an unknown brand of chest of drawers I bought at Zayre (a precursor to Venture, which was a precursor to WalMart.  Yes, I am that old!)  That chest of drawers was so flimsy, it barely lasted a couple of years.  Then I bought an unknown brand of shelving units from Venture.  A little better construction.  They lasted several years and I even sold a couple at yard sale a few years ago.  This time, I went to Target.  They were called RE or Room Essentials, but when I opened the box, there was Sauder at the top of the instructions.  

They were not difficult to put together, per se.  Better adjectives (or adverbs) would be: tedious, time-consuming, awkward and annoying.  First, like the good daughter-of-my-father that I am, I counted all the screws, nails, caps, pins and doohickeys and made sure I had as much or more than the instructions said.  I learned this lesson the hard way.  Then, I separated the sides and shelves and unfolded the back.  I proceeded to align the top and sides, making sure the finished edges were in front.  Then came the tedious part--screwing the sides to the shelves.  Now let me be perfectly clear:  the instructions clearly stated no power screwdrivers!  Oh well, the Carpal Tunnel Syndrome was gone from my right hand, so, no big deal right?  Um, yeah.  There were only four screws per side, but it seemed like there were 40!  I'd switch to my left hand, but didn't have the strength in it to tighten the screws.  After resting my hands a few minutes after each screw, and with eight screws total, I was done with that part in about 45 minutes.  Then I had to flip the sucker, I mean, bookcase, face down so I could nail on the back.  The back is just sturdy, coated cardboard.  It is packaged folded, so you really have to smooth it out and work it as flat as you can.  Then you have to make sure it's square, which, in turn, will keep your bookcase from being lopsided.  Even a slight list is bad.  The instructions said to place the nails about five inches from each other.  I'm no good at judging distances, so I looked around for a ruler, a tape measure, anything that would show me what five inches looked like.  I couldn't find anything so, since I didn't feel like running downstairs, I guessed.  I almost ran out of nails, but I noticed that I was going to run out so I started placing them farther and farther apart.  'Sall good.  (Note: As I'm sitting here typing this, I am up in my room and leaning against the wall opposite from me, is a yardstick.  Not just any yardstick, either.  A bright red yardstick!  Why didn't I see that two weeks ago?)   Anyway, I carefully stood the bookcase upright.  Looks great!  The rest was a piece of cake--slip little rubbers--ah, rubber caps--on little metal posts, insert posts into sides of bookcase and place adjustable shelves on posts. Whew!  

Let's not forget that I had help with this!  For the first bookcase, Bebe alternately watched me, sat on the pieces, played with the screws and chewed on the rubber caps.  Her piece de resistance was when I had just started nailing the back on and she jumped up on it.  So the back of that one bows in, just a little.  After I freaked out because I thought she would break it, she refused to come back and I had to do the rest by myself.  

For the second bookcase (which I did the next day), I had Tabitha upstairs.  She sniffed the old bookcase, the new finished one and the pieces of the one I was assembling.  She climbed on shelves, played with--and lost--one of the screw caps, walked between me and the bookcase, and backed away and hunkered down when I was hammering the nails in.  She did not like the pounding.  But when that was done and I stood it up, she was right in there again!  

 With the old bookcase, there are three that I've already filled with books. The shelf space of the new bookcases are so big you could fit yearbooks or coffee table books in them!  There are also four small wall-mounted shelves on the wall at a right angle to the bookcases.  I managed to move my daughter's stuff from two of the wall shelves, but one of those was too dirty to use yet.

While she was gone for a couple of days, I started organizing my books.  Separating by size, I alphabetized, by author, all the trade-size paperbacks.  I started working on the regular paperbacks, but then my daughter came home.  She--finally!--sorted through the last couple of her boxes from the closet.  But immediately she put boxes in front of my bookcases.  She will get the stuff out of there soon, she says.  See, she needs to have everything in place in order to bring down the rest of her cra-ah-stuff.  She can't get the rest of her furniture until the room is painted.  The room can't be finished getting painted until she gets over her cold.  She won't get over her cold very quickly because she has to work.  And all the planets must be aligned at a right angle to the handle of the big dipper.  If you aren't sure, yes, that last statement was sarcasm.  I knew you knew.

