THE UNION
Sunday, July 25, 2010
On
the lighter side:
The twelve ... minus eleven ... days of cleaning my true love ... daughter ... gave to me
Lest I become a
specially invited guest on TLC's “Hoarding: Buried
Alive,” my daughter launched a “for my own good”
cleaning campaign.
This was precipitated by her inability to find a Q-tip in my bathroom, instead, discovering all manner of “anything buts,” tallying up to the following, non-all-inclusive list, which reads like an off-season version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
1 lighted mirror that last “got lit” when I did (as an aside, that would be years ago).
2 soap dishes with 1 usable soap, 1 cute soap, and 1 slivered memory of a soap.
3 baskets filled with old make-up, some of which is obsolete by virtue of safety recalls.
4 deodorants, none of which lived up to their assurances, unless you are only interested in breathing as an activity. (I am now convinced “natural” is synonymous with “will leave you in your natural stinky state.”)
5 nail polishes of undetermined shade that were each, once upon a time, specifically-hued, non-tacky colors.
6 nail files that should have been filed in the trash bin some years ago as they are simply Popsicle sticks at this point.
7 combs of varying tooth distances, none of which have ever been used, my “heirloom” vent brush being my favorite hair tool of choice.
8 old Q-tips that may have once held some very important DNA samples, but at this juncture are just plain gross.
9 moisturizer samples to which I acquiesced to taking just to get out of the freaking store.
10 eyeshadows that seemed to be my shade when viewed in the backlit hand mirror provided by the store clerk, but when I got home to my own lighting my mirror showed me that retail lighting has honesty issues.
11 containers of all sizes, shapes and purposes, the main one being to organize all of the above. We fired all of them. (Okay, don't tell my daughter, but I did scavenge one cute container with a Hawaiian girl on it.)
12 X 3 lipsticks that looked fabulous on the Revlon models (See “10 eyeshadows.”)
I somewhat wistfully noted what these things were as I took out four bags of garbage, which was the least I could do, given that my daughter devoted an entire day and precious “between texting” moments to the endeavor that was getting mom organized. The kid cleaned out cabinets containing products that ceased being produced somewhere around the year she achieved toddlerdom.
This, in turn, motivated me to turn my attention to my closet – that most hallowed, Smithsonian-like enclosure, preserving every fashion and, thus, decade I have experienced in my short walk down life's continuum.
From there I managed to cull another three bags of clothes, shoes, and belts which my husband promptly placed in my car's trunk and I equally promptly donated the next day, lest I grow feint of heart.
I must admit to you, I experienced a last-minute, terrier-like digging session at which time I attempted to excavate a faded, black, memory-evoking collared shirt. I failed in this attempt because I had no less than three nice people from the thrift shop come toward me, asking me if I needed help, which curtailed further pawing activities on my part.
I have a hunch they've seen my kind before – the pre-hoarder, teetering on the edge of reclamation. It's best to assist someone like me with a “this will only hurt for a minute,” rip the Band-aid off approach and seize the goods right away.
Now, counter surfaces do not simply serve in their capacity as a base for my Jenga-building of products representing ghosts of self-images past, but rather they are attractive and functional.
There's only one teensy temporary problem. I had all of these extra bags of garbage stuffed into my forgiving trash cans and then I forgot to put them out for pick-up. So, yep, that was me you saw tunneling into my garbage ... one last time.
Diane Dean-Epps is a comedienne and writer.
This was precipitated by her inability to find a Q-tip in my bathroom, instead, discovering all manner of “anything buts,” tallying up to the following, non-all-inclusive list, which reads like an off-season version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”
1 lighted mirror that last “got lit” when I did (as an aside, that would be years ago).
2 soap dishes with 1 usable soap, 1 cute soap, and 1 slivered memory of a soap.
3 baskets filled with old make-up, some of which is obsolete by virtue of safety recalls.
4 deodorants, none of which lived up to their assurances, unless you are only interested in breathing as an activity. (I am now convinced “natural” is synonymous with “will leave you in your natural stinky state.”)
5 nail polishes of undetermined shade that were each, once upon a time, specifically-hued, non-tacky colors.
6 nail files that should have been filed in the trash bin some years ago as they are simply Popsicle sticks at this point.
7 combs of varying tooth distances, none of which have ever been used, my “heirloom” vent brush being my favorite hair tool of choice.
8 old Q-tips that may have once held some very important DNA samples, but at this juncture are just plain gross.
9 moisturizer samples to which I acquiesced to taking just to get out of the freaking store.
10 eyeshadows that seemed to be my shade when viewed in the backlit hand mirror provided by the store clerk, but when I got home to my own lighting my mirror showed me that retail lighting has honesty issues.
11 containers of all sizes, shapes and purposes, the main one being to organize all of the above. We fired all of them. (Okay, don't tell my daughter, but I did scavenge one cute container with a Hawaiian girl on it.)
12 X 3 lipsticks that looked fabulous on the Revlon models (See “10 eyeshadows.”)
I somewhat wistfully noted what these things were as I took out four bags of garbage, which was the least I could do, given that my daughter devoted an entire day and precious “between texting” moments to the endeavor that was getting mom organized. The kid cleaned out cabinets containing products that ceased being produced somewhere around the year she achieved toddlerdom.
This, in turn, motivated me to turn my attention to my closet – that most hallowed, Smithsonian-like enclosure, preserving every fashion and, thus, decade I have experienced in my short walk down life's continuum.
From there I managed to cull another three bags of clothes, shoes, and belts which my husband promptly placed in my car's trunk and I equally promptly donated the next day, lest I grow feint of heart.
I must admit to you, I experienced a last-minute, terrier-like digging session at which time I attempted to excavate a faded, black, memory-evoking collared shirt. I failed in this attempt because I had no less than three nice people from the thrift shop come toward me, asking me if I needed help, which curtailed further pawing activities on my part.
I have a hunch they've seen my kind before – the pre-hoarder, teetering on the edge of reclamation. It's best to assist someone like me with a “this will only hurt for a minute,” rip the Band-aid off approach and seize the goods right away.
Now, counter surfaces do not simply serve in their capacity as a base for my Jenga-building of products representing ghosts of self-images past, but rather they are attractive and functional.
There's only one teensy temporary problem. I had all of these extra bags of garbage stuffed into my forgiving trash cans and then I forgot to put them out for pick-up. So, yep, that was me you saw tunneling into my garbage ... one last time.
Diane Dean-Epps is a comedienne and writer.
