Just Say "No"

stuff
Noun

1. any collection of unnamed things
2. substance or material
3. a disease common to the packimus ratimus, characterized by a colossal collection of unnamed things made of substance or material

Have you ever noticed that certain people have a knack for knickknacks? They seem to naturally attract "stuff." As the north end attracts the south end of a magnet, as a proton attracts an electron, or as an Asheville hippie attracts a Volkswagen bus, a Nalgene water bottle, and a banjo.

Well, never fear! After a lifetime of research, I have discovered the cause of this dreaded disease.

It's called "Yes."

The reason that so many packamus ratimi have such an abundance of stuff is that they have become a dumping ground for all of their brother's, neighbor's, and brother's neighbor's gobbledeegook. They're jest a gurl (or boy) who cain't say "no."

So, if the disease is caused by "yes" and the cure may be found in "no," how do we teach our friends and loved ones to embrace the "no"? Here are some things that you can do to help.

1. Don't give them any more stuff. If you do, you are officially what 12-step programs refer to as an "enabler." If you must give them something, give them something perishable, like a box of Godiva chocolates. Or, if that is still too much for them to handle, give me a box of Godiva chocolates.
2. If they try to give their stuff to you, receive it with a smile and a "thank you" and then... promptly take it to Goodwill.
3. Unless, of course, you yourself are a packimus ratimus, in which case "Just Say No" to the substances that are being offered to you. If need be, you may call your sponsor for moral support.
4. Engage them in mediation, or what my hubby refers to as "positive manipulation." This is where you lovingly plant sneaky little seeds of "no" in their mind regarding their stuff or their potential stuff. For example, "Mom, having a giant Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pin hanging on your kitchen wall isn't quirky. It's tacky and weird."
5. Finally, if you are a packimus ratimi, let the cycle of addiction stop with you. Admit that you need help, and seek the assistance of a trained professional. Don't allow this disease to be passed along to the next generation.

King Kong and the Almighty List

An old friend of mine has a brother who was obsessed with King Kong. It's all he could think about. King Kong, King Kong, King Kong. The words echoed endlessly around in his head.

We've all been guilty of King Konging. There is that important something we need to remember to do, that crucial item that we must buy the next time we are at the place we buy things, and that certain place we are supposed to be on a certain day at a certain time to meet a certain person.

These thoughts hit you without warning, like a run by fruiting.

You see the plant. The plant is wilting. Poor, poor plant. If only someone would water the plant. Water the plant, water the plant, water the plant...

What am I going to make for dinner? Meatball grinders. But wait, I'm out of spaghetti sauce! Spaghetti sauce, spaghetti sauce, spaghetti sauce...

It's her birthday? Why didn't she tell me! How am I supposed to get her a card with a whoopee cushion in it if she doesn't let me know! I can't forget again! December 10th, December 10th, December 10th...

Are you catchin' my Frisbee? You are?

Well, never fear! The Almighty List is here!

All you need to do to take your King Konging captive is WRITE IT DOWN! And not on something that you are gonna lose, wash, or blot your lipstick on either.

Put it in its home, for Pete and Pete's sake. In your Palm Pilot, in your day timer, on your listy list list paper. As a fellow King Konger, I love me some lists and here are some reasons why you should love lists, too.

1. A list saves you time by answering the one question that of all my fellow seniles ask themselves upon entering a room: "What did I come in here for again?"
2. A list saves you money because you won't have to wander around the big box store pretending to look purposeful as you wrestle with the aforementioned question. We all know that as you do, you will inevitably fill your buggy with all kinds of things you never knew you needed before. All I can say is Sham Wow!
3. A list gives priority. Rank the things on your list so that when you find yourself wondering what you should do next, you can just remember what my favorite Spice Girl Elizabeth Elliot would say: "Do the next thing."
4. A list gives you focus. Hey, look at that bright and shiny object! Exactly. See why you need the list?
5. But, most importantly, a list saves you from yourself. It clears your mind, eliminates "King Konging," and helps you to accomplish the task at hand.

So, stop whatever it is that you are doing, and make a list! Unless, of course, it is not the next thing listed on your listy list list...

The tardy of my party

I inherited many things from my parents: a Roman nose from my dad, a tendency toward risque commentary from my mom , and hobbit hair from both of them.

However, I also acquired their addiction to tardiness.

Tardiness an addiction? Heck, yeah! Anything that you do repeatedly for a high is a drug of choice, my fellow junkie.

No amount of tisking or scolding ("Being late is being selfish because you are essentially saying that your time is more important than everyone else's time!") could break me of my habit. And though my level of lateness might be viewed as much improved over my family as I tend to be only minutes as opposed to hours late for things, late is late no matter what the time frame.

So, one of my goals for 2008 was to be on time. And something that I have learned about goal setting is that there is a right way and a wrong way to do it. Done right, goals can be a blessing, bringing focus and purpose to my days. But done wrong, it becomes a burden, bringing all of the guilt, self-condemnation, and frustration associated with the New England variety of the Roman Catholic faith.

So, how does one do it right? Along with your goals, you need to outline what-the-poo-you-are-going-to-do in order to achieve the goals. And as it turns out, everything you really needed to know you totally learned in, you guessed it, Kindergarten.

So, here are my Top 5 Tips For Getting Yourself Safely and Stylingly Out o' yo' Pad in the Wee Small Hours of the Morning. Here's a hint: It has everything to do with what you did the day before.

