I’ve heard it said that your desk, and the clutter or lack thereof may reflect the way you work and the way you think.
As I currently sit here typing I’m looking at a soft toy dog, a Quad Copter, boxing wrist straps, a cloth wine gift bag from my book launch 2 MONTHS AGO, a silk scarf, two note pads, 5 million Woolworths animal cards that I never put into an album, various pieces of unopened mail probably not containing love letters, a parking fine and some paw paw cream…. and an empty coffee cup.
Sometimes people ask me how I manage to do everything I do.
The answer is simple.
When most stay at home parents clean, I do more fun stuff.
The result is this blog, and a less than pristine house.
I’m fairly ok with the concept that the inside of my head is a tad on the unruly end of the spectrum and I’ll never suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder.
I do have a tidy desk in a tidy office but the second I sit in said office my offspring take it as a sign to pull everything out of the kitchen drawers, chase each other with crab crackers and metal skewers and go hand skating on my CD collection.
BS, Before Sproglets, I was never fanatical about my car interior, but I never had extraneous stuff or rubbish in my car either.
That said, I also NEVER had dried yoghurt sprays up interior car doors, seats or windows, fossilised apple cores, sand enough to bank up New Orleans should they require again, odd socks, random toys missing limbs and petrified rice crackers.
What if the state of your car interior is indicative of your soul?
I’m stuffed. Frankly.
Let’s just face it.
In my defence, my little driver’s area is actually really rather neat.
Perhaps there’s an area of my soul that’s not in danger of immortal peril.
My personal space in the car has small amount of sand. A dried up, vaguely cheesy wet wipe in the console (I tried to sort that yoghurt problem but I was driving), an eaten pear core (not mine, handed to me whilst driving yesterday and on exiting the car my hands were already full), otherwise not too bad, in the grand scheme of car filth. I’ve seen way worse.
But, really, what if it is representative of a part of my psyche???
Shudder to think.
While I’m on the subject, I may as well confess to the state of the children’s seats.
Do you allow your children to eat in the car?
I do, and when my children are finished with those chairs I will not be putting them on eBay. I will be giving them to the science department of the university to run tests on.
There is a microcosmos going down in the cracks of those chairs that consists largely of crumbs, squashed sultanas and bum sweat.
I wish I could find the ideal car food for them but I’m still searching.
It’s not banana. No way.
That gack gets squished everywhere and by the time the mercury hits 35C my car reeks like a gorilla’s yawn.
It’s also certainly not muffins, crackers, sandwiches, or anything that may crumb because by the time my tiny beasts are done with it the morsels left in the chair cracks are enough to feed a sponsor child.
I regularly think about cleaning the car out.
I think about it hard…. but when it comes to getting the extension cord and the vacuum cleaner and, and, and….. the thought makes me need to have a cup of tea.
Or bottle of wine.
I know you’re thinking why not a car wash?
Love, love, love the idea but then I’m stuck sitting there with toddlers while they detail my car for a million dollars.
Maybe I should simply start driving Mister H’s nice tidy car more often because no matter how hot it gets it never smells like cheesy banana.
In fact, it’s so beautifully clean that sometimes I just want to sit in there in the late afternoon, lock the doors, turn up Triple J and leave the kids to the witching hour.
To be honest, a large part of me thinks perhaps it would be easier if I just firebomb the family wagon, get myself a cheeky car loan and buy that Mustang I’ve always fancied myself driving.
Can you get baby seats in a ‘Stang?
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