Sheepish, I shrugged and said, "Oh well."
Yes, I've always been the master of comebacks.
Once upon a time, I emulated my mother. I arose every Saturday morning, did my grocery shopping, and proceeded to give the place a thorough going-over. I spent several hours vacuuming, scrubbing and dusting. I kept up this ritual for years.
Enter husband #2, a beautiful Saturday in Virginia, and his insistence that the dust would be there long after we had left this earth. And if we didn't get out there and enjoy the day, we'd regret it.
Admittedly, it didn't take much convincing on his part.
Over the years, I've cared less and less. The kitchen is a priority. And the bathroom. But the dust bunnies I don't worry so much about.
In a world far, far away I also used to care about the clutter. It didn't accumulate the way it seems to these days. That's what I thought, anyhow, until I pulled out an old photo of my desk from J.B. Robinson days circa 1986 and saw the papers piled all over it. I guess I'll never be labeled a neatnik. Oh well.
Fortunately, from time to time, Mr. Ginley tires of the clutter and ruthlessly plows through piles of stuff, tossing and filing and organizing.
"Do you really need all these receipts? Look at this one! It's for lunch at Piada six months ago. Are you planning on returning that meal?"
But then, He is the master of pamphlets. Whenever we go on a trip, he returns with a pile of pamphlets about places we will probably never visit. He often endures the stares of the Visitor Center Nazis as he clears out their stock.
But I digress. If digression were an Olympic sport, I'd win the gold every time.
I'm sure there is a balance between being a slob and being obsessively clean and tidy. That state of grace is unlikely to find me in this lifetime.
Sometimes I imagine how my mom would react to all of the chachkas that have appeared around our home in the last few years.
I only wish she could be here now to give me "that look."
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