By Miriam Medina
So now my living room and my dining room have become my office as well as a writing area, since no one comes to visit. I leave the mess right where it is. Every so often my son passes by, always adding his two cents: "Hey mom, when are you going to organize this mess?" I answer "It IS organized and don't touch a thing. I know exactly where everything is..." Someday I promise myself that I will get to cleaning it. Does that have a familiar ring? It's incredible how in so much chaos one can still be organized. Right? So I have an option to clean up the clutter, or as a last resort, I can always end up like this:
There was once a writer named Mimi, who lived in a house far too narrow.
Her books and her papers filling rooms everywhere,
Her two little dogs, her inseparable shadows, trailing behind her as she moved here and there.
She griped and she grumbled, as she tripped and she stumbled,
Over more and more books left the night before by her chair.
The huge paper mess, covering all of her desk, scarcely left her enough space anywhere.
The only place available was her dining room table,
Where she could write for as long as she cared
On the counter sat still, a pile of unpaid bills, which drove her to the point of despair.
She looked all around, and saw there was so much that she needed and hoped someday to repair.
The dogs began barking, as they heard someone loudly knocking,
The scowl on her face would say to whoever it was: "Vendor Beware."
.
Damn! The landlord again, collecting the rent, giving him a check and a prayer.
This is the final straw, complaining as she closed the door,
I've had more of this clutter and mess than should be my share to bear.
.
Piña Collada in hand, she decided to take a stand,
Smoothing tight rollers into her dark brown hair.
A doormat I'm not: So to hell with everyone, I'm leaving this mess and who cares.
Cocker spaniel and poodle trailing behind her, she ran as fast as she could
With bag in hand, she raced down the stairs...
Into the car, spinning wheels on tar, she never was seen or heard of again anywhere.
Oh well. Wishful thinking. T.J. Is whizzing on my leg. The books are surrounding Buddy ominously. I think they're ready to attack. Fred is at my front door holding a shoe. Wow, does he look ticked. The chilli and my stomach are locked in mortal battle, and I'm losing regardless of who wins. The phone is ringing off the hook (probably some bill collector angry about a bill buried in the post it mural on my desk). And to top it off, It's still poring outside. Forget writing. Forget work. Forget organizing. I'm going back to bed.
Maybe I'll read a book.
Miriam B. Medina is an expert author at Platinum Level at EzineArticles.com
To contact: miriammedina@earthlink.net
.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment