HOW MUCH CLUTTER SHOULD A PERSON STAND?

For years I have been chucking papers in boxes next to the computer. Things like stories that had been work shopped and need to be fixed. Copies of church talks I'd run off and fully intended to read--I fully intended to study them, actually--and have great life-changing epiphanies. There were even grocery ads in there. Recipes. Post-it notes. Photos. Pictures I wanted to watercolor--an especially nice one of Michael's. All kinds of stuff was there. You name it, it was probably there.

Three weeks ago Phil took all these boxes upstairs and said, "Here!" His unspoken message was, "Get rid of this junk or I will be insane along with you." Two insane people are too much for one house so I started. and then I restarted. Then I became overwhelmed and I ran away. Then I came back because I am fond of sleeping on a bed instead of the lawn swings. And then I got down to business. And now the living room looks like this. That doesn't look too bad unless you live here. Even when I have only one working eye--you'd think I could only see half of it--but no, even a one eyed person can tell this is really bad. I am still overwhelmed.

The mess wasn't bad enough so...I decided to do something about pee-pee doggies odor. I scattered three cups of baking soda on the floors. Three cups in the family room and three cups in the living room. Have you ever scattered three cups of baking soda in a room? It goes everywhere. Every surface is covered, even though I was careful. If people had shoes out--coughElizabethandmecough--their shoes got covered. It looks like no one has dusted in three years and I make a point of dusting every year or so, honest I do.

So, tonight I made the youngest shoe-offender vacuum and now I am ignoring the piles in the living room and I am going to check things with the black light and use some kind of miracle liquid that guarantees to work on stains and odors. There are no stains, because years ago we picked a carpet color that looks like dirt. Or maybe it looked like something else way back when and now it looks like dirt. But...there are odors. And I intend to sleuth them out.

And I should clean up this clutter too but I just can't do it yet. It shows me that people love me and brought me cards and goodies on my birthday. Some even sang to me. I think this is nice clutter.

I have only two thank-you notes written.

Humm...maybe I should write thank you notes and leave the black light business until later. What do you think? Cleaning or thank you notes?

A SYMBOL OF LOVE

This is a symbol of love. Phil bought this for me for Valentine's Day. I have it in the kitchen window and every time I see it I remember he loves me. Me with the insecurities, the sometimes loudness--okay, when it's spring, summer or fall and its WARM, and I'm not worried I will FREEZE TO DEATH, and the lawn swings are out, and we have friends stop by--well, then I am noisy and "Hallooo, come over and visit!" type loud person and I laugh every chance I get. I have even been known to snort on the odd occasion. I am so blessed to be loved by someone like Phil, when I snort.

And this winter, the Winter of The Endless Frozen Narnia winter, when I am blue and worried and anxious and upset and weepy and not-loud and not "Halloooing" to anyone, he still loves me. He loves me in the good and the not so good. I am so lucky to have him in my life, to be married to him in the Lord's temple and to know he will be with me through eternity. I will be better then. There will be no insecurities, no blues, and no fear. There will be joy with all the members of the earth, loving each other, remembering each and every one.

Until then, I wonder how I can show Phil I love him. There is no adequate way. I don't cook like I used to. Maybe he could remember those tasty dinners and think, she loved me because she cooked. She still loves me; she just doesn't cook. We need to eat "cleaner" anyway so we can toddle into our golden years with better health. Tonight he ate a bowl of fresh fruit. Apples, grapes and oranges. For a snack later he ate raw cashews and dates. Not a bad dinner. I didn't even cut up his fruit; he did it himself so I can claim no part of fixing his dinner.

So, how can I show him I love him? I guess I will try to be a better Lynne. A nicer Lynne. A not-so-blue Lynne. I don't know if I can be a not-so-loud Lynne--when I'm not frozen or thinking I'm going to be frozen, that is. I will try to be a better member of the church and do a better job in my calling. I will try to have faith and not fear.

Oh, and I know he would like me to do more housework, get rid of the clutter, either give away or throw away a whole lot of stuff. How am I going to do that? I'm not a tidy person. I have other talents--they have not shown up yet but I'm sure I have them--they are just waiting until my twilight years and then they will show up and he will be impressed. Of course, by then he might be too old to see them. Ha ha.

