As The Prophet Kenny Rogers sings, "Every gambler knows/ that the secret to survival/ is knowing what to throw away/ and knowing what to keep." Amen.
I remember when my friend and neighbor Adrienne moved a year and a half ago, she talked about picture frames -- how she felt that she may have bought a new one almost every time she went to Target, and how, when she was moving, she was getting rid of them, unused. I could relate to that; I have a couple of boxes full myself. I'm going to use them someday! They have moved with me from Boston to New Haven to Princeton to Pennington, and, damn it, they'll move with me to California! Or, NOT.
I sit here blogging tonight because I dare not lay down and close my eyes, else the panic will set in. And anyone who knows me well will tell you that, of all the irritating things I do, I DO NOT PANIC. (Okay, Guv, in all fairness, I did panic when that mouse ran across our floor once, but that was the only time!) But now, I am on the verge of hyperventilating. Why?
My children's stuff is killing me. There are, to the number, 83 unsharpened pencils in my kitchen drawer, most of which are imprinted with either Disney princesses or Ivy League colleges, illustrating how much Petunia's taste has changed since she started this, umm, collection. These pencils were not all together at the start of my ongoing cleaning journey. There are pencils everywhere in my house. They were hiding in my closet, my bathroom, the never-empty laundry bin, and in many of Petunia's 65 purses. There were 2 in my most private of drawers. WTF? There are about 50 Westin hotel mini writing tablets laying around that the Guv thought Petunia would enjoy. Stickers? EVERYWHERE. And don't even get me started on the host of craft supplies. Sequins? In every color. Ribbon? Enough to lay a trail from here to California. An the Matchbox cars? Vroom, vroom, vroom.
The Guv and I, we are weak-willed people. He would like to blame me for a lot of this mess, and I would like to blame him, when, in reality, it's both of our faults for not setting limits regarding what we buy for the kids and what we allow others to give them. When Dash is screaming at Target, it's really easy to appease him with a 97-cent Matchbox car. From now on, those will be replaced with chocolate bars: consumables that I don't have to move. And the next time that the Guv's aunt gives Petunia SIX Barbie dolls for Christmas, I think someone needs to say, "NO!" Or perhaps we should do what I wanted to do three years ago and write a nice letter saying "Please, ONE gift per child." Rude? Maybe. But not as rude as adding six Barbies to an already-huge (like 40+) collection.
I will have a shot or three of Goldschlager, and I will calm down, and I will sleep, perchance to dream of pencils Sequoia trees. I will know what to throw away, and I will know what to keep. I just wish my back would stop hurting from the three hours of tennis I mistakenly thought myself up to playing last Thursday. It is going to be very hard to reach the Matchbox cars and pencils under my bed with this kink in my back and the Guv too far away to do it for me. Sigh.
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