Monday, February 17, 2014

Military Monday: Posting Phase Two

Phase Two: Closet Clean-out


Orders Received yet?  No.
Estimated TTD: Narrowing it down, but no orders, no point.


Our junk is alive

There's no other possible explanation. It has to be alive, because how else could it multiply at such an alarming rate? We recycle, we give clothes away, we only replace things when necessary, we take things OUT of the house by the trailer load. So how is it that EVERY SINGLE CLOSET in this house is FULL of crap

I just don't get it. It must be reproducing.

Even though we don't have a message, we are pretty sure one is coming. After all, we've been in this house three years. So I, being a planner to the nth degree, have begun the process. 


THE PRE-LISTING CLEAN-OUT.


God help me. Having sold a gazillion houses in the past, I know that the minute we call a real-estate agent, they will be out here. Wanting forms filled out. Wanting measurements taken and...

Wanting magazine-perfect pictures.

Ugh. 

So that means everything needs to be ready before we even call them. Closets need to be cleaned out. Let me tell you. A teen's closet is a scary place. You won't find Narnia in that baby. There's dead things in there. Skeletons and cobwebs and mould. Science projects gone rogue. There's a reason kids don't like to sleep with their closet doors open, and I am about to go into battle with the things that go bump in the night.

The last time I cleaned out closets I barely escaped with my life.

It's an emotional, frustrating, hypertensive time, because I get to find out just how many items of 'clean' clothing got tossed into a back corner. How many treasured items got thrown underneath mounds of forgotten toys. How many half-eaten food items somehow found their way into neatly folded sweaters. And how that 'I NEED TO HAVE IT!' item has spent the past three years still in it's sealed box.

I have to take it one closet at a time, with lots of chocolate and wine.

And so, because today is my day off, I've got my haz-mat suit on, my bleach in hand, and I'm ready.

If you don't hear from me in two days, send help.

Brenda.

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