you are so glad I’m not your mom

As Ikea’s best customers, of course we have a huge surplus of allen wrenches, extra screws, wooden pegs, metal pegs, nails, washers, nuts that don’t fit any of our bolts, etc. And for years we kept them all jumbled in a plastic bucket that had once held ice cream, and whenever we needed anything, we had to get everything out and paw through it. One week last spring, when Aldi was featuring tools, they also had those big plastic cases divided into a million little compartments for you to sort all that stuff into, so I bought it. But I didn’t actually do the sorting for a really long time, because why?

Because that fiddly, fussy sort of work that takes a tiny mess and turns it into a tiny organized space, so that I spend several hours sorting and then afterward my house looks NO different? Is my idea of fun. So I was saving the task as a treat for one of my kids.

Yes! I don’t even have to smoke anything to be like this! Fortunately, before either of them did anything to merit such a privilege (yeah, you could wait a long time for that…), I realized that I am insane. And that since they, perversely, have decided to embrace their own brand of crazy rather than follow in my footsteps, they probably would not have been as gleeful as I was at the prospect of several hours sorting tiny bits of metal into compartments. So I did it myself. And it was fun.

I wonder what kind of therapist I should look for in Utrecht.

Song du jour of the day: Apologies, by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals.

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2 responses to “you are so glad I’m not your mom

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