The Purge...aka the Shit Shift

My mom has recently been subjected (by my step-dad) to a home remodel that she wasn't all that interested in. Now, in my step-dad's defense, the house needed a pick-me-up. And my mom needed to purge. But she's overwhelmed by the process and the large amount of crap in her garage. So, yesterday, I hired my sweet cousin, Caroline, to babysit the kids and went to Mom's house to help her sort and purge.

The house looks really nice. Mom and Bob knocked out a wall separating two bedrooms and make a large master bedroom instead. The entire house has been painted, the driveway has been resurfaced, and the landscaping has been touched up. When I arrived yesterday, there were dishes and various and sundry knick-knacks littering the kitchen table and the sunroom table, but overall, the house looked bright, clean, and fairly well organized. The new bedroom is beautiful, and the closets were full of nicely organized clothes.

Then I saw the garage.

The two-car garage is filled to nearly overflowing with boxes, boxes, and more boxes. Apparently, when the remodel began, Mom just boxed everything up, took it outside, and decided she'd go through it when she unpacked. I, being a organizational junkie, agreed to help her sort through what was left. The first problem I noticed, though, was that the house already seemed reasonably full. There was no room for anything in the garage to come back in.

My niece, Amber, and I decided that the best approach would be to start in the kitchen and help Mom sort through her overstuffed cabinets and hutches to make room for the things in the garage that she wanted to keep. Mom was not thrilled with this approach. "That was not on my to-do list," she argued. We had to strong arm her a bit to convince her that nothing else could come in from the garage until there was more room in the house.

As Amber and I began the cleaning out process, we quickly realized we were in over our heads. We had Mom sit in a chair. She had three choices for every item we presented to her: keep, give away, or put in the "maybe" pile. After about ten minutes, we had moved everything from the cabinets into the "maybe" pile. It was not a purge; it was simply a shift.

Mom's response to everything we held up to her was, "...but don't you think that's pretty? That was given to me by (fill in the name of the friend, relative, co-worker of your choice). I got it for my (fill in the appropriate holiday, birthday, etc.)." We finally had to remind her that we weren't making judgment calls; we simply needed one of the three given responses. Inevitably, she'd look nervous and say, "maybe."

Here are a few of the more enjoyable finds of the day...

1. An unopened, unused food chopper. It had to have been in her cupboard for at least ten years; it was all the way in the dusty back corner under some cobwebs. She reasoned, however, that because it was brand new (10 years ago), she couldn't possibly give it away.

2. Five calculators. They all worked. We told her to pick one. She couldn't understand why she shouldn't keep all five if they were in good working order. I pointed out that one of them went through college with me. She argued that it had to be a fine calculator if it was still working.

3. Fourteen decks of cards; eight complete sets. We let her keep all the sets of 52. It wasn't worth the fight.

4. An unused basket with a microwaveable pouch to keep rolls warm. Again, she argued that she needed it because it was brand new. I argued that she didn't need it because she doesn't even know how to work the microwave.

For two hours, it went on and on and on. Finally, she broke for a cigarette, and we never resumed the battle. I threw as many things into the "give away" pile as I could while she wasn't looking. She promptly took 3/4 of it back out.

God love her.

Living the Dream

Well, I've officially resigned from my job. It's been a long time coming, and the loss of income is a very scary prospect. But it was time. After much soul-searching, I feel like I've made the right decision... even though we might be on the cusp of financial ruin. Okay, that's probably a bit dramatic, but still, we're going to take a financial hit.

When I first began this job two years ago, I thought that nothing about it could possibly be bad. We raised money for the schools, funded programs for the teachers, had fun events to help line our coffers. But soon enough, the bad reared its ugly head. I work with some of the most amazing volunteers. They're dedicated, humble, hard-working, committed to the cause of public education. But then, I have the other side of volunteerism. I have women who have more money than they'll ever know what to do with, who have never had to work a day in their lives, who live with a constant sense of entitlement. They're the tough ones. It's a situation in which there are way too many Chiefs and not enough Indians. The battles over napkin colors grew tedious. I even had one board member say that she was not thanked nearly enough for her efforts. And to top that off, many of them are very critical of what I do (or what they think I don't do). In sixteen hours a week, I'm supposed to be all things to all people. I am responsible for running the organization, raising money, serving as a liason to all educators, answering to my 15 board members, thanking all my donors, developing a vision for the organization, etc., etc., etc. It is a part-time job with more than full-time responsibilities. Although I strongly believe in the organization and what it does, I can no longer sacrifice myself and my family to its success. It was a wrenching decision, but one that I feel is right for The Willis Tribe.

People are lining up at my office door to submit their names for my position. I'm sure they think the same thing I did when I first took the job. What could possibly go wrong? Seeing them so eager to sit in my chair makes me doubt my decision and question my common sense, but then I remember how eager I was to sit in that chair two years ago. I suppose the grass is always greener.

I've painted a small closet (with a window) in my bedroom and have moved a desk into it. We've lovingly dubbed it the Closet Office. My plan is to write, write, write. I'd like to line up some freelance writing and editing gigs to help pay the bills and to work on the Great American Novel in the interim. It's a scary prospect, but it's my dream. My sweet assistant, Lynn, says I need to "feel the fear and do it anyway." Words of wisdom. My thirty-seven year old brain has been through four pregnancies and births and the Old Girl just isn't what she used to be. I'll probably take some classes; sharpen my skills; start remembering how to see the world through a different lens. I have to tighten up my grammar, boost my vocabulary, knock some of those synapses back into action.

Childhood dream, here I come...