Tuesday, April 11, 2006
The blog entry without a clever title.
Many years ago when Counselor Shelley was in grad school, she had an interesting assignment. She had to draw her family as animals. (Gee, grad school sounds a lot like kindergarten sometimes.)
Remember, Shelley’s undergraduate degree is in Art. While the rest of her classmates pulled out notebook paper with stick-figure animals scrawled on it, Shelley’s was drawn by colored pencils on high-quality paper. Even more importantly, her animal family actually looked like animals.
Her hubby (a lawyer) became a shark. Her mom, a peacock. Her pregnant little sister was a kangaroo with a joey in her pouch. Shelley herself was a flamingo, and her stepfather was an owl. (Yes, these are all good choices—I’ll let you speculate as to why.)
Me? Shelley drew me as a sheep dog. Why? Well, because I’m always trying to organize everyone and everything. Instead of barking, I’m the one clapping my hands shouting, “Work WITH me, people!”
Kimberly, the sheep dog. (Keep the dog jokes to yourself, okay?)
Shelley’s not the only one who sees my sheep dog tendencies. The Playfriends seem to think I’m uber-organized for some reason as well.
Well, sorta. I’m schizophrenically organized. My office supplies are in sorted into clear plastic shoeboxes, contents listed clearly on white labels. My desk looks like a disorganized teenager dumped the contents of a backpack on to it—candy wrappers and all. All the events I’m planning have their own multi-sectioned, top-punched folders. Other small projects are in manila folders. All folders live in a Lucite hanging file organizer. But I’ve lost my checkbook four times in the past two weeks.
Ask me where my keys are this moment. Not a stinkin’ clue. Downstairs, somewhere. Probably close to my purse—wherever I left that. Ask me where the warranty information for the iron is. Third drawer of the filing cabinet, in the folder labeled “small appliances.” (No, I didn’t even have to go check.)
My watch hasn’t shown the correct date in five years. My shoes live in a giant pile on the floor of my closet (Amazing Child and I play a fun game—I find one of the shoes I want to wear, then she goes and digs for the other. I’m sure that’s teaching her some kind of important science skill.) But my CDs are in alphabetical order, and all the love letters Darling Geek wrote me while we were dating are in the top drawer of the file cabinet in their own folder.
I can organize luncheons, workshops, conferences—you name it. One time, I organized a conference at a rural state park 45 minutes outside the city and managed to get 200 people with limited English skills out there and back. Yet I forgot to invite one of the Playground’s favorite people to PM’s birthday party on Saturday (sorry Sabe!).
The Playfriends tease me about my lists. But I’d be lost without them (hence the invitation omission last week). They are the only hope I have of organizing myself. And I live with the hope of one day being truly organized—my inner sheep dog nipping at my heels instead of someone else’s.
Don’t ask me why some things are organized in my life and others aren’t. It’s not a matter of relative importance or anything. It’s just a quirk of mine. Am I the only one who has this schizophrenic nature when it comes things? Please tell me I’m not alone.
And before you make too much fun of me, let me ask you: Where is the warranty information on YOUR iron?
Hmmm, that’s what I thought.