1. Set out your school clothes. Pre-assembling an outfit to wear to work in the PM = your socks will actually match in the AM. Yay-you can dress yourself!
2. Pack your play clothes. These are for a little game I like to call, "Using my fear of getting fat to motivate myself to move keester in such a way and at such a rate as to cause all of the water inside my body to relocate to the outside" aka exercising. Get your gym clothes together lest the coach make you borrow someone else's.
3. Make your lunch. To make a lunch requires food. This may necessitate going shopping for Lunchables and juice boxes, as well as procuring yourself a "My Little Pony" lunchbox to put it in. And if you don't have one, I'll let you borrow mine.
4. Prep your sippy cup. It could be coffee, a water bottle, or a dirty martini with dry vermouth and an olive. Just get your drinky poo ready, alright?
5. Set out your Flintstones Chewables. In other words, divvy out your mornin' meds. I have a jumbo-sized senior citizen drug dealer in which I put my daily supplements. 10 million strong and growing!

Now, to wrap it all up in a neat little bow, set all of the non-perishables and non-wearishables you need to accompany out of the house by the front door - your play clothes, purse/manbag, can of Tang, etc. That way as you run out the door to catch the big yellow school bus, you won't leave home without it.

Now have fun, learn lots, and play nice with the other kids.

Yet another shameless plug

I don't even pretend to know what the boys are talking about as I sit in on my honey's Podcast, Chicken Pop Pod. Check it, yo'!

Tradition!

Yesterday we put up our Christmas tree.

'Tis tradition. The tree goes up on Thanksgiving and comes down the day after Jesus' birthday. It makes my happy hobbit hole smell like a Pine Sol Yankee Candle, with its glowing pearl lights, shiny red and turquoise bead garlands, and a hodgepodge of ornaments ranging from jingling bells to dangling balls to wild African animals.

But, there is a an expanse under my tree - a place where the presents should be. And, as a professional present-planner/list-maker/hunter-gatherer, one would think that all my shopping would be signed, sealed, delivered and yours.

But let me tell you somethin', Skippy Menendez. If you think that you have a tricky time with your Christmas shopping, try purchasing presents as a socially conscious minimalist with an iddy biddy budget.

The gift has gotta have purpose and meaning. It's gotta be something that they will like or that they will use. I can't get them another sit-around that they are just going to Goodwill after reading my blog. Or a do-hickey made in less-than-ideal labor conditions that will haunt my conscience every time I watch What Would Jesus Buy? Or something swanky that is beyond my non-profit budget.

So, let me help you help me. Here are my top 5 picks for Christmas gifts for this and all subsequent holiday seasons.

1. A Book: Some Smarty McFly said that the two things that will determine who you are by this time next year are the people that you hang out with and the books that you read. So, stop pondering giving the people that you hang out with that life-changing book that you just read. Give it to them. They just might read it, and it just might change their lives, too.
2. An Indulgence: Everyone has something that they love to do or buy or go to in order to treat themselves. The problem is, they feel a tad bit guilty about spending the extra dosh on it, especially during what some people are calling a recession, but what I like to call "learning to actually live within your means." So, find out what they love and take away the guilt by spending your moolah on it instead.
3. A Charity: As residents of the wealthiest nation on the planet, is there anything that we truly "need?" Methinksnot. So, find an awesome charity that empowers those living in poverty and honor your friends and family by giving a monetary donation in their name.
4. A Sweet: Fudge, truffles, toffee. Easy, yummy, cheap. Get thee to it, Julia Child.
5. A Gift Card: It seems like a cop-out, but here's the dealio-yo. The real steals are to be had AFTER Christmas has passed. So, instead of buying them that black petite merino wool crewneck sweater size XS from Banana Republic right now, wait until after the hollerdays are over, and they can get three for the price you would have paid for the one. And we all know how some people feel about getting deals on sweaters.
   

I hope this helps. And I hope you are not into surprises, because now all y'all know what you are getting from us for Christmas.

The Crying Indian

I have this friend.

He is a slob.

If you think this friend is you, you are right. It is. But he is also eight other friends of yours.

I looked up the definition of "slob." The primary definition came as no surprise: "a lazy or untidy person." But what caught my attention was the thesaurus' take on a slob. A synonym for slob?: "A litterbug."

Interesting.

So I looked up "litter." Litter is defined as "a disorderly accumulation of objects; a pile; carelessly discarded refuse."

Where does the modern-day slob litter? Why, in the comfort and convenience of his own home, of course. His home is a disorderly pile of carelessly discarded refuse.

How and why does this happen? Because the slob doesn't have the maturity to put things away.

I realized at an early age that life can be entirely defined by putting things away. Putting food in your mouth, putting knowledge in your brain, putting dirt in the vacuum cleaner, putting words and thoughts on paper or within hearing, and putting loving kisses on the cheeks of family and friends.

The cure for the slob's pile is simple. After you are done using something, PUT IT AWAY. I'm not saying to HIDE it away. Do not throw it in the junk drawer, hide it in the spare room, or shove it in your shoving place. Put it away where it belongs. Put it in the dishwasher, put it in the recycling bin, put it in the Goodwill box.

If you are "too busy" to do so, that only points out another layer of immaturity within you. It's called the inability to say the word "No." "No" to playtime, "No" to naptime, and "No" to the three other jobs that no one forced you to take on in the first place. Stop behaving like a child who doesn't want to clean up his toys and put it away.

The Crying Indians in your life will thank you.

Going postal

Christmas time is here,
Happiness and cheer,
Fun for all that children call
their favorite time of year.

How do I know?

Is it the snowflakes in the air? The carols everywhere? The olden times and ancient rhymes, and love and dreams to share?

