We looked at a house recently.

My main concern was that it had too many rooms.

I know.  I can’t believe I said that either.  As someone with an unhealthy love of closeable doors, I used to assume that additional rooms would solve ever-so-many of my problems.

The room I had envisioned (from the internet description) as my “Project Room” had two doors and was actually a passageway to the upstairs Bonus Room.

It kind of defeats the Project Room Purpose if you have to keep it neat and orderly so people can pass through.

As I obsessed over the Project Room concept, I realized the main task I envisioned myself doing in this fictional space was the Seasonal Clothing Changeover.

Really . . . that’s not a project.  It’s a day’s task that I rarely finish in a day.

That task/project is also a common thread in my Master Bedroom Disaster Dramas.  I won’t, but I’m pretty sure I could go through my various posts about that bedroom and find that most of them revolve around me finally putting away the suitcase that is supposed to store out-of-season clothing.

The suitcase that sometimes stays in the middle of the floor until it’s time to change to the next season.

Here’s the thing.  What I’ve been thinking of as a Project Room is really a Waiting Room.  My ideal home has a Waiting Room.  A room with no other purpose than to hold unfinished projects.

A room that no one but me would ever need to enter or walk through or see.

Ever.

Never ever.

Bear with me, because here’s where it gets confusing.

Even though on paper this house was my ideal home because it had the Waiting Room I’ve always dreamed of, when I saw that the waiting room wouldn’t work, I realized I preferred it didn’t have that room at all.

I’d rather have a bigger living room.

LIVING room.

Hmmm.  Living . . . vs Waiting.

And then it hit me.  I use my master bedroom as a waiting room.

Yesterday I did the Seasonal Clothing Changeover.  Because I had recently had this rather profound realization, I consciously made the decision to work inside my closet.  From the spot where the suitcase is stored.  I did not drag it to the middle of the master bedroom.

And guess what?  I’m done.  Already!  And I really believe that NOT having a good place to leave it until I can get back to it has something to do with that.

After all the work I did on the master bedroom a few weeks ago, I have thoroughly enjoyed being able to LIVE in that room.

Living is so much more fun than waiting.

Really.  It is. 

The lovely Lenetta used to often remind me that clutter is made up of “unmade decisions.”

So true.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about pre-made decisions.

What things can I decide ahead of time will be pitched in the trash?

Well, for one . . . pantyhose with big ol’ runs in them.

I just tossed those pantyhose in the picture above.  I rarely get runs in my pantyhose for the simple reason that . . . I rarely wear pantyhose.

After wearing those yesterday, there was a big hole in them.  And yet . . . a feeling of panic rippled through my chest as I threw them in the trash.

I know that I won’t think about my need for pantyhose until 5 minutes before the next time I need to walk out the door wearing them.  So, for some reason . . . that makes me want to keep them.

Keeping them would soothe my slob brain just enough that I wouldn’t worry about not having ANY pantyhose.

Until the moment when I put them on and realize they have a hole.  The moment when (re)discovering a run would be a most annoying thing.

Maybe . . . maybe . . . the nagging knowledge that I do not own any pantyhose at all will cause enough mental discomfort that I’ll think to get some before the next time I need them.

Maybe?

I knew we had too many mugs.

I knew most of them came into our home through Hubby.

Some were gifts from work.  Some were from his (many) bachelor years.

I’ve always known that I have issues.

But I don’t think I realized Hubby has them too . . . until about a month ago.

At a Christmas party gag gift exchange, he chose this gift.

Not as a wrapped, who-knows-what-it-is-let’s-get-crazy-and-take-a-chance choice.

He stole it.  Like . . . someone else opened it and he saw it and he wanted it.  Enough to steal it.

No, your eyes are not deceiving you.  That is a cow.  A cow inside a mug.

No, you’re not un-cool and out of the loop.  Cows inside mugs isn’t a new trend.

Yes, you’re right.  It’s a totally stupid mug.

Perfect for a GAG GIFT!!!!

This morning, when hubby drank out of it, he decided that (even though he had tried to deny it before) coffee in a Stupid Cow Mug has a “whang” to it.

Evidently, it’s difficult to properly seal a ceramic cow that’s sitting inside of a mug.

Who knew?

Gleefully, I threw it in the trash.

Note: I love hubby and can totally accept his Mug Issues since he kindly accepts my Many Assorted Issues.  He knows I wrote this and doesn’t mind because he loves when he is the subject of my posts.