Order in the house!

(No, this is not my kitchen)
After spending a week at my parent’s home in lovely Rancho Mirage, I realize something sick and twisted about myself.

I love order.

I love organization.

I love the idea that, soon, my home will be a place where I don’t run out of spoons every five minutes. I can spend five days at my parent’s home and never run out of spoons. I never thought to count how many spoons Mom has, but I’m betting it’s far more than I have.

My blackened little heart sings at the idea of coming downstairs in the morning and seeing everything in its place. That means no errant midnight raids of the fridge belies crumbs, dirty plates and mustard-covered knives sitting on the counter – left there by kids too lazy to clean up after themselves.

It all makes me smile.

The idea of near-constant organization was looming close as two of my three spawn moved out of the house, and the third would be leaving for Europe in Spring to study sports medicine. Eureka! Finally they would learn that dishes don’t clean themselves and crumbs are inviting snacks for ants and other crawly things that make my skin shiver. And if they didn’t learn that, it was their problem, not mine. Oh, the sweetness of payback.

And me? Ah, I wouldn’t go into the pantry and find an empty vinegar bottle. What twisted sister leaves an empty vinegar bottle in the pantry? Do my spawn empty it and think the bottle will magically fill itself? Nah, that can’t be it. After all, we live in Hollywood Land, where everyone learns at a tender age that magic is nothing more than CGI.

Total peace was within my grasp. Then spawn #2 moved home after completing his Army duties. He brought a beagle with him, who has now become my secretary. Unreliable as hell – the beagle, not the spawn. Spawn #1 lost his job in the mortgage shakeup that’s putting thousands out of work. He’s moving back in first week in September to finish school while finding another job.

In order to retain what little sanity I have rattling around my brain, I have to set down some rules:

• You’re too damn old for me to wait on you.

• Assume nothing. You will only make an ass out of you. Not me.

• If you want a freaking breakfast, get your ass out of bed and make it. Same holds for lunch.
  

• I don’t cook. This is not news to you. Nothing changed while you were away.

• If you leave your shoes downstairs, I will allow the beagle to eat them. It doesn’t matter how much they cost. And when she poops them out on the stairs, you will have to clean it up.

• If you raid the fridge, clean up your mess. Otherwise, you will find the dirty plates and utensils gracing your pillow. And I will hope it will smell like mustard.

• Just because I work in the home office doesn’t mean I’m available to answer the house line. If it’s ringing, pick it up, for god sakes.

• If I need to use the washing machine or the dyer, and your stuff has been in there for a couple days, I will dump everything on the floor. The beagle may eat these things as well. The poop warning for digested clothing is the same as the shoes.

• We will forever love and support your endeavors. We will laugh hysterically at your goofy stories, revel in your successes, cry at your disappointments. We will cherish the times that you’re able to sit around the dinner table and miss you terribly when you aren’t there.

And we will miss you terribly when you, once again, fly our coop. But in the meantime, I think I’m gonna need more spoons.

*Reiki hugs=20