Nope.

Well then, is it the Trans Siberian Orchestra's version of Carol of the Bells that makes Target feel less like peace on Earth and goodwill toward men, and more like the panic associated with impending nuclear holocaust? Or maybe the presence of TMX Elmo Extreme-to-the-Max-Times-Infinity with extra batteries included? Or is it the creepy Christmas decorations that have already invaded the neighbors front lawn?

Uh-uh.

It's catalogs. It's lots and lots of catalogs.

Now don't get me wrong. Christmas is good times. LOVE giving. Big fan of Christ. But, when I open my snail mail box, I ain't finding the good Lord inside. It's more like a colorful cornucopia of card stock in there. I'm talkin' Crate and Barrel, Pottery Barn, LL Bean, IKEA, Delias, Urban Outfitters, Fossil, Godiva, Sephora, Sundance, and Archie McFee.

Now, I know what you are thinking. Who the poo is Archie McFee? Wouldn't you like to know...

It's not till the season of shopping and returning that you realize how many catalogs you are "subscribed" to. I say "subscribed" because I know I never asked for these catalogs. Your catalog "subscription" is launched whenever you place an order.

And what are the majority of them good for, besides kindling?

Hello: lavatory literature.

Now let's be honest. Some of them you just like to have lingering in the loo. Not because you are going to order anything from them, but because you want the other people who use your potty to know that you are the type of person who would order something from that catalog.

It's an identity thing.

And it's a waste of paper. So when the mailman cometh, as you make the trip from your mailbox to your front door, open up your cell phone, call their customer service representative and have them take you off of their mailing list. Better yet, have them put you on their "suppression" list if you can. That way, when you place another order with that company, they won't just automatically throw you on their mailing list again.

They'll at least think about it for a minute before they throw you on their mailing list again.

Or, if you would like to be removed from a bunch-o-lists at once, check out the DMAchoice website. It's too legit to quit and will cut your mail significantly.

And if you are wondering what to get me for Christmas, here's a hint.

What gives?

I have this friend. Let's call her Petunia.

Every Christmas Eve, Petunia's family holds a party. Uncles and aunts and cousins all gather together under one roof for one night only in order to ingest carbs en masse, down a few drinkypoos, and exchange gifts. Sounds like a regular barrel o' monkeys, eh?

More like a barrel of Big Mouth Billy Bass.

Gift giving is not exactly her family's forte. The words kitschy, cheesy, tacky, and Cracker Barrel all come to mind in regards to the bounty of wrapped rubbish that exchanges hands that evening. In short, every Christmas Eve my friend further refines her acting abilities as she has to smile smile smile through whatever pile of imitation Hickory Farms beef and cheese baskets, Monkey Farts scented candle/body wash gift sets, or gifts in a jar were being sold at the Christmas Tree Shoppe that season. And when she gets home, she has a cardboard box awaiting her that she fills to the brim with Christmas carnage fated for Goodwill.

But, it wasn't always this way.

Now, Petunia's family has always been terrible at gift giving, God love 'em. But, for years she would actually hang onto this junk. Out of some sense of obligation to the gift givers, she would use the stuff, decorate her room with it, and even wear it (FYI: Avon should stick to cosmetics).

Until one day a friend set her free.

Petunia watched in shock and awe as her friend opened a gift she had received earlier that day, and promptly threw it in the trash. When Petunia had managed to remove her mandible from the floor, she inquired as to how her friend could justify such behavior. The friend explained that she appreciated both the gift and the giver, and that the disposal of the gift didn't detract from those feelings. But, just because the person had given her something, she was under no obligation to keep it.

Brilliant.

So, as the season of giving approaches, be released.

Receive the gift.

Appreciate the gift and the giver.

And then chunk that plastic bag doll in the Goodwill box where it belongs.

Clean plate club

For the next 6 months or so, I will be plant sitting for some friends.

How does one plant sit, you may ask?

Simple. Just add water.

Now, these friends are not "old" per say, but they are definitely "older." They are comfortably retired and migrate south every winter, honking all the way there like a flock of Canada geese. I'm serious - the gentleman of this dynamic duo has a long and frightening history of road rage. But, not to worry. He carries one of his many guns with him in the console of the mini van.

Anywho, back to our regularly scheduled program. When I arrived at their northern home to receive my watering instructions (pour water on dirt, not on carpet), I was greeted with the myriad of food that they had cleaned out of their breadboxes/cupboards/pantries/refrigerators/freezers/barns and that they insisted I take home with me. I'm talkin' teas, condiments, salad dressings, cereals, Sam's Club sized bags of dried fruit, and frozen breads which were all meticulously labeled and wrapped in neat aluminum packages. I could go on.

I graciously, gratefully, and confusedly hauled the bounty away with the help of numerous shopping bags and two coolers. The source of my confusion was not just the reasoning behind the random assortment of foiled frozen loaves which I promptly kicked to the curb as soon as I arrived home. I was, and still am, puzzled by this phenomenon that I find to be prevalent among "older" people.

I would qualify it as food hoarding.

You see, Greg and I have this thing called a "grocery budget." This means that each week, I participate in the ancient female tradition of hunting and gathering. I hunt the websites of the supermarkets I deem both worthy of my patronage and accessible to my income, create a menu based on what types of dead animals are on sale, make a shopping list of outstanding ingredients, and gather the items from whichever store had the best deals on chicken carcasses.