So, I'm making her tea and, occasionally, letting her have one of my 12-hour decongestant tablets.  You know, the kind you have to show an ID for and can only purchase once a month?  Yeah, those.  Other than that, I check the planets' alignment every night!

 

Half A Century

I'm a quinquagenarian.  Yep, as of Friday, February 25th, as a matter of fact.  I saw it coming, but there was nothing I could do to avoid it--short of kicking the proverbial bucket.   That seemed a little drastic.  And melodramatic.  Even for me.

Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.--French proverb

 Huh.  Here I thought I was smack in the middle of middle age.  What do I know?  Well, quite a bit, as it turns out.  Here are some of the things I've learn in 50 years:

I know the difference between having a cold and having the flu.
I've learned that life is like a box of chocolates, but you have to be discreet in spitting out the nuts.
I know that while what doesn't kill me may make me stronger, it still pisses me off.
I've learned that it doesn't matter if your friends are bipedal or quadripedal, it hurts the same when you lose them.
I've learned that love is worth the risk of loss.
I have traveled the universe and beyond in the pages of books.  And look forward to more!
I know that as soon as I run the dishwasher, someone will put dirty dishes in the sink.
Truth is stranger--and funnier--than fiction.
I've learned not to "should" all over myself.
I know that you'll never find a silver lining if your eyes are closed.
I've learned that God has a sense of humor.

There are still quite a few things that I don't understand, yet.  Like:

Why do you click the "Start" button to turn off the computer?
Is there anybody who actually eats an Oreo without twisting it apart?
Why are there birds that can't fly?
After God banished Cain, where did Cain find his wife?
Why do some people think it's funny when someone else falls down?
How do the words "I'm sorry" and "I forgive you" carry so much healing?
Why does eating chocolate release endorphins (feel-good hormones), but not veggies or fruit?

Well, here's to 50 more years!  I intend to keep learning as long as God leaves me on this mortal plane.

Valentine's Day in Cyberspace

Matchmaker, Matchmaker,

Make me a match,

Find me a find,

catch me a catch

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

Look through your book,

And make me a perfect match

I've never had that "perfect match."  Not that I'm complaining.  Much.  I often wonder what it would be like to be in love.  I've loved, but never been in love.  With Valentine's Day, my thoughts turn to that topic once again.
 
Matchmaking as a profession has been around for millenia.  The role of a matchmaker varies from culture to culture and from era to era.  The past few years has found a resurgence in the demand for the services of personal matchmakers here in America.  But the internet has had the biggest impact on the search for Mr. or Ms. Right.
 
There are sites that charge for their services like Zoosk, eHarmony.com and Match.com.  There are sites that offer their services for free--on a limited basis--such as okcupid.com and matchmaker.com.  Some of the sites that charge are very expensive, while others are more reasonable.  The limitations on the "free" part of their services also varies.  Some charge you just to sign up, while others don't charge until you want to make contact with someone.  And most sites offer discounts for longer term subscriptions.
 
There are sites for "mature" singles (what does that mean, exactly?) like maturesinglesonly.com and sites for Christians like christianmingle.com.  There are sites that cater specifically to blacks, gays, Asians, Jews, interracial and international groups, just to name a few.
 
At this time of year, all these sites are advertising all over the web.  I don't particularly pay much attention to each ad (I see a lot of them on Facebook).  But a week or so ago, an ad caught my eye:
 

 
I was immediately intrigued!  And that's not the only one!  There's singlecatlovers.com, PURRsonals.com and catloverdating.com--just to name a few.  Well, that got me thinking.  I know, I know, a dangerous thing.  What if, I thought, there are dating sites for writers and bibliophiles?
 
