Counting Rants

20 days to Christmas. The house is still a sloppy insult to the "zen crib" it once was. The tree isn't up yet, neither are the rest of the decors. They're all still in their dusty boxes. Boxes scattered on the floor. Of the living room. Where they don't belong. There are vintage bikes in the dining area, more boxes of toys near the kitchen. Dirty curtains and sun screens cover the dirtier windows.

Dear me, what a monstrosity.


We have guests arriving from all over in two weeks. I am without househelp. The clutter causes shortness of breath and mild palpitations. Hating it like I'm hating my allergic reactions to everything.


Headaches visit often, and they come with the same worried whisper:

"Where do you plan to put all your junk, M?"

Where? I dunno. The guestroom, most likely.

"Waste the second guest room, why don't you... you've already pretty much befouled the other one."

Take note that the house (Sammy) only has two guest rooms. They will soon be called storage spaces. We continue to collect junk way beyond our means to contain them, much to the dismay of my worried whispers. Poor, poor Sammy.

Are we worth our weight in gold? maybe. Only because one man's junk can be another man's treasure. Dear me, what a golden mess then.

Back to the countdown.
Oh my. Oh well. Merry Christmas.

A week from now, I'll probably mean it.