By the end of the week, this Old Mother Hubbard's cupboards are bare and a distinct echo-echo-echo may be heard resonating in my fridge. Suffice to say, don't come lookin' for free vittles at the Varney pad come Saturday or Sunday, cause it's slim pickens. Each week we literally eat ourselves out of house and home.

I have yet to solve the mystery. Why do "older" people with no one to feed but themselves have an odd tendency toward stockpiling sustenance? Is this a poverty mentality leftover from the Great Depression? A fear of blizzards? Of nuclear holocaust? Of frogs and locusts? What is the dealio-yo?

I don't get it. So, as for me and my house, you will never see our cupboard jammed to the gills.

Well, except for right now. Three pounds of Craisins anyone?

Don't contain yourself

I've seen it happen time and time again.

'Tis tragic, but true.

Unsuspecting consumers who buy into the misconception that the following equation is the answer to all of their clutter concerns.

Stuff + Containment = Organization

Sigh. 'Tis too true.

But I'm here to bring you the gospel truth.

You can invest in every Rubbermaid, Sterilite, and Container Store contraption created, but that won't make you organized. That just means that you now have a wider assortment of ugly boxes to put your crap in.

OH NO I DIDN'T!

Oh yes, I did.

Allow me to slap forward some previously backwards thinking. You don't need more containers to put your stuff in so that you can make room for more stuff that you'll need to buy a container for.

What you really need is a yard sale or a Goodwill run.

Not to buy stuff, y'all. To let stuff go.

So, the next time you find yourself eying a Tupperware "Forget Me Not" onion keeper or a Caboodles makeup storage box, go ahead and chuck the onion and the Bonne Bell Blushing Gel. You can thank me later.

Semiannual clearance event

I am a minimalist through and through. Inside and out. Top to bottom.

How do I know? Because even the inside of my tiny munchkin body refuses to store excess junk.

Now, I pinky promise not to get verbally icky, so read on.

Every spring and fall my body invites me to participate in a joyous seasonal cleaning known as a "liver/gallbladder cleanse."

See? That's as icky as icky the verbiage it will get. Keep reading.

How does my body encourage me to partake in such an unpleasant undertaking?

With threats.

It starts out as an increased appetite for junk food. I'm talkin' daily trips to Mast General for gummi raspberries or Sugar Mama's for a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. These cravings are followed by early morning wake-up calls in which my eyes mysteriously open for no apparent reason at 4 AM. The resulting lethargy equals a decreased desire to exercise, the volume on my seasonal allergies being turned up to eleven, and a stitch on my right side occurring about an hour after I eat.

Left alone, the stitch turns into constant ache best described as the constant gnawing of a rodent of unusual size. The only relief to be found for the pain is to stop eating.

Or, to start cleansing.

Now, let me clarify. A cleanse is not for the faint of heart, not for fun, and not to be done to win a bet.

It is done as an act of desperation.

What do I dislike more than cleansing? Let's see...um...nothing.

The list of things I would rather do than a cleanse are countless, including having my wisdom teeth put back in, calling 100 people I don't know to ask them for money, and seeing Carmen live in concert.

Among other things, the cleanse involves drinking a glass of Epsom Salt water twice before bedtime and twice upon waking. The taste, which can best be compared to downing a rust smoothie, is so overwhelmingly disgusting that my teeth literally chatter after I drink it. In between iron oxide cocktails II and III comes the chugging of a cup of olive oil and lemon juice. This citrus marinade will wake you up at 1 AM wishing that the chariot would sweetly swing low and come-ah for to carry you home.

The process of cleansing?: Painful, stressful, and messy. The results of cleansing? Relief, peace, and health.

Isn't this the picture of how so many of us are about getting organized? We are not willing to endure 24-hours of cleansing to reap months or years of organizational health.

So, stop procrastinating! Pick a date, chug the rust and the marinade like a champ, and let the cleansing begin! Do it now, before the gummi raspberries begin their wily wooing.

Q is for Quarantine

"Q is for Quarantine. Isn't that a big word? Do you know what this word means? It means- COME IN KIDS - FREE ICE CREAM" -Shel Silverstein, Uncle Shelby's ABZ Book

I am flattered that all of you have been calling the police and the hospitals and Carmen Sandiego out of concern for my sudden blog-less-ness this past week, but for the love of Barney Fife, give the horn a rest!

My apologies for not leaving an away message of some sort. Please forgive me. Being ill throws a monkey wrench in the cogs of me brain more than anything else. Allow me explain.

You see, it all started with the Elk of Cataloochee,

then I got the fever,

and then the fever went away,

so we paid a visit to our good buddy Billy Hall,

and spent some quality time with the in-laws,

and then this seagull came, and it was this is this, and that is that,

and then I was inspired to write the blog that follows.

Hulkomania

I have always been a little bit of a, how shall I put this gently, "maniacal zealot" concerning the environment.

Just ask anyone who has ever lived with me.

When roommates of old made the mistake of leaving the water running while they were brushing their teeth, something would come over me. I can't explain it, I would try to contain it, but I would inevitably go all Hulk on them and burst into the bathroom uninvited to turn off the faucet for them.

Add to my fanaticism a generous helping of OCD tenancies and you've got a recipe for 5 roommates in 4 years and at least 1 session of formal roommate mediation.

Suffice to say, I was a challenge to live with.

But, by the end of college, something had happened to the my inner eco-freak. Four years of depressingly hopeless environmental studies coursework had taken its toll on the Hulk. The final nail in the coffin occurred when my economics professor shared that she had witnessed the contents of her trash can and recycling bin being poured into the same garbage truck.

It was then that the green of my inner Hulk faded to gray, and I stopped caring. I figured that the Earth was going to wear out anyway, so why be bothered?