Well, a couple of Google searches later and I found bookwormsdating.singlescrowd.com and alikewise.com, for two.  For writers?  Writerspassions.com.  Bipolar?  Nolongerlonely.com.  Caregivers?
 
Caregivers?  Umm, no.  I found a few articles about dating when you're a caregiver, but no websites.  And, yeah, as one person said, "...just the mention of caring for an elderly parent will send a potential date running."
 
But, mostly, just like for ethnicity/racial preferences, whatever you're into, there's a site for you.  Running, skiiing, philately, woodworking, marijuana (yep)--it's all there.
 
After all that searching the web, I realized that I would rather talk to a person about my dating preferences.  There are still places that do that!  Great Expectations is a national matchmaking agency.  And there is even a Matchmaking Institute where you can become a licensed, certified matchmaker!  Of course, all this costs money.  A lot of money in most cases.
 
So, I guess I'll just stick with blind dates and the chance meeting in a bookstore.  Hey, it could happen!

Breakfast of Champions

All happiness depends on a leisurely breakfast. --John Gunther

I heartily agree!  I do not like to rush through breakfast.  I like to take my time preparing it, eating it and lingering afterward.  In fact, I don't like to rush at all in the morning.  I don't always get it that way, but that's my preference.

My morning usually starts about 8:00 a.m.  After my ablutions, I get dressed.  Always.  Even when I'm sick.  Granted, if I'm running a fever or throwing up, I may just throw on sweatpants and a T-shirt.  But I absolutely have to have clean underwear.  After dressing, if there's time, I get on the computer.  A little before 9:30 a.m., I head downstairs.  After greeting Tabitha, I get my mother up and moving and head to the kitchen.

I get things started by filling my electric kettle.  I love my electric kettle.  I don't know how I managed before I had one and I will never be without one again.
 

In order to make tea, I need tea bags.  Or loose tea, but most mornings it's tea bags for my mother and instant coffee for me.  And, according to Tabitha, I'm not able to find the tea bags or coffee on my own.  She's very helpful.

Somehow, I manage to get the food prepared by myself.  Cream of Wheat, French toast or pancakes.  That's my basic repertoire of breakfast foods.  On rare occasions, I have muffins--either bought or home made.  Before I set the table, I clean it with Clorox or Lysol wipes.  The cats hate the smell of the disinfectant and it keeps them off the table--at least until after we eat.  Emmy harbors the notion that some day she'll get her own place setting--with plenty of meat on it!

Once the food is off the table--and the cleaning smell is gone--Khai decides it's time for some affection.  At this point, I'm usually savoring my coffee.  He figures I only need one hand to hold my coffee cup so I should use the other hand to pet him.

Now, I usually clean the sink after each meal.  Tabitha sticks close by as I work.

She's very good at making sure I clean the sink thorougly after the dishes are done.

And she insists on checking my work.

Hmmm, what's that tiny speck in there?

We go through a lot of dish soap and disinfectant wipes!

When that's done--on the days I don't have errands to run--I make a cup of tea for myself and we head to the living room to watch one of our recorded shows.  Old shows.

Before Gunsmoke, it was a half hour
show called Marshall Dillon.

The original!



I'd never heard of Chester Morris,
but these are good movies.

  

 During these shows I usually sort through and pack up boxes.  I have to keep the de-cluttering going!

The Psychology of Decluttering

After the whole NFL playoff debacle Sunday, I wanted to investigate the reason people feel a need to have favorite sports teams, musicians--even authors.  While I was plugging search terms into Google, I came across the website for Psychology Today (a magazine).  I opened it and started plugging search terms on their home page.  My attempts with fanaticism and sports got me nowhere.  So I tried obsession.  This was the second hit it pulled up:  http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/two-minute-shrink/201011/decluttering-is-it-therapy.  It jumped out at me.  I hope you take the time to read it.  It isn't long; it's really a blog entry of a doctor.  It really made me think so I decided to change this topic to, well, the title above.  It opened my eyes to how this Great Clean-Out was therapeutic for me and I didn't consciously realize it!

