Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Underestimated: papers

When we planned the kitchen, I underestimated the volume of paper that comes into the room. Coupons, permission slips, birthday cards, reminders and mail hang around for months.

We have a drawer for mail and ipads and notepads as well as a drawer to file important things, but there is no space for work in progress. Like, I will completely forget to take the kids to the ROM if I don't pass these $5 off coupons once or twice or seventy two times a day.

At first I kept up by clipping things to the fridge, and, to be honest, I still do...but I started shoving them behind the light switch too. It's a mess, I'm a mess. I bought this gadet to help (from ebay)...it does the job in style. I am excited and mortified by how much more I can shove behind the switches.

ps. I have a blue plastic 8 1/2 x 11 envelop to store all of my son's papers. School, Sports, Bday party invitations are corralled together. I feel like his personal secretary. Right moms? 
pps. I should log dates into my calendar and toss the rest, but I never use my electronic calendar and I like to double check. What if I entered it wrong? 
ppps. The Light Switch Rack is Hot, but Papers Are Not
pppps. Have you read The Corrections, by Jonathan Franzen? I am reading it now, and it just hit me that I am doing exactly what Enid does in the opening paragraphs of the novel - squirreling away mail and expired coupons into separate caches all over the house.
"The anxiety of coupons, in a drawer containing candles in designer autumn colors. The coupons were bundled in a rubber band, and Enid was realizing that their expiration dates (often jauntily circled in red by the manufacturer) lay months an even years in the past: that these hundred-odd coupons, whose total face value exceeded sixty dollars (potentially one hundred twenty dollars at the Chiltsville supermarket that doubled coupons), had all gone bad. Tilex, sixty cents off. Excedrin PM, a dollar off. The dates were not even close. The dates were historical." 
"Six days a week several pounds of mail came through the slot in the front door, and since nothing incidental was allowed to pile up downstairs - since the fiction of living in this house was that no one lived here- Enid faced a substantial tactical challenge."

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