Whenever I move to a new place, I say the same thing.
‘This time, I’m going to put things away in an orderly fashion. Organize. Place items in a logical space, one that makes sense!”
Every time, I fail miserably. It’s been almost two years in the new house, and I still can’t find what I’m looking for. Stuff is still wherever made sense to me when I was unpacking, while I suffered from severe dehydration/exhaustion. That, my friends, is when you should hire someone else to help you. Someone highly organized and neat, who has an inherent knowledge of ergonomics and functionality, and will unpack your crap for money.
Someone who doesn’t have a “junk drawer,” let alone know such things exist.
Growing up, I thought everyone had one. This magical drawer is where all leftover “things” go: spare batteries, paperclips, rubber bands, pencils, single sticks of chewing gum, the only bolt that fits the lawnmower, etc. All the extra shit that doesn’t have a home, or has one, but you are too lazy to put it there, so it gets chucked in the drawer.
Sometimes, when people come to visit, they mistakenly open this drawer looking for salad tongs. Upon opening the drawer, they either quickly shut it in embarrassment (for me) or just ask, what the hell is all this stuff?
Ahem. I don’t know. I hope its hidden detritus shows nothing of the state of my mind, or we are in real trouble over here. But it might, because I love “The drawer” for it’s randomness, it’s inability to be tamed.
“Do we really need a junk drawer?” My husband asked me, as we were moving in.
It was the first thing I had staked out.
“Yes, of course,” I added hastily, as in, what are you, crazy? No junk drawer? His family never had a drawer of this type, so in his mind its an unnatural accoutrement to a home. Our junk drawer is the smallest in the kitchen, on purpose. No need to let people see crazy spilling out of a big drawer, no?
Now that the kids are growing exponentially, so is the amount of crap in the drawer. There is even a tin box labeled “tiny things.” No explanation, no idea of what is in there. Must be small, though. Leftover screws or important silly bands, things like that. I recently took a visual inventory, and was somewhat astounded. The most bizarre object is the rubber witches finger. You might think this would be a throwaway, but a gnarled and warty finger can come in very handy if your kids are being stroppy. Whip out the witch finger and screech, “Youuuu will do my bidding!” in a creepy voice and suddenly they are in hysterics, doing whatever you ask of them. It also comes in handy should you need to wield it on the middle finger, directed at whomever is grumbling about doing the dishes. Points will be made.
Please let me know I am not alone in this. I don’t want to feel like the only person on the planet who never finds a home for watch batteries, cool rocks, stick pins, flea combs, miscellaneous straps, directions written in French (I can’t speak French) batman pins, hair clips, buttons in their plastic bag, fifteen pens (five of which do not work) pencil sharpeners, one stinky permanent marker, scissors, a tin of “small things” assorted bits and bobs, and one very useful witches finger.