Now I'm not a big fan of the "desensitization" therapy.  I understand the concept.  If someone has pteromerhanophobia (fear of flying), for instance, the idea is to get them on a plane.  The therapist goes along to help the person through the ordeal.  Now I can understand this if the person is, say, an executive of a Fortune 500 company who doesn't want to lose his job because he won't fly to Japan.  But if the person is a Midwestern soccer-mom, whose idea of a vacation is to go sunbathing at Lake Michigan, well, I don't see the point of making her fly.  I mean, really!  I have arachnophobia.  If someone suggested I spend time each day with spiders to get over my fear, I'd laugh and kick them in the n-ah, butt.  Probably I wouldn't even laugh.

I started decluttering to help my mother--mostly.  She's 79 years old now and she worries about leaving her kids with a houseful of junk.  And the idea of moving is appalling with the sheer volume of stuff in this house.  But when I started, I started upstairs.  With my closet.  Well, that's not entirely accurate.  I went through my mom's closet first, but not thoroughly.  We sorted her clothes and a few items on her shelves.  But the real labor-intensive cleaning was my closet.  Oh, I was sidetracked sometimes.  Like going through the bookshelves looking for a Bible.  And one day, when I was helping my mom put clean sheets on her bed, I cleaned out two small bins that were on her closet shelf.

The big question is, have I stopped collecting "stuff"?  Not completely.  Today I was sorting through a box of odds and ends that has been packed and stored since I moved out of my condo in October of '98.  Yep.  1998.  Would you believe that I took one of those small bins I had just cleaned out of my mom's closet and put some things in it that I thought I might use someday?  Oh, there's all sorts of logic to it.  I had to keep some cookie cutters so I had them when I have grandchildren some day.  Really?  If I have grandchildren some day, wouldn't I be more likely to buy those pre-shaped cookie dough packages?  I could say "Isn't this cool?  Your mom used these cookie cutters when she was a kid."  Except I really couldn't say that.  I doubt if Brittany would remember making cookies that we cut out by hand.  I only have a vague memory of making cookies from scratch that had to be rolled out and cut.  I'm much more of a "drop the dough on the cookie sheet with a spoon" kind of baker.

Does this mean I'm hopeless?  No!  I will go through that bin again and put those cookie cutters in the give-away!  I'll pull out those pink-and-white kitchen towels that have never been used, also, and give them away!  Maybe I'll get rid of the metal basket with the cat on the handle!  Ummmm, maybe not the metal cat basket.  I don't want to get too carried away!  After all, I wouldn't want to get obsessive about not having any clutter.  That would be boring!

Un-deck the Halls

Well, it's January.  The holidays are over.  Time to un-deck the halls.  My mother's birthday is the 7th, so, since she hates having the tree up on her birthday, the Christmas tree has to be down by then.  I always leave the tree up through New Year's Day.  (Well, except for Christmas of '86 when my then-significant other bought me a real tree that was so dry, I had to take it down on Christmas day!  In the morning!)  This year, the tree (artificial) came down on the 4th.  It is packed up in it's box, still in the living room.  But then, there are a few boxes still in the living room.

The Great Clean-Out of 2010 is now, officially, the Great Clean-Out of 2011--The Saga Continues.  I still have a few Christmas decorations to put away yet.  There is also wrapping paper to put away.  I did a gross sort of the wrapping paper early in December.  I've been meaning to further refine and organize the wrapping paper, but so far, I haven't.  And the loose wrapping paper is on top of the box for the decorations that are still up.

So, in order to finish putting the decorations away, I have to move a few rolls of wrapping paper and some tissue paper.  I need to have the wrapping paper boxes that my daughter took into the back bedroom (soon to be her bedroom), and the other wrapping paper box in the living room so I can sort the paper.  One box, um, I think the red and green one, will be for Christmas wrap.  The plain white one, I guess, will be for general/birthday wrap.  Then there are smaller boxes.  One with bows and ribbon.  One with boxes, folded wrap, gift bags, etc.

