My mother and my sister are among those fortunate fellows who are blessed with the ability to clean. They can stare down closets without batting an eye, organize hurricanes of paper, and stuff so much clothing into one garbage bag you'd think they were on a shopping spree. That's not to say they aren't pack rats in their own fashion, but somehow things get thrown out all the same.
As for myself, I keep everything (literally), and then I forget about it. My dresser is crammed with anything from third grade class notes to cheap favors from parties I probably didn't want to attend to begin with. I have teddy bear mugs stuffed with odd pieces of broken jewelry and unsharpened pencils, dolls I bought years ago, artfully arranged once and then left to gather dust, and dozens of souvenirs I bought on pre-historical family trips. All of which would be novelty rather than hazard if I didn't know for a fact that there are countless seditious packages of sweets burrowed slyly within my self-inflicted labyrinth.
And now it's Pesach, and I have to pick through it all again. That is, if I can get back into my room- Sister has taken it upon herself to clean today. Then I have to tackle my knapsack, which in and of itself could fuel several different horror films and their myriad of sequals.
But that's for another time.
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2 comments:
I should've given you my address, so when you were done with yours, you could head my way and work the same magic with your "dream clean team" on our home.
Chag Kasher v'Sameach to you and your family.
I so get you. I hate cleaning too.
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