SWB on Disorganisation

I am chronically disorganised and trying to find anything amongst the chaos of my home is a nightmare. Since nothing has a place, it can take an age to find everyday household objects. Nail scissors which have been set out of the reach of small children can vanish for weeks. Most people would have a drawer for those, right? Nope, not us. Same goes for hairbrushes. That can put strain on leaving the house in the morning. Then well-meaning relatives buy us duplicates, so we always ‘have one to hand’ but they just get fired into the toy box or back of the drawer as well. This simply means that our storage options overflow with shit and still doesn’t make it easier to locate anything. Anyway, I found a couple of websites which have helped. I have to acknowledge that actually, I can have a nice space and a tidy home, and if I get my shit together and clear up a bit, maybe even designate a place for things, then life will run more smoothly. I realize that for most people this is just an everyday occurrence, but as you may have picked on, I am neither ‘normal’ nor have an abundance of common sense.

 

Why SWB?

I’ve always been a bit of a grump, even as a small child. My mother reports one of my first words as being ‘annoy’ and my granddad used to remark ‘Here she comes, full of complaints’ as I trotted home from a play-date, face like thunder. It was thus only a matter of time before someone pulled me on my perpetual crossness, and this occurred late one Saturday evening, when queuing outside a Spar on Botanic Avenue. It had been an exhausting shift in Acapulco restaurant and I was tired and forlorn. A reveller popping out of the Empire for a few cigarettes innocently asked ‘why the long face’ and was crushed by my curt response. Well, he huffed, “You’re a Sour Wee Bastard, aren’t you?” I rang my mum the next day, and naturally enough, complained about being insulted. Instead of the expected sympathetic response, she almost punctured a lung laughing. “He couldn’t have got it more right!’ she managed as the spasms subsided, and I’ve been known as SWB ever since.

Excessive Doing. A Rant

We justify our existence by being excessively busy, and regaling others of how we fill our time with our exceedingly important tasks. Endless To Do lists prevail, whether these be in the home or at work; let’s face it, usually both. I sometimes have lists and sub categories in my To Do Lists. A wise Chaplain pointed out to me once the importance of BEING, as opposed to doing, all the time. I suppose the clue is in the name, we are human BEINGS after all. This obviously does not mean that we sit around contemplating our navels all day, but that we allow ourselves some down time and reflection.

At other times though I can be chronically inert; not through laziness but by a crippling self-doubt which emerges, gremlin like, snidely suggesting that I needn’t bother trying at all, since I’ll probably make a haims of it anyway. This actually has the opposite effect of not doing anything because of the horrible negative energy, which renders one miserable.

One answer may be to concentrate on one area at a time, and try to do a decent enough job, as opposed to doing 3 things badly. I would be guilty of the latter, frequently not bringing my A-game to the job at hand, because I’m making a shambles while I multi-task. The result is being late, burning dinners, failing to proof-read and publishing crap, the usual pitfalls of busyness. So maybe we do a couple of things on our lists well, and take gratification for a job well done, and then allow ourselves to relax properly later. Preferably with wine.

Things to alleviate the gloom

Burning an Orla Kiely candle in Sicilian Lemon. This eradicates the cooking odours (and any other foulness needing dealt with), and reminds one of holidays, with citronella on the go, to banish mosquitoes. At least we don’t have those in Ireland yet. Still, give global warming time….

Popping Radio 6 Music on- even as I type they’re perking me up with a bit of calypso, courtesy of Iggy Popp. (Fire in me Wire by Calypso Rose).

Terms to help decipher the madness

The following acronyms will appear to describe the nearest and dearest, or those in the blast radius of SWB.

LSB- Long suffering bastard- significant other of SWB

DWF- Delicate wee flower – eldest child who is somewhat sensitive

FJ- Father Jack- Child number two who is anything but

WOE- The Wise Old Elf- Father of SWB

AAI- Almost Always Irked. Mother of SWB- the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree

Things that make SWB fume

  • The inability of her children to sit, in a seat, without falling off. Why is this such a challenge? There is usually food involved, which ends up mushed into floor. FFS.

messy-baby-alamy

  • Household appliances designed by idiots. Both my tumble-drier and washing machine scream at me when they are finished a cycle. The washing machine in particular emits a piercing beep at 30 second intervals until switched off. (It’s a Bosch BTW. Boycott the feckers). SWB is of the opinion that they are designed by misogynists who believe that a woman’s arse should not touch a seat if they are at home, and thus seek to torment them with noise making devices. Bastards. I am aware of course that many men do stay at home, but as yet their numbers are greatly fewer than their female counterparts. LSB appears to have a noise filter, and washing machine beeps did not used to get through. Now, lest it rouse the beast which is SWB when irritated, he leaps over kitchen chairs to drone out the din.

bosch-washing-machine

  • Donald Trump, obviously. This is all that needs to be said on the matter, other than to say that there was a Scottish woman wearing a placard which sums up SWB’s thoughts on the matter quite succinctly.