Last week I wrote about water being a problem over the winter, but this week I will write about paper — it just keeps coming, and piling up, until I am ready to scream, or maybe even clean.
It seems whenever I go to the mailbox, it is filled with paper. The paper that arrives therein are either bills, address labels or newspapers. On the rare occasion, a check will arrive.
The bills go into a basket; the to-be-paid when money arrives in my checking account gets taken care of twice a month. Making things stretch seems to be getting more difficult as time goes by.
The address labels are a problem. I have address labels from last summer, last Christmas and several Christmases prior to last year. I have fall ones, winter ones and now there are spring labels. Pick a season, it is sure to have my name and address on a label.
Don’t get me wrong, they come in handy, but how many letters does a person mail? Not as many as they think I do. It is a rare day that I don’t have one or more sets of address labels in my mailbox.
I throw some out, the addresses are wrong, or my name is not spelled right. Of course, farmer husband gets address labels, as well as phone calls. What is more, I still get farm magazines, and people call here trying to sell me supplies for my farm. Come on, people. I don’t have a farm, and much to my sadness, farmer husband is no longer here.
Newspapers and shopping fliers are looked at, and put aside or recycled as the need arises. Those are easy to deal with, but those address labels just keep piling up, along with all of the note pads, greeting cards and pens.
Right now, as I look at my dining room table, one corner is filled with tax items. I am waiting to get my tax report back, so I can file them all together in one place. Another corner holds address labels, so they will be at hand whenever I need one. Another corner has odds and ends of mail that hasn’t managed to find the right place to be while waiting for something to be done with it.
Of course, there are also pictures that I plan to send places, as soon as I get time to sit down and write some letters. Finally, one little part of the table is where I eat my meals. It is working OK for the time being, but if I ever get company, then it all has to go somewhere.
My counter top between the kitchen and the dining room isn’t any better. Since I am working on a wedding quilt upstairs, it contains my cutting mat, several cutting utensils and a portable ironing board.
The bedrooms are in some disarray, as I have been cleaning closets. Then there is the office, which I would rather not think about. I often wondered what possessed me to even want an office, with a built-in desk that takes up two walls. The paper piles in here are beyond what anyone could imagine; however, I kind of know where things are, and if I clean it, I won’t be able to find anything.
At least that is what I keep telling myself.
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