I have only recently begun to participate once again in the realm of environmental responsibility. My reconversion resulted from a combination things, including several trips to third world countries, hope-filled solutions presented by guys like Rob Bell and Al Gore, and the assurance that my city's recycling program is now bonafide.

Except this time, instead of going all Hulk on the subject of going green, I have gone a bit more Mr. Rogers.

With minimal effort and minimal moolah, this cardigan-wearing chica is saving the planet, and you can, too.

• Stop Sucking - I unplug anything that has a "black box" charger or plug when not in use. Regardless of whether or not you are using them, when plugged in, those suckers, well, suck.
  
• BYOBagging - I have an assortment of teacher totes that accompany me into (and hopefully out of) the grocery store.
• Trendy Cleaning - I am all about those sexy, biodegradable cleaning products like Method and Seventh Generation.
• Recycling - Um. I recycle.
  
• Passive Composting - I throw my uncooked fruit and veggie scraps under my porch. You would think it would smell like the inside of your belly button, but it doesn't.
  
• Thermostating - I turn my thermostat up/down/off while I'm at work. Takes, like, two seconds.
  
• Faucet aerating - Less water + more air = same effect.
• Breaker boxing - Forget installing a timer on my hot water heater. I just flip that switch off when I leave in the morning, and on again when I come in at night. Booyah!
  
• Compact fluorescing - Our CFFs are saving us watts of big bucks, baby! And the model IKEA sells look like actual light bulbs, as opposed to giant glowing paper clips.
  
• Litter boxing - Two cats. Two words. Feline Pine.
• Low-flow-shower-heading - So easy to install that even a Jessica Varney can do it. My water bill, not my water pressure, has gone down significantly. And, despite Seinfeld's claims, my hair is still plenty big.

Tis easy being green, so just do it, okay? You don't want to make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry...

The antique of the future

There was a season when mother was wholly convinced that glass ashtrays were the antique of the future.

So she proceeded to do what anyone would do when faced with a potentially lucrative epiphany: scour yard sales for the aforementioned item and display them proudly on every available inch of coffee table in our home.

Some of the ashtrays were souvenirs of the previous owners nostalgic, nicotine-addicted adventures at such inspiring destinations as "The Salem Witch Museum" or "The Entire State of Arizona." Others were just clear glass dishes with bumps and notches in all the appropriate places.

When my friends would visit, they would inevitably come upon our collection of cigarette butt abodes and wonder out loud, "Who in your family smokes?"

Such a silly, silly question.

"No one. NO ONE in our family smokes!"

And although my mother has since refuted her own hypothesis, the ashtrays continue to dwell somewhere in my childhood home. Why? "Because, they might be worth something someday."

Ah - the pack rats mantra. Let's all recite it together as we hold our Beanie Babies high and sway to the skipping beats of our LPs. "It might be worth something someday..."

We've all got an ashtray collection. And I'll tell you why in two words. Antiques Roadshow.

We are all secretly scared that the family heirloom we never use and we don't even like will one day come back to haunt us. We picture ourselves parting with the item, only to do a double take years later as we are flippin' through the channels. Amidst the mesmerizing parade of miraculously preserved this and one-of-a-kind that to be seen on PBS's Antiques Roadshow, we see someone showing off our ashtray and smirking as they recall the sucker who sold it to them at a yard sale for $0.75.

But here is the problem. Any item, whether you bought it yesterday out of the dollar bin at Target, or your mother has been stewarding it for you since you were blowing bubbles with your own saliva, still has to pass the "keeper test." I've said it before, but it bears repeating. If you don't love it or if you don't use it, it be junk and it ain't a keeper.

Am I harshin' your gig? Groovy, because if you are keeping something because of its potential monetary value, then you don't really own that item at all.

It owns you.

And anything that owns you is your master.

So, shake off them shackles and put that sucker on Ebay, or better yet, give it to someone who will actually flick their butts into it.

Because the only other reasonable option is to go buy yourself a pack of Marlboro Light 100s.

Goodwill hunting

So, I have this friend. And no, this isn't one of those analogies where the "friend" is really me. This is a real person and a real example because you know what? I can't make this kind of stuff up.

I'm not that good.

Anywho, the other day my friend, who I hope will still be my friend and continue to read my blog after reading this post, made a comment about my car.

Let's pause and reflect on my car. As a lover of small things, I drive a clean, zippy little Civic stick that is typically debris-free inside and out. I have made it a habit to remove anything and everything that does not belong in my car at the end of every day. And, since I like to carry it all in one trip, I no doubt resemble a beast-of-burden as I haul twice my weight in canvas bags filled with gym clothes and lunch containers, receipts and mail, and the occasional benthic macroinvertebrate from my car into my house.

Okay, so even though I don't make this stuff up, I have been known to exaggerate in order to make a story better or a joke funnier. So sue me.

However, on this particular day, books like, "Mary Had a Little Lamb" and "Christy," an old shelving unit, and some of my hubby's cast-off clothes were piled on the floor behind my seat. Now, instead of stating the obvious:

"Oh, Jessica. You are such an incredible and generous environmentalist. Not only are you gathering reusable objects to donate to Goodwill, but I can see that you are conserving fossil fuel by waiting until you have other errands to run in that charity's neck o' the woods before you trek all the way out there. You are my hero."

Instead, my friend said something like, "Wow. For a professional organizer, you sure have a messy car."

Gasp! What? Did you hear that? That was the sound of my heart faltering within and my jaw dropping like a...jaw that drops.

