Happy frickin’ Memorial Day. I hope that you’re all having a good one. Mine started this way: I slept far too late into the day, woke up groggy and badly in need of coffee and breakfast, and discovered that while I was being a sloth, Sticks and his father were busy little bees.
If their industry had been pointed toward clearing out the crap in our living room and dining room that has no relationship to living and/or dining, I’d have been happy. But as I was soon to discover, their energies were directed into far more annoying endeavors.
T: “If we clean the area under the stairs we can make it work.”
Sticks: “We’ll have to find a way to move the TV out of the way without lifting it.”
T: “A new TV stand would solve that.”
Me: “Solve WHAT, and where’s the coffee, and what are you up to?”
From there, I discovered that a new drumset was in our future: a second drumset. A fine, beautiful DW drumset, the Ferrari of drums.
T: “There are only two days a year where these sets are on sale. Today is one of them. He needs two drumsets — one for practice and one for performance, so he doesn’t have to keep lugging everything upstairs and back again every time he performs.”
Me: “What he NEEDS is to clean the crap out of his room and the downstairs first.”
T: “Yes, but that can be done any time.”
Me: “Do I have any say in this decision?”
T: “Not really.”
As I write, they are on their way to pick up the lovely new drum set, Tobacco finish, all hardware and special signature snare included.
I love the fact that Sticks is such a good drummer. I love the fact that he’s got opportunities to play with great musicians. I love the fact that he’s passionate about it. I have to really rein myself in from being a puffed-up-proudy-mom all the time.
But I do not love the fact that our lives and our living space are so consumed with it. I am neither a neat freak nor a student of interior design, but that doesn’t mean that I like living in clutter and chaos all the time either. Honestly, I have neither the time nor the desire to be one of these people who is constantly ragging on the kids and husband to pick up after themselves, to keep their rooms clean, to make their beds, to clean the house.
On the other hand, we live in a 1400 square foot townhouse. Between T’s recording studio equipment, Sticks’ drums, our computers, and dance practice areas, there isn’t one extra inch of space. If we were organized people, we could probably do a much better job of managing this 1400 square foot space, but we aren’t. And because one or both of us spend so much time on the road or in the process of getting on the road with one of the kids, there is a tendency for everyone to unload stuff and then leave it.
Paying for it? (DW drumsets do not come cheap) Well, Sticks has a wonderful benefactor in his aunt J, who is amazingly supportive of his efforts and has offered to pay for the whole thing as an early birthday/Christmas present.
I feel ambushed. Earlier this week Sticks had been dreaming over a DW drumset and I had sternly told him I wouldn’t even consider one until the house was under control. T was there at the time, too. Yet nothing I said made a damn bit of difference. They both just went ahead and did it, damn the torpedos and figure out the consequences later. Impulsive? You betcha.
I want to tie them both up in one of our cluttered bathrooms (their libraries) for about an hour so they can get a sense of how claustrophobic, hemmed in and angry I feel right now.
Here was the parting shot:
Me: “Don’t you think you should’ve discussed this with me first? Shouldn’t I have a say?”
T: “If you’re not making a financial contribution to it, no.”
Like I said, damn the torpedos, full speed ahead. First shot off the bow was a direct hit.
Don’t suggest FlyLady to me, please. I tried it, couldn’t make it work for me. LifeHacker wasn’t helpful either. I think at this point what we need is a bulldozer, but if anyone has some incredibly effective organizational suggestion for zillions of books, CDs, DVDs and assorted junk cluttering the house, please post ‘em in the comments.
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