You can tell a lot about a family by the clutter on their counter.

 There are many of issues in the universe that require my attention. Make that the world, the continent, the country, my own town and finally, my own humble abode.  All of these places could use my undivided attention and assistance because I am very smart and could potentially solve everything. Sometimes though, my funny little brain chooses to zone in on one particular cause, which may or may not register on your care radar.  The “cause du jour” (see, smart, two languages yo) occupying all of my grey (gray? Urrr, not so smart) matter is my kitchen counter. See, I have very few spaces in my home carved out for just me.  In fact, as I type this there are 40+ balloons billowing around my house – the kids thought it would be fun to blow up an entire package of balloons. So fun hearing them randomly pop and get under my feet at the most inopportune time – do you have any idea how silly it feels to curse out a distorted Sponge Bob balloon with his warped little face looking up at you? Verrrry silly.

But I digress. My kitchen counter.  It is my space. I want it clean and clutter free. I function well with no clutter and in the kitchen I need to function because this is where I pretty much live when not working.  So, I clean it constantly and have become ruthless in my dealings with the victims that find themselves on my counter. Rainbow Loom bracelet? Garbage. McDonalds toy? Gone. Baseball cap? Hidden somewhere it will never be found (which is in the basket in the front hallway WHERE IT IS SUPPOSED TO GO). So, here is a photo essay to demonstrate how my efforts and continually thwarted, patience constantly tested, and ultimately why I drink:

Fancy bottle of wine. This technically belongs in the wine rack, but think of it as a “Break in case of emergency” kitchen necessity.

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 My Lamp Berger.  This is my clutter, so technically it does not count.  It is also is subtle way of saying to the world “Hey world I’m not a great cook, I burn things a lot and need to cover up the smell”.

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 Why yes, these are 3-D glasses in water. This is one is courtesy of my oldest, who is currently running an experiment on creating x-ray specs.  She could not bear having them in her room (her personal space is more important than mine), so she plunked them down in my special space. While I applaud the spirit of invention, I cannot support this being kept on my counter.

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Sigh, the worm farm.  A neglected, ignored worm farm.  Abandoned by my  youngest, who in a fit of passion decided to save all the worms and love them/nurture them/defend them/save them from winter/feed them orange peels and keep them forever and forever and I shall name them all!  The passion lasted a couple of days, tops.  Again, I respect the process and enthusiasm, but they have not been watered in forever and I shudder to think what is going on behind that piece of black paper.Image

 The Hooters beer glass.  Oh sweet baby Harry Styles.  This, a joke (oh God I hope it was a joke) from my husband has taken residence on my counter.  Can you believe that these are actually made somewhere? Painstakingly hand painted by some poor soul?  And there is actually a warning to not put it in the dishwasher?  Feng Shui be gone, Hooters be in the house now.

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So, to summarize:

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 Huh, basically what I have learned about myself in composing this little ditty is that I am the most boring person in my family.  If you are looking for me, I’ll looking for something awesome to put on my counter.

 

 

Would somebody invite me to an effing garden party?

I just did a super clean of my closet. It’s late at night (late for me), I likely had too much coffee today and I decided that I wanted to simplify my life, and of course, the first step to simplify one’s life is to clean out one’s closet.  My buddy Dana and I decided last week that we are going to be all things French and Audrey Hepburn-esque and wear only simple, high quality pieces, adopt a signature fragrance and wear red lipstick (there is a red for every complexion, even translucent Scots like me).

I did this chore in my Giant Tiger track pants (for real, bought them in the summer 1991, I was working at a dry cleaners for minimum wage from 5:30 am to 2:30 pm everyday.  I was saving my pennies for university and didn’t want to spend a lot on a pair of track pants.  Why in my prime I wanted track pants so badly, God only knows, but they are the only pair of track pants I ever bought in 20 odd years.  This frightens me on a few different levels.  Level 1: I lived in a small town, therefore a very special trip to Giant Tiger must have been made.  Level 2: I feel like I have only washed these track pants a handful of times, because they are my lounge wear, and seemingly never get dirty.  I never considered that they are over 20 years old. Level 3: My husband still comes home at night, even though he knows I will probably have said track pants on.  I actually bought a pair of Joe Fresh track pants the other day (yup, still a big spender over here) and they suck.  It’s like I was trying to recreate the GT track pants – black – check.  Drawstring? Check.  2 sizes too large for comforts’ sake? Check.  Oh I’m sorry, I’ll stop there, this wasn’t meant to turn you on.  Anyhooo, they are too hot and don’t hang off my butt like my GT ones do, therefore they suck.  Thanks God I didn’t throw out the GT ones yet!)

But I digress (ha! that was a huge digression) Back to my closet. My rule tonight was if I haven’t worn it once in the past year, it gets chucked (you DO watch Breakfast Television right? )  I played the game tonight, ruthless.  Somethings were easier to throw out than others (they said that harem pants were making a come back yo’) but others more difficult.  I have this beautiful floral wrap skirt with exquisite detail on it.  When I bought it, I had a little fantasy of me wearing it at a garden party in Provence, laughing gaily and sipping rosé.  My hair was long in my fantasy and I was wearing my lost Ray Bans (my reunion with the lost sunglasses may or may not have been in slow motion).  I didn’t actually fantasize this.  That’s a lie, I totally fantasized this scenario, which is why I bought the skirt.  But the occasion has not risen for me to wear it.  But I don’t want to throw it out, so would somebody invite me to fucking garden party already – the skirt is on death row for one more year……