I wish they would hurry, while his eyesight is still good. Until then I hope he knows I love him. I really do.

WHAT KIND OF VISITING TEACHERS ARE WE, ANYWAY?

Today was another little snow-big snow day and we had scheduled visiting teaching appointments because two of the women we visit are off on high adventures, one is going to Hawaii--for three bloomin' weeks--the lucky duck--and the other is off to Florida--for one bloomin' week--she is obviously only one third as much of a lucky duck but a lucky duck, just the same. Maybe she is only the beak and the feet of a lucky duck.

I told them I hope it snows here all the time they are gone so they will feel extra privilidged and pampered and other "p" words like pleasured and pandemonium. That last "p" word really doesn't fit but it's after midnight and it's all I can think of. I'd do that for my friends, put up with three weeks of snow so they could bask on the sunny beaches and feel privileged and of royal birth. I'm so nice sometimes that I think I should hurt myself.

Anyway, we needed to get our visiting done and it was a blizzard this morning but we went anyway. I took this picture--of what I laughingly call our Beaver Dam--in the back yard to show you the falling snow but the Internet Gremlin's have erased the falling snow. What's up with that? They didn't want you to know how hard working and noble we are, to trek out in the blizzarding snow.

So, we visit two of the women--we ALWAYS stay too long because they are such fun and we get into all kinds of interesting discussions which HAVE NOTHING WHATSOEVER TO DO WITH THE LESSON WE WERE SUPPOSED TO GIVE.

And why not, you are asking yourself--that is if you are still here, reading this drivel. Because both Sarah and I got so involved watching LOST last night that neither one of us prepared the lesson--which is right here. So we discussed earth changing ideas and probably some drivel. That's my job, to supply the drivel.

In our defense, Sarah says she is going to prepare a written message and deliver it with a little Valentine treat. Personally, I think Sarah has an ulterior motive. "Honey," she will say. "I need to make a quick trip to Hawaii to deliver my Valentine treat and a little message. I'll be back in about a week." You go for it, Sarah.

At our last appointment--which we were late to--because we stay too long at the other homes--because I insist on putting my two cents of drivel in after all the interesting stuff is said--we were at Pam's house. Pam of Pam's Place--she always writes great, insightful things on her blog, as apposed to me who will post anything, including fortune cookie messages that tell me to leave home--in the dark of night. Anyway, we were at her house and she said, "Will you forgive me?"

Now, I ask you, what could this angel of a woman do that needs forgiving? Well, you don't know so I'll tell you. She went to J-Dawg without me. Yes, it's true. She did. But, the next sentence out of her mouth atoned for her grievous crime.

"So, do you want to go?"

"Right now?" both Sarah and I said.

"Yes, right now."

Well, we were all in the car so fast that her welcome mat was still spinning--because we had catapulted off the porch into the snow. Sarah had never been to J-Dawg before. She was a J-Dawg virgin.

Here it is. Yes, nothing but a shack. In the summer it in 900 degrees inside. I think in the winter it's just right. There are two workers. One takes orders, slashes the dawgs and puts them on some kind of a grill that chars them just right--not enough to give you cancer right away and just enough to make them taste heavenly.

Here is the extensive menu. Are you impressed? I am telling you; those food carts in downtown New York City are not one iota better than this.

Here's the condiment list. Someone earlier today was so excited to get their J-Dawg that their wagging fanny practically erased the words jalapenos and banana peppers--which every condiment guru knows are really pepperoncini but we will forgive the owners as they have to cater to the masses who do not know the proper name for condiments.


And masses there are. There is always a line, waiting to order. Sometimes the line snakes right into the street and grumpy motorists have to stop and roll down their windows and yell at the line-snakers. Then they pull over and stand in line and order their own dawgs. Sometimes they double park and the cops come to give them tickets and they get in line instead and, well, it's just one big happy, dawg eating crowd, there on 7th East.

So, the next person grilles the buns and then puts the condiments on.

If you want them expertly done you will watch closely and be high maintenance, like me. Extra sauce--it's a sweet barbeque sauce. Extra pepperoncini--but you can't call it that or the worker says, "Huh?" You might have to smile, winningly and say, "more" a couple of times until the pepperoncini is piled to a height that is "just right"--Goldilocks would have loved J-Dawgs.

