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October 26, 2023
One Hot Mess
By Mikie Baker
The Bandera Prophet
Growing up, I had a very organized father and a mother who could have been in the season premiere of The Hoarders. I fall somewhere in the middle, but since I’m creative, I know how to make clever stacks of stuff piled up to resemble Greek Statues. Ok, ok. Maybe my stacks are shaped more like foil tin ducks.
But now, I must deal with where to put all my stuff.
So, I’m not Ms. Container Store, but I try and keep things at least “picked up” around the ranch. Now My Future Husband is a pack rat, but because he loves history so much, he says his items are all of “historical significance,” so he’s allowed to keep them. You know, things like the ribbon he won for saving a Lemur’s life in Cub Scouts. Those very important hysterical, I mean, historical possessions. Plus, he only built two closets in the whole house and one of them is a medicine cabinet.
And I can stuff a closet with the best of them. It’s hard to use my talent, though, when there’s no room in this man’s closet. I thought it was women who had all the clothes and myriad shoes. I found myself a rancher, and those boys have more boots than a dozen cats.
Over the last two years, with the Estate Sale Excuse, I’ve managed to make quite a bit of his “historical significance” end up at my house for the sale. Just when I had most of my stuff tucked in here and there, I find the need to bring the final round of every single thing I truly value over to store in his “No extra closet around here, Babe,” ranch.
And it’s getting ugly. There’s enough stereo equipment piled up in the living room now to start a recording studio that can play records and record them on a professional reel-to-reel tape deck. No matter there’s no one left in the universe recording on tape, but still, if the world is about to end and we still have electricity I can keep you entertained with all the hits from the Sixties thru the Eighties.
The bedroom has an assortment of clothes, shoes, purses, and jewelry lying on all the furniture. It’s a sight that no one ever saw coming. The clothes are getting so desperate, they keep yelling, “Hang Me!” The only safe spot is the bed because old people need their rest. Especially when they’re hauling Estate items back and forth.
Everywhere my gaze goes, I find another pile of my Really Important Stuff. But I can’t deal with it because I’m too busy at the other house finding all the rest of my treasures that need to get stuffed somewhere. And I’m the kind of woman who starts to twitch if there’s anything more on the kitchen table other than placemats, napkins plus salt and pepper. I’ve been twitching a lot lately.
The office is the worst disaster because of all those books on comedy I’ve dragged over here. Maybe if I unpack them, I’ll get funny. I guess my point is that since my office and house are both total wrecks, so am I and so is this column. I just pray we have an ice storm soon, so I’ll be forced to stay inside and do something about all my stuff, so I won’t be One Hot Mess anymore.
Now I must attack the stacks of tin foil ducks.
But now, I must deal with where to put all my stuff.
So, I’m not Ms. Container Store, but I try and keep things at least “picked up” around the ranch. Now My Future Husband is a pack rat, but because he loves history so much, he says his items are all of “historical significance,” so he’s allowed to keep them. You know, things like the ribbon he won for saving a Lemur’s life in Cub Scouts. Those very important hysterical, I mean, historical possessions. Plus, he only built two closets in the whole house and one of them is a medicine cabinet.
And I can stuff a closet with the best of them. It’s hard to use my talent, though, when there’s no room in this man’s closet. I thought it was women who had all the clothes and myriad shoes. I found myself a rancher, and those boys have more boots than a dozen cats.
Over the last two years, with the Estate Sale Excuse, I’ve managed to make quite a bit of his “historical significance” end up at my house for the sale. Just when I had most of my stuff tucked in here and there, I find the need to bring the final round of every single thing I truly value over to store in his “No extra closet around here, Babe,” ranch.
And it’s getting ugly. There’s enough stereo equipment piled up in the living room now to start a recording studio that can play records and record them on a professional reel-to-reel tape deck. No matter there’s no one left in the universe recording on tape, but still, if the world is about to end and we still have electricity I can keep you entertained with all the hits from the Sixties thru the Eighties.
The bedroom has an assortment of clothes, shoes, purses, and jewelry lying on all the furniture. It’s a sight that no one ever saw coming. The clothes are getting so desperate, they keep yelling, “Hang Me!” The only safe spot is the bed because old people need their rest. Especially when they’re hauling Estate items back and forth.
Everywhere my gaze goes, I find another pile of my Really Important Stuff. But I can’t deal with it because I’m too busy at the other house finding all the rest of my treasures that need to get stuffed somewhere. And I’m the kind of woman who starts to twitch if there’s anything more on the kitchen table other than placemats, napkins plus salt and pepper. I’ve been twitching a lot lately.
The office is the worst disaster because of all those books on comedy I’ve dragged over here. Maybe if I unpack them, I’ll get funny. I guess my point is that since my office and house are both total wrecks, so am I and so is this column. I just pray we have an ice storm soon, so I’ll be forced to stay inside and do something about all my stuff, so I won’t be One Hot Mess anymore.
Now I must attack the stacks of tin foil ducks.