You will be relieved to hear that I did not crack my slate over my friend's head. That is not a good way to win friends or influence people, no matter what Anne Shirley may tell you.

Instead, I promptly found a reason to go to Goodwill the very next day. My apologies to the planet.

All that being said, let me point out my error. Not the error of my friend. Mine.

I allowed what my well-intentioned friend (I assume they were well-intentioned, since people I am friends with know that they should never ever insult their friends occupation, especially when it is still a tender, green shoot...) to mess with my sense of identity to such an extent that I drove all the way to Good-flippin'-will at 7:00 on a Tuesday night just to drop off a few measly items. How measly, you ask? I didn't even ask for a receipt for tax purposes, that's how!

And finally, my point. Don't let your work define you to the point where you can't feel free to muck it up on a personal level. That's way too much pressure for a critter that is essentially made out of, and will one day turn back into, humus.

So mechanics - go ahead and let your car break down on the side of the road and call AAA to give you a tow. Housekeepers - let that toilet of yours form a substantial pink ring-o-slime around the water line. Dentists- eat all your kid's trick-or-treating booty and don't brush your teeth before you go to bed that night.

Feel free. Is okay. I make lamb.

Shameless plug

Check out the podcast that my honey does: Chicken Pop Pod. Not only does Greg contribute some pretty funny stuff, he also serves as the unofficial live studio audience/laugh track. And if you want to hear me talk WAY too much, check out episode 24 where the girls take over. Go to http://www.chickenpoppod.com/

Coming out of the closet

My house is little.

I mean, iddy biddy, teeny tiny, makes-my-hubby-claustrophobic-little.

And I love it.

Not the part about my honey suffering from a spacial dilemma upon arriving home from work each day. I just love the minimalist aspect of it. It is a basic scientific principle that the smaller a space is, the less one is able to cram a bunch of crappity crap into it.

You know what I'm talking about. It's just like with your purse (or man bag for all the metrosexuals out there).

Everybody is carrying a Mary Poppins purse these days. Yes, I know Mary came up a couple of blogs ago, but I cannot help myself. She is, after all, practically perfect in every way.

Practically.

The only reason she is not perfect is because of her big bottomless bag. Anyone who can fit a coat rack into their carry-on has some issues, and not just with airport security.

I digress. Back to my hobbit house. It has minimal accessible storage.

No basement.

No attic.

No garage.

No storage shed.

All we have to work with here in the shire are seven closets and a crawl space. And if our crawl space were to be declared modern art, its name would be "Cellophane on Moist Dirt Pile" as it is only good for storing the gasoline for the lawnmower and the snow shovel we have yet to need.

I say all this to warn you. Beware of your closets! Closets are sneaky-sneaky. They give the appearance of tidy when in reality your collection of #5 sour cream containers that you are saving until the day they become recyclable in your area are lurking precariously behind that closed door.

You know the cartoon where the optimistic protagonist opens the closet door only to meet his maker in an avalanche of gadgets and gizmos a-plenty, whozits and whatzits galore, and twenty thingamabobs? We used to have one of those at where I work.

Used to.

Then this obsessive compulsive midget came on the scene. And even though I have since purged the space of its weapons of mass destruction, I still lovingly refer to it as the closet of death.

My point is this. I may only have seven closets, but none of them could be classified as a closet of death.

Just because you have a closet, that doesn't mean you have to put anything in it.

Am I saying all this to brag?

Yes.

Yes I am.

Wallpaper

I'm not a big fan of wallpaper.

And I ain't talking about the glorified wrapping paper that is currently stuck on the wall of your half bath, or the decoupage you shlacked all over your hope chest, or even the OK Go music video.

I'm talking about that thing that has been sitting in that place for so long that you don't even see it anymore.

It blends in.

It has become wallpaper.

Tell me about that table.

We got a few years ago as a wedding gift.

Do you use it?

No.

Do you like it?

Not really.

Then, why do you have it?

I really don't know.

Incredible.

Jump back, David Blane and move over, Chris Angel! Forget the illusionist approach to disappearing; just try standing in one place for a month or so and abracadabra you're gone!

It's a phenomenon worthy of an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. When something sits in one place for too long, people simply don't see it anymore. It essentially disappears.

It happens very subtly.

It's raining, so you take your umbrella out of your car and make the mad dash to your front porch. It's wet, so you leave it outside to dry...

You need to call Oriental Trading Company because the rock bouncy balls they sent to you just aren't up to their usual levels of stone-like resemblance. You write it on a Post-It note and stick it on your computer monitor...

You are given a coupon for a free cookie from Sugar Mama's. You put it in your wallet...

A week passes, a month, maybe even a year.

And voila! They are all still there. But you can't see them. They have faded into the landscape.

It has become wallpaper.

Take a moment look at your surroundings with a fresh set of eyes. Linger on each thing. Ask yourself these questions:

What is it?

Do I use it?

Do I like it?

Does it belong here? If not, where is it's "home?"

Ready. Set. OK Go!

You've been a very naughty boy...

What is more stressful? Is it:

(a) Giving an impromptu speech about something you know little to nothing about in front of a crowd of 10,000 people.
(b) Realizing it is not a nightmare - you actually have shown up to work or school naked.
(c) Tidying up a room that bears a shocking resemblance to an Old Navy store after a one-day-only 99 cent flip-flop sale.

As with all multiple choice tests, the correct answer is always "c."

People hate messes.