I'm telling you, it's the OCD.  I could just move the gift wrap, pack away the rest of the decorations and deal with the gift wrap some other time.  I could do that.  I'll have to have a talk with myself.  Now, don't make fun of me.  Self-talk is an honest-to-goodness therapeutic method of dealing with stressors in our lives.  There are whole books written about self-talk.  Remember the Little Engine That Could?  Well, he did, and mostly because of telling himself "I think I can, I think I can."  Actually, counselors would advise that you say "I can."  It's more positive.  Whatever.  It works.  There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people that shop at the stores where I shop that, unknowingly, have benefitted from my self-talk.  I say things like "It'll be crowded, just be patient."  And "If you hurt that %#@, you could be arrested and thrown in jail."  Now I'm rather ambivalent about jail.  On the one hand, I'd have three meals a day that I didn't have to prepare.  On the other hand, I'd have to use a toilet in front of other people.  So, in order to not hurt anyone, I think of the toilet when I say "jail."

But I've digressed.  Oh yeah, the decorations.  And the gift wrap.  I'll get to it.  Tomorrow I have to take my mother to a doctor's appointment.  And it's her birthday.  (It was her choice to make the appointment on her birthday!)  Probably Saturday I'll put the rest of the stuff away.  Maybe.

A Visit From Santa Claus--Tabitha's Story

Note:  "Toots" and "Tootsie" are nicknames for Tabitha.  Don't ask.

‘Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the place,

People were wiping

The sweat off their face.

The house had been decked,

The shopping was done,
The humans were tired
Now for some fun!

Khai wasn’t sleeping,
Tabitha knew that
He’s just being lazy
Because he was fat!

The door for upstairs
Darn! Was shut tight!
So Toots would begin
By starting a fight.

With a leap oh so graceful
And a pounce very fierce
Her claws in Khai’s flesh
Sharply did pierce.

With a hiss and a growl
Khai tried hard to flee
With Tabitha laughing
They ran to the tree.

Through gifts decorated
With paper and bags
The two cats created
Confetti with tags.

Tabitha rolled on
The torn and bunched wrap
While Khai settled down
For a long winter’s nap.

Toots eyed the ornaments
Hanging up yonder
then heard a loud noise
That sounded like “Donner!”

She dashed to the window
Pressed her nose to the glass
And saw eight tiny reindeer
And a sleigh on the grass.

Her eyes wide as saucers,
Her heart madly pounding
Toots watched a small man
From the sleigh come a-bounding.

Her whiskers twitched once
As the small, red-clad guy
Came into the house
In the blink of an eye

His eyes, how they twinkled!
His laughter, quite merry,
Until he saw Tootsie
And blew a raspberry.

“You’re nothing but trouble.”
Santa said to the cat.
“You torment your housemates,
You define the word ‘brat’.”

“Santa,” said Tabitha
“I’m sure you are right.
These humans do love me,
But I must be a blight.”

The cat hunkered down,
Licked her coppery fur,
Forced a tear to her eye,
And looked up through the blur.

“I could say that I’m sorry
And that I’ll repent.
I could make you a promise,
Give 100 percent.

To try to behave
And to tell myself ‘Don’t”
To be a sweet angel,
I could, but I won’t”

“Why not?” Santa questioned,
His heavy brow wrinkled.
“I’m Alpha.” she answered,
Her little nose crinkled.

"I'm Queen of the Realm,"
She proudly did boast,
"I'm the Number One Cat,
I am really the most.

“Now, go take your sleigh
And tracks out of here make,
Or tomorrow we’ll dine
On fresh venison steak.”

With a look filled with horror,
Santa’s face turned quite pale.
He grabbed his bag, turning,
And stepped on Khai’s tail.

Khai yowled very loudly
As the man disappeared.
Khai yawned and he stretched
And said “That was just weird.”

Tabitha said nothing,
She grew rapidly sleepy.
Khai stared for a moment,
Then said “You’re so creepy.”

Tootsie’s last thought
“What a wonderful trip,
We’ll have when we waken
With that pile of catnip.”