Cluttered Mind

Looking for a paperclip? No problem. Just look on my desk in the paperclip dispenser. An apple? In the fruit bowl. Potato? In the vegetable drawer in the frig. Need a dime? In the coin jar. Car charger for your cell phone? In the car, of course. Matches? In the bathroom next to the toilet. Anything else you need? Don't hesitate to ask because I know that rule everything has a place and everything in its place. What? They're not there. Nothing is where I say it is? Okay, then. Check the wicker basket on the kitchen counter.

I said I know the rule about everything being in its place; I didn't say I adhere to it. I want to, though. I have good intentions. I desire to live in a home that is, dare I say the word, organized. Oh, I've fantasized about how nice it would be to not dig through the dirty clothes hamper every time I want to wear my Chico mama jeans, or shimmy under the bed to hunt for a missing shoe, or dump the crumpled contents of the underwear drawer on the bed when looking for Tom's thongs, or not look in the dishwasher when I can't find one dish in the cabinet, and then, to my horror, discover that they're all still dirty. The displacement of things is giving me acid reflux, but is the pain enough to add "organization" to my New Year's resolution list? You want the truth? Probably not.

A cluttered home is a cluttered mind. I know that rule. I can't say that I believe it, though. My apples and potato may not be where they belong in the dishwasher, but my mind is not, my mind is not...uh...my mind... . I'm sorry I seem to have forgotten what I was talking about. It's my mind, you know. Not what it used to be. Excuse me. Has anyone seen my Tums?