The only exception to this rule would be one Ms. Mary Poppins with her whole "In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun. You find the fun, and - SNAP - the job's a game!" mantra. She might as well be saying, "Could I interest you in some direct marketing?" I mean, come on, who is she kidding? Even a spoon full of sugar can't make that medicine go down!

Straightening out a space that looks more like the aftermath of what the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale would define as a Category 5 Hurricane, or its equivalent, a preteen slumber party, can feel overwhelming, and even a bit like a punishment.

Very well then.

You've been a very naughty boy - not putting your toys away after you were done playing with them - now go sit in the corner and think about what you have done.

But hey, you are a rebel, right? So, while you are in the corner, you might as well get all Billy Idol and stick-it-to-the-man by putting that stuff away.

Here's how you do it.

Pick a corner. Any corner. Pick something up. Put it away. Repeat.

Don't be distracted by the beautiful celebrities, I mean, the other junk in the other corners of the room. Stay on target. Love the corner. The corner is your friend.

If you need to put something from that corner away in a different room, you may do so, but come right back to the corner. If you have to, go ahead and take something else with you that belongs in the "corner room" so that you can find your way back to the corner should you get lost along the way.

When you are done with that corner, move onto another corner, and before you know it that room will be looking supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!

The voices in my head

Recently, I stopped listening to my iPod.

I mean, I completely stopped.

And since then, I have found myself more focused, more hopeful, and more motivated than ever.

What was I listening to? Not complaint rock or angst emo or anything. I mean, my ring tone is Mmmbop for cryin' out loud!

The stuff I was listening to was fantastic - terrific podcasts full of convicting messages, deep wisdom, and brilliant insights. But, I was finding the more I listened, the more anxious, overwhelmed, and depressed I felt.

I had so many voices bouncing around in my head that the only thing I knew to do to drown out the confusion was to listen to another podcast.

A viscous cycle.

There are so many messages, both good and bad, constantly being broadcast all around us. Many people cannot work, feel at ease in their home, or even fall asleep, if the tunes or TV aren't crankin'.

An addiction to noise.

And an aversion to silence.

For some, silence can be awkward, like a lapse in a struggling conversation. For others, it can create unwanted tension, be unnerving, or even downright scary.

I believe they have good reason to be afraid. I believe that in that place of silence, they would hear a voice both wonderful and terrible; A voice that would wreak their lives and cause them to change the way they do everything.

I believe they would hear the one voice we really should be listening to.

The voice of love and hope, the voice of wisdom and discernment, the voice of truth. It's a very quiet voice. Call it what you will, but I believe with all my heart that it is the voice of Almighty God.

And I believe that there is another voice. The voice of someone who hates us and doesn't want us to hear that quiet voice, because he knows what that would mean for our lives. He has come to steal, kill, and destroy, but has found that all he has to do is drown us...

...in noise.

Smoking pot

Hello, my name is Jessica Varney, and I am a girl.

It's true. The testosterone brain bath? Never got one. Totally missed this in utero experience. As a result, I supposedly still have all of these amazing connections remaining between my right and left brain that the distinctly XY chromosome types generally lack.

Supposedly.

Translation: as a girl, I should:

• (a) flake-out on the math portion of the SATs,
• (b) kick booty on the verbal, and
• (c) be the reigning queen of multitasking.

Right. But for me, it's more like a rousing round of "Two Truths and a Lie," because two of those statements are true, while the other is just lies, lies, lies.

(a) In my world, the letter "C" is not just for "Cookie." It's for Trigonometry, Geometry, and anything else remotely metry. So, there is my first truth.

(b) And verbally, I have in fact kicked many a booty. So truth number two? Totally accurate.

(c) But oh, the tragedy of the lie.

I have four burners on my stove. That means that I should be able to cook four things at the same time.

The one time (one time) I did in fact have all four burners pumping, I found out what happens when you steam broccoli without the use of water. The scientific term for what you see coming off of your pot is not "water vapor."

It's "smoke."

And when a pot that you have on your stove is "smoking," that means that it is "hot." And I'm not talking San Antonio minus A/C hot, I'm talking about twenty-seven-million-degrees-at-the-center-of-the-sun-hot.

It was on that day that I scientifically proved that neither counter tops, nor tabletops, nor even three layers of potholders are meant to withstand those levels of radiation. Who knew that a hot pot could turn a pot holder to a pile of ash in mere seconds?

Because I was trying to do too many things at once, I very nearly burned my house down.

So my advice? Maybe it's time to slow down there, Speed Racer, before you muck things up.

How many hot burners are you cooking on?

Bright and shiny objects

My kitchen is only about 8 feet wide. So to get from one side to the other, literally all I need to do is turn my body around. Seems simple enough. Yet somehow, during the 180 degree journey from one side to the other, I usually forget what I am looking for.

I wish I were kidding.

I'll open the oven, only to realize that I really needed something out of the fridge. I've been known to put the milk in the pantry and the cereal in the ice box.

Conclusion: I'm down with ADD. Be it a thought or an object, if it be bright and shiny, I be there. Did I mention that I have a hard time focusing?

In an effort to fight my flightiness, I have developed an elaborate system of tricks I use to combat my wandering brainwaves.

For example, I have a series of different hand motions I make for whatever it is I am looking for, so that when (not if) I forget what in tarnation it was I was seeking, I can just look down at my flailing paws and go "Oh, I remember. Can opener!"

But the worst is the bathroom. I am so prone to forgetting what I was working on prior to skipping to the loo that I put off powdering my nose until the last possible second. Clarification: That would be the second after my pee-pee dance reaches its DDR peek, and the second before I instead find myself seeking a mop and a pair of dry drawers.

