Tragic Sandwich

I’m a very organized person. You might not think so if you looked at my desk–or my house–because I’m bad at filing.

Here’s the thing: I know I’m a terrible housekeeper. I really would rather just sit there. Well, really, I’d rather snap my fingers and put things away, a la the movie Mary Poppins (I’ve never read the book, so I don’t know if that’s a P.L. Travers invention or Disney, but what a neat trick!). But since that keeps not working, I’d rather just sit there.

But that doesn’t mean that I like the mess. Not at all. I vastly prefer a clean home. I just lack time and energy.

So I’m going to make time. On Friday, I’m going to take a day off of work and tackle two rooms. I just haven’t decided between rooms yet: Baguette’s bedroom, our bedroom, and the bathroom. (I really think three is too ambitions, particularly since I need to squeeze cooking and laundry into the day as well.)

Notice what’s not here: the home office. Or, as I call it, The Room Where Paper Goes to Die. I’ll get in there and file another time.