This house was a disaster. Our newly acquired Christmas bounty arose in tenuous stacks around the living and dining rooms amid wrapping paper shavings, swatches of ribbon, tape dispensers and scissors, and the usual accumulation of pet fur. The kitchen sink was filled with and surrounded by batter-caked mixing bowls and platters, and crumpled paper towels and aluminum foil littered all other available counter space. A recent influx of wedding presents that hadn’t yet found their resting places populated the floors of the back rooms, still in their shipping boxes. Did we really own this much stuff?
My wife, whose appetite for organization is insatiable, bravely set to battle against the shambles around us. Like the Tasmanian Devil in reverse, she tore through the detritus, leaving all horizontal surfaces spotless and gleaming in her wake. Mountains of boxes became mounds and then disappeared entirely, their contents relocated to appropriate shelves and drawers. A pleasant Fraser fir aroma prevailed over the combination dirty-dishes-and-dog smell to which we had come home an hour before. Entropy has a nemesis, and its name is Whitney.
No comments:
Post a Comment