When I was in grade six, my teacher, Ms Y, got the brilliant idea to have me and Chris Badboy, the two class slobs, share a desk together. The idea was for us to wallow together for a while in our collective sordid mess until one, or both of us, cracked. She figured when we hit the inevitable rock bottom we'd come to our senses, realize this was no way to live, and together figure out a way to spend the rest of the school year in organized harmony. It did not work out. We hit rock bottom on the second day, and stayed there, week after week, month after nightmarish month. It would have been bad enough with only one person's crap crammed into that space, but with both of our stuff all mixed together, there was no hope. Just the words, "OK class, everybody find a pen," would send both of us into a whimpering panic. At least 137 times a day we'd frantically empty out the desk in an attempt to find our math notebooks, coloured pencils, whatever was needed. Then we'd cram everything back in. It wasn't much fun. In retrospect, we must have made for some funny stories in the staff room.
The desk we shared was actually a long rectangular table with a big open mouth-like space below for storing stuff. My parents have a picture of us sitting beside it on science fair day; I'm proudly holding the frog I dissected and Chris Badboy is sort of smiling sheepishly beside me. The storage area of our table is clearly visible and you can see all the stuff we've jammed into it spilling out in all directions. Hilroy notebooks are folded into two. A small half-eaten sandwich is gasping for air somewhere in the center. Papers limply droop out in odd places, looking like toilet paper tails hanging unnoticed from people's pants. Sometimes out of curiosity, we would give these papers little tugs to see where it would take us. Occasionally it would unearth something good, like a missing assignment, or a tasty lost chunk of lunch, but mostly, it would only cause a startlingly loud avalanche. Then we'd be in trouble.
At Christmas, Ms Y wrote a poem about our class based on A Visit from St. Nicholas. Her line for us was:
With Ms Y at the front, leading the rest
There was Whippersnapper and Chris in
One h*** of a mess
Ms Y was a stubborn thing, and even though her plan backfired and we learned absolutely nothing about the art of tidiness from each other, she sadistically kept us stewing together in our collective slob juices until the end of the school year. When we cleaned out our space in June, Chris Badboy had the misfortune to stumble upon a plastic bag wedged near the back of all our compressed crap, and made the mistake of opening it and taking a peek inside. There lay the frog I had dissected for the science fair back in February. My memory is a little foggy, but I do vaguely remember a shrill girlish scream, followed by a slimy plastic bag being thrust into my hands and a scampering sound of footprints running far, far away. It's sad, really. Chris Badboy and I never really spoke much again to each other after that year, and in grade nine he was sent away to some special farm for kids with drug problems. I really hope sniffing that rotting frog wasn't what originally sent him fleeing into the comforting arms of memory-fogging substance abuse. That would make me feel bad.
I'm reminiscing about all of this tonight because if I thought sharing a DESK with a fellow slob was bad, well, sharing a HOUSE with one has been, well, just a little worse. But school is over, and the office transformation is about to begin in earnest and if that isn't reason for bleary-eyed optimism, I just don't know what is! But to ensure that the operation doesn't fizzle out and stall over the course of the next few weeks, as is its wont to do, I've decided to post pictures of the damn room, and every Sunday I will continue to do so until the stupid thing is finished. Ugh, here they are, how embarrassing:
Note the attractive pink walls with girlish trim. Note the stuff spilling out everywhere. Please accept the very real and fervent vow that not a SINGLE THING IN THIS ROOM, (except, I suppose, the computer, partly) BELONGS TO ME!! Yes, it has been like this since we moved into this house four and a half years ago. (Note to people living with pack rats: Never say to the movers, "Oh, just dump everything in there for now, he'll sort through everything and organize it later." Later could mean very later indeed.) I think Ms Y would be pretty amused to know that living with a total uberslob has indeed worked magic on my soul, and I am now obsessed with organization and neatness. You should have had us sharing a house, Ms Y!! That would have worked!!I realize that any last remnants of pride I may have are being tossed to the wind with the posting of these pictures, but keep in mind, at least 75% of the contents of this room were actually removed in March to either the basement or to thrift stores. That's right, you're looking at a "cleaned up" version of this space. By the way, if you could spare the time, be sure to leave a comment on how incredibly UGLY the desk is. He found it in a back lane and dragged it home to be with us. Now he refuses to part with it. What a nightmare, it's like the Santa Claus Trophy, only way bigger, so I can't hide it behind a pillow or something. Again, I must remind myself that he's not:
1. A wife-beating alcoholic
2. A two-timing bastard
3. Stephen Harper
...so it could be a lot worse. Right?
4 comments:
I have found you a company that can solve all your problems. All you need to do is move to Chicagoland. Check them out: Able Removal.
Can I come over and tidy up? There's no greater therapy for me than wading through the clutter and finding organization. Really, I found myself doing the neighbors dishes and windexing her fridge the other day while she ran out to get pizza. You have your sickness I have mine. Though I do think you could use a capsule or two of Leditgo.
oh heck.. I had to go look at Able Remover. ha!!!
Oh, I love to organize too. If I lived closer than several thousand miles from you, I'd come over and spend a Saturday in that room. The desk doesn't look that ugly, but, granted, you can't really see much of it at this point.
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