How NOT To Organize Your Boyfriend's Apartment

say no to clutter

Clutter makes me panicky.

Before we begin, let’s get a few facts straight, shall we? Clutter makes me panicky. Things like old envelopes, tickets, receipts, shoe boxes full of…nothing? I have a physical aversion. (An unmade bed? Sure. A sink with a few dishes? No problem. But a counter that has thingamabobs on it? Kill me softly.) To quote The Little Mermaid, "Look at this stuff? Isn't it neat?" NO, IT IS NOT NEAT. Pen caps, free coupon mailers, and business cards are the act of Satan and that is a certain, unalienable truth that cannot be argued.

Moving on.

The Bear is on nightshift this week (kill me loudly), which means we’re on totally opposite schedules. His days are long and sunlight is his enemy. So, to be a nice girlfriend, I decided that I would offer to organize what I lovingly refer to as The Closet 'O' Death. (Not Closet Of, Closet 'O' – it’s more carnival-esque that way, like we're about to buckle ourselves into a log flume.) For quite some time, it's been unclear to me what sort of "things" live and lurk in said Closet 'O' Death – at various moments, I've seen paint cans, baby powder, and a Russian fur hat — and for the most part, I've kept out of it. None of my business. Until The Bear agreed that he'd appreciate my help organizing — with the caveat that I wouldn't throw anything out without his pre-approval. Fair enough. [Confession: I did make the executive decision on an old stained carpet, a heinous striped man tank top, and a half-used roll of black rape tape — that IS what that stuff's called, right?]

But let me interject to share something else you should know about me: When I start a project, I am laser-focused. Like a hawk. If a hawk had whiskers and purred. I love to get sh*t done like nobody likes to get sh*t done. So as you can surmise, I quickly made my way through that closet like a rabid wildebeest, hastily moving all of The Bear's "treasures" to the center of the room for him to eventually sift through.

Well, I finished the closet in 10 minutes flat and felt like I had just finished a solid warm-up lap around the good ole highschool track. (That analogy is a lie; I'm good for a brisk walk at best.) Naturally, I decided to continue my apartment purge by moving on to any and all other surfaces I could get my greedy paws on. I licked that place CLEAN.

I felt so proud. Angie, you helpful, little hawk-kitten, you! I'd worked up a good sweat, ridded a bunch of junk, and discovered a ton of available space that had previously been covered by trophies and half-empty Kleenex boxes. SUCCESS was mine.

Success, that is, until I looked toward the pile of rubble that had been slowly accumulating in the center of the room.

How had it gotten so…voluminous? I gulped. This won't end well, I thought.

I'll refrain from sharing the choice words The Bear expressed to me the following day – it was really more of an overtired growl that slowly built as his blurry surroundings came into focus.

So uh, we're digging out. On the upside, the purple velour tracksuit is being donated to Goodwill, so if there's a real winner here, it's me.

To read more of Angie, visit her blog

This article was originally published at Angiecat. Reprinted with permission from the author.


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