Manic Saturday in A Major, Followed by A Minor

I never lose things. Ever. I have a tedious, frustrating-as-hell system for keeping track of every pen, list, receipt, lip balm, and even some stuff of yours. It is a pain in the ass sometimes, especially for those waiting for me to wrap and zip things up when we're on our way out, but these same haters are always pleased when they ask for the mini straightener, extension cord, or banana, and I always have it. Everyone knows where my hairbands are, my bobby pins (though I admit these are oddly prone to running away, fucking ingrates). This week has been ...(drum roll)... busy. I'm still wading in a sea of "pass-me-downs," as Reilly says, but it has quickly become the deep end, with a fierce undertow. Thus, I have lost my new black bra. No. I said I lost my bra. As in, I have looked in the freezer and my kids' wallets. I could die. When the insurance company finally kicked down with the money for our ruined clothes, the first thing I did was race to get new bras. The girls deserved it, and so as shit did everyone else. I assumed it was lost in the Perfect Storm of every black garment Old Navy and GAP has ever made, but it's just LOST! Do I have other bras? Duh. Do I have other black bras? Double duh. Which brings me back to my original point: I don't lose things. So I'm all discombobulated, in the way that could lead to a massacre. Sooo...

This morning I am so preoccupied I'm more or less Rainman, not to mention the fact that I left one of my phone chargers at a friend's house, and I have to work my Bippity-Bobbity-Boo in time to make two surprise birthday parties. Good God, do some candles have more than two wicks?

With this double shot disclaimer out of our way, let me boast what I have been able to do this morning:

-Vacuum my car.

-Sort the drawer that contains baby aspirin, G.U.M tooth picks, three sizes of clippers, Tylenol, Excedrin, Vicodin, dental floss, and other shit that needs to be readily accessible. This a big deal.

-Got every stitch of laundry accounted for like so many prisoners. I may wash the linen sorter hamper bag things with OxiClean.

-Did a bleach load.

-Swept laundry room.

-Slaughtered a foot-high stack of papers on the laundry room.

-Stripped and re-made my bed. Gazed around this three foot space and choked down the harsh truth that I am a filthy consumer, and a compulsive one at that. I am convinced that buying 720 totes and caddies, it will create space in this house?

(Moving on from painful revelation)

-Swept my carpet.

-Installed my lock.

-Windexed all windows and screens.

-Bleached both kitchen sinks and all three bathroom sinks.

-Filled up front bathroom tub with bleach and hot water.

-Pulled out couches and vacuumed around/under/behind them.

-Organized whichever circle of hell crafts are. Reilly had a birthday party yesterday and it took 17 sticker binders and a Creative Memories consultant to complete her card, which was AWESOME. I hate crafts. But I buy them. Filthy consumer, I already said it.

-Dusted.

-Frantic straightening everywhere I went.

-Polished all chrome.

-Stopped to eat and feed my back some Vicodin over easy.

Coming to an OCD freak show near you:

-This has to be the day of reckoning with the dual vanity in the master bedroom. Once upon a time Todd and I shared this space, but he has since been relegated to a KOA or something I think, and the tweendom sprawl has invaded. You don't even know. Quinn uses all my hairspray, bottles of Big Sexy that last me a year, he blasts through in two months. So there's a battle of yours-and-mine, which conflicts with my "my-things-are-my-children's-things" philosophy but Jesus. They each have their own hairbrushes, Reilly's earrings migrate in a fussy huddle, though she has never lost one (like mother like daughter). Luckily Quinn has one pair, and they're in his ears. But the more shit on the counters, the harder it is to wipe everything down, and it is at critical mass right now. I have my sewing kit down because I need to fix some holes, so apparently it invited several other boxes and notebooks, and clothes to be returned, and the cherry on this heap was when my make-up fell or was shot, or died of shaken (?) syndrome, which of course, NOBODY saw. So I have to sort all this out like pronto. UGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!

-Organize the most recent Costco haul, re-stock everything.

-Clear the top of the refrigerator.

-Shift some wire caddies around to facilitate the major overhaul in the kitchen. (SUCK: Fred Meyer no longer carries these caddies, shit fuck shit! I just found out last night.)

-Scrub the kitchen floor on hands and knees.

-Empty all wastebaskets, take out trash.

-Clean the toilets.

-Hand-vac the bathroom mats.

-Tell the kids, who typically get weekends off, especially since they're on an accelerated summer school work track, that my back will break and I will be paralyzed forever if they don't help me, especially with crafts, and the retarded fury that is bunk beds.

-Straighten my accessories once there's room, find all necessary clothing for the day/night, pick up my charger, mail a package, pick up some medications, and SCRAM, muy satisfied.

My best advice is to select the top three most burdensome aspects of your top five most hated areas, put your hair in a ponytail, put on some fierce underwear, and don't stop until you're done.

We want:

-Clear surfaces, from the floor up.

-Dishes done, kitchen wiped down.

-Laundry done and folded by Sunday night.

-Bathrooms spiffed up or murdered, depending on your energy level.

-Vacuum.

-Stack and contain clutter.

These are good goals. You can do these things.

But has anyone seen my bra?