So what's a well-hydrated girl to do? Answer: Carry whatever it is I am working on to the bathroom with me and leave it on the floor just outside the door. I call these my "props" as they help me to remember what my "scene" was prior to my restroom rendezvous during "intermission".

"Has anyone seen Jessica?"

"She's in the john."

"How do you know?"

"There is a boulder on the floor outside the door, that's how I know."

Finally, I talk to myself. Out loud. I mutter to myself. In fact, I'm doing it right now. I carry on conversations with myself about whatever it is I am doing. That way, if I forget, I can just ask myself later.

Hey, wait a second. How did I end up writing this blog anyway? I was totally doing something else? Self, what was it? Oh, I remember. Working!

Sweet potato in your purse

Nearly every day when I get home, I dump my purse out on the kitchen table. Whatever doesn't belong there is given a new "home" somewhere else.

Part of my job is to help people find "homes" for items that don't have anywhere to "live." That means that replica of The World's Largest Frying pan that you got the last time you visited Rose Hill, NC has gotta go somewhere, be it stored in a box of souvenirs, thrown in the garbagio, given to a thrift store, or displayed in all its glory your mantle.

But I digress. Back to my purse.

Typically when I clean out my bag, I'll find the odd receipt, pen, or random Post-It lurking in the depths. But, the other day when I emptied its contents out on the table, out rolled a sweet potato.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I confess: Your professional organizer had put a starchy edible tuber in her pocketbook. On purpose.

Here's the truth:

You're never going to have it all together. There will always be something to put away, throw away, give away. You will always have a junk drawer.

And it's okay.

And if you DO have it all together, you're a nerd and you need to get a friend or a hobby, cause you've got WAY to much free time on your hands.

The point of creating systems of organization for yourself is not so they can boss you around and make you live in a state of constantly striving for organizational perfection.

That's called a cult.

The point of being organized is to reap both the peace that comes from knowing where your car keys are and the time to spend doing the things that are really important with the people who are the most important to you.

The point is to do your creative best in the wondrous realm of organization, and still be cool if a sweet potato takes up temporary residency in your hand bag.

"A place for everything and everything in its place?" Ha! It's never gonna happen, even for an anal retentive professional like myself, so give up the dream, sugar!

And, if you are seeking closure on what home you should give to your replica of the World's Largest Frying Pan, mine is stored in my hope chest.

My boyfriends.

I have several boyfriends.

Or, at least that is what my husband calls them.

My obsession with these men began long before I was ever married. But, my husband is okay with me having boyfriends.

Their names? There are so many of them, but I will name a few.

Bob

Dave

Perry

Rob

I've never actually met any of my boyfriends in person, except for Bob, and that was only for a couple of minutes. Mostly I just stalk from a distance.

Now, don't get your color-coded sock drawers all in a tizzy. Let me explain.

My "boyfriends" are all men that I love to read, watch, and listen to on a regular basis. They have profoundly impacted the way I look at God, His church, business, money, people, the Bible, poverty, and the environment.

They are Bob Harrison, Dave Ramsey, Perry Noble, and Rob Bell.

These guys are all wildly successful experts in the fields they are passionate about. And, as I have read, watched, and listened to them through the years, I have noticed a pattern.

They all get their creative, innovative, inspiring ideas from the same source.

Wait for it...

Yep- it's the Bible.

I thought to myself, "Self, what does God have to say about overflowing filing cabinets, cluttered closets, and junk drawers?"

So, I started at the beginning, and in the beginning, God laid out some pretty profound ideas about organizing and decorating a space. And they were GOOD. I mean, God said they were good. So I figured, hello- if they're good enough for the Almighty, then verily verily I say unto thee that they're good enough for me.

So, comin' your way Fall '08: a series of bold, brief, and brilliant blogs entitled, "Get Organized, by God!" And, check out all my boyfriends. They're so hot right now.

You asked for it...

It's truly amazing what you can get if you simply ask for it.

I am currently certified to teach high school Earth Science. That means if you need a nerd to tell you what the meteorologist actually means when the words "percent chance of showers" is uttered, I'm your gal. But here is the deal. After working my tuckus off in college to get this piece o' paper, it is only good for 5 years! And once that 5 years is up, my certification is toast.

Unless, during that 5 years I have completed 150 hours (150 HOURS!) of workshops. This is no small feat, especially if you not a traditional public school teacher. So, I did it!...or so I thought. I recently discovered that I'd missed some of the fine print and I still needed 20 more hours of delightful workshops to keep my cherished paper. And miracle of miracles, I found a 20-hour workshop on elk (shut up) close by. I signed right up, only to receive a polite e-mail a few weeks later stating that it was full with a long waiting list.

What's a girl to do? Find another workshop? Reply to the e-mail with an equally polite request to be placed on the waiting list? Heck, no! I got desperate. I called the guy up on the phone, I presented my case, I said that I didn't need them to provide me with room and board, or even transportation, I just needed 20 hours of elk! And you know what? My name has been magically and mysteriously relocated to the top of the almighty waiting list. And, should a space not become available, you know what they are going to do? They are going let me attend anyway!

What do you need? What do you want? You have not because you ask not. Open your mouth. Ask. Ask until someone says yes. Your shredder kick the bucket? The 1-800-Customer- Service dude telling you that you will have to pay for both shipping AND repair? Forget about him. Walk that puppy into the store. Present your case to a flesh and blood salesperson. Ask. Take your brand new shredder home and shred like you've never shredded before. Shred like the winner you are, because you had the guts to ask.