If you are faint of heart--like me--then you say, "no jalapenos." Then you smile your best smile and say, "That is the best dang dawg that anyone has ever made for me," and then they forgive you for being so crabby and wanting things just the way you want them. But let's face it, you are paying a whole $2.75--unless you want a drink too--and you want your cheap money's worth.

We took our dawgs back to Pam's house, which is always clean, unlike mine, which is not, but has interesting clutter that the archeologists will be delighted to find in a thousand years when they uncover my house that was slowly covered with dirt. See my insightful blog about this very problem. Not that I'm dirty, mind you, just clutterly so I don't have a clue how houses of people who leave pot shards lying around get covered up.

Here are Pam and Sarah, the J-Dawg virgin, having their first bite. Mmmm. I tell you, Sarah is now a J-Dawg addict and she has made it a rule to go visiting teaching to Pam last from now on so we can take a little detour. And maybe we will even give Pam the lesson. If we haven't watched LOST the night before.

Don't tell Sarah's husband. He thinks she was giving sincere and insightful visiting teaching lessons and not out gallivanting all over tarnation, eating food products that the Polish, bless their culinary hearts, have perfected to deliciousness.

ONE CYCLAMEN BLOOMED--THE OTHER DECIDED TO BE INTERESTING INSTEAD

This is my cyclamen. Well, this is the little one, the little one that I put outside all summer and almost didn't bring inside because it was doing nothing but growng leaves.

Well, I thought, at least it provide a bit of green on the window sill.

So, I brought it inside and about a week ago I noticed little pink buds. Now, it has actually bloomed. All by itself, without anything but a glug of water now and then.

Not like it's brother, who I paid $10.00 for less than two months ago. It had lots of blooms and lots and lots of buds and looked like it would be a wonderful winter plant, bringing a great big splash of color into winter's gray days.

Ha! It had other ideas. It came home and started to sulk and pretty soon it quit blooming. Then it's leaves turned yellow and lost their integrity.


Minkey, Mr. Annoying Cat, was the only one who was getting any joy out of it. He chewed up its leaves, not the sad, droopy ones, the ones that were still green and vibrant.

And then, Minkey, the annoying cat, tried to throw-up leaf-induced-fur-balls, which was a failure. He threw up green gunk which Phil always noticed and I did not. (I will spare you photo's of Minkey's contribution.)

"Your cat has thrown up a fur ball," he would say.

I would cringe. Why didn't I notice and clean it up before he saw it? I notice nothing, that's why. And why is it "my cat?"

At times I consider myself an amateur artist. But aren't artists the great noticer-of-things in the world? Don't they go around saying things like, "Look at that sky and that awful burned looking tree. I think I'll just paint that and make those stars look like I saw them with eye astigmatism's--that maybe could be cured by a good eye doctor, if there were such a thing in this day and age--and someday it will sell for a few hundred million dollars after I'm dead and gone."

Now, don't send me hate mail. Starry Night is probably my favorite paintings of all time. What I'm saying here is Van Gogh noticed things.

So, I guess I can't call my self an artist. Also, due to the fact that I haven't picked up a brush for almost two years might have something to do with it.

But, really and truly I don't notice things. For instance, I didn't notice that there is a whole scene in the window behind the blooming Cyclamen. A scene that for the life of me I don't know what is. I do know that the door is open, that's the door to the pantry and--I hate to admit this--it is always open. But what is all that dark stuff in the corner, one of the dark splotches looks like a heart. I am not a country clutter person with hearts and ducks and other stuff all over the place. I am a clutter person, it's true but its usually cluttered stacks of paper.

I'll be right back.

Okay, there is NOTHING THERE! No large black stuff, no black heart. Nothing. Nothing except dust, which is also part of my life because I'd rather write and stack, re-stack, and stuff papers in odd places than dust. I'd rather do laundry. Mmm, I love the smell of freshly done laundry. I sometimes open the washer and watch the clothes wash--I don't know why, it fascinates me. I'd rather load the dishwasher but not un-load it. I'd rather read blogs.

So, the black stuff is a mystery. It's also a mystery why a ten dollar plant deserts beauty for being interesting and a humble, four dollar, two-year-old plant puts forth it's best effort to bring color into my life.