Hey Auntie B!
How ya’ doing dollface? Since I gather you are as OCD as me, I wondered what you do to de-clutter the house when the sheer amount of shit you have makes it look filthy? (Of course, I already know the throw-away-one-thing-for-a-year thing, but hubster out-voted me on doing that.)
Hey, did you get that monkey butler yet? If so, I SO want him to deal with my shit! Can I borrow him?
Thanks for the advice! I’ll let you get back to cussing out your whore pants!
Buried under a mountain of shit (not literally)
If you were to visit my home – especially today – you’d say to yourself, “Now THERE is someone who needs to watch Hoarders more often,” and you’d be right. Except there are no more episodes on Netflix which means that I switched to a show called “Obsessed” where (in different episodes) someone was:
a) afraid of an El Camino, yelling, “Oh FUCK! An El Camino” whenever he sees one. This has caused The Guy On My Couch, The Daver and I to randomly scream “El Camino” while the other two cower in “terror.”
b) afraid of eating her own poo*. THIS has lead to The Guy On My Couch, The Daver and I to randomly step out of the bathroom and say, “WHEW, thank GOD I didn’t eat it. It was a close call, though.”
Mental illness, who says it can’t be entertaining?
(not me, and I’ve got a doozy of a case of PTSD)
This is how I clean my house:
Step One: Cut A Hole In The Box
Step One: Look around the house angrily and wonder how three children plus three grownups can amass so much crap.
Step Two: Watch a video about snails.
Step Three: Grab 2 garbage bags and begin to either throw away or donate the shit on the floor and/or anywhere else it’s not supposed to be.
Step Four: Wait for someone to notice.
Step Five: Keep waiting.
Step Six: Continue waiting.
Step Seven: *hum the Jeopardy song*
Step Eight: Watch a video about dancing frogs and/or hamsters (time depending)
Step Nine: Realize no one, in fact, cares about the shit I’m dumping, so begin a massive purging of the home, until I have at least two garbage bags full of stuff to donate.
Step Ten: Allow sufficient bags to accumulate in the garage until Daver drives them over to Goodwill, where they remark, “HOLY FUCK” as he unloads the bags.
And when I’m trying to decide whether or not I should keep an item, I go through these Choose Your Own Adventure Style Questions:
Is it useful? If yes, go on to Question 2.
Is it useful to ME? If yes, go on to Question 3.
Is it REALLY useful? If yes, go on to Question 4.
You’re not crafty. If still yes, go on to Quest 5.
Place item in DONATE bag.
What IS this? If you know the answer, go on to Question 2.
Will they notice if I dump it? If yes, place passive-aggressively on pillow. If no, go on to Question 3.
Do I care if they notice it? If no, go on to Question 4. If yes, place passive aggressively on toilet seat.
Place item at BOTTOM of DONATE bag, then feign ignorance and/or discuss the whereabouts of robot monkey butler Mr. Pinchey until person whose item is now gone is so annoyed that he stalks off, ready to leave the toilet seat up in retaliation.
Plus, I try to get rid of ONE thing each day. It doesn’t always work when short people bring home rocks and sticks that they claim to love, adore, and cherish…until Max and Ruby is on. Then I wander off singing “Max and Poopy” under my breath, while I figure out a way in which I can murder a cartoon bunny rabbit for being so. fucking. annoying.
Also, Prankster, I’m planning to get a Roomba and label him (with my label maker!) Mr. Pinchey. It’s not as awesome as my imaginary camel named Mr. Stompy and it’s not as cool as a REAL monkey butler, but Daver tells me that PETA will throw fake dead fetuses** at my door if I get, then train, a monkey to be my butler. EVEN IF, I was sad to note, I bought him a wee tux.
Damn PETA, holding me back from living mah life.
*Coprophobia, I think.