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madrobinsI have been slowly digging out/boxing up all the stuff upstairs in Sarcasm Girl's room. Because she and The Beau are coming over tomorrow night I realized that I had to at least organize things a bit so that they could, like, find the bed and stuff. I'm not throwing out much beyond scraps of paper and old dried up used cosmetics that I suspect are cooking major bacteria, just boxing up the books and papers and the vast quantity of tschotskes she has collected over the years. The Livestock™ (calling them stuffed animals is a heresy of the deepest dye) are all in bags, consorting with each other and discussing Auld Lang Syne. And I've noticed a couple of things.
1) The girl threw nothing out. It's not as bad as those people who save forty years of cat-piss soaked newspapers or microwave dinner dishes or something, but editing through stuff is not her forte. And while, when I've worked for other people, I've been remarkably clear-eyed about what to toss and what to keep, I veer away from exercising such judgment on the kid's stuff because she's...the kid. So it will wait for her.
2) Over the years the girl has been given bunches and bunches of diaries. I did not read anything, just boxed them up, but I do wonder how many of them have, in fact, been written in. I only ponder because I never kept a journal as a kid--or would write two pages and then never remember to go back (so of course I became a writer. Go figure).
3) It is hot as hell upstairs. I came downstairs dripping like a wrung sponge. The dog seemed to think this was delicious.
1) The girl threw nothing out. It's not as bad as those people who save forty years of cat-piss soaked newspapers or microwave dinner dishes or something, but editing through stuff is not her forte. And while, when I've worked for other people, I've been remarkably clear-eyed about what to toss and what to keep, I veer away from exercising such judgment on the kid's stuff because she's...the kid. So it will wait for her.
2) Over the years the girl has been given bunches and bunches of diaries. I did not read anything, just boxed them up, but I do wonder how many of them have, in fact, been written in. I only ponder because I never kept a journal as a kid--or would write two pages and then never remember to go back (so of course I became a writer. Go figure).
3) It is hot as hell upstairs. I came downstairs dripping like a wrung sponge. The dog seemed to think this was delicious.