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.

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.

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!

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.