Why Did I Do That?

My house has been looking pretty good lately. I've got the clutter to a minimum -- even in the dreaded second bedroom. (I do need to go through my books and get rid of some again ... but that's another story, and possibly a whole nother blog.)

But there is one big project that I've been needing to tackle for a long time: the cellar.

(Cue scary music here.)

The cellar is where I stash the stuff I don't have time to get rid of -- or even time to figure out what the heck I'm going to do with it. Like my broken blender and Damon's old shoes and a futon cover I've had since I was twelve years old. I don't even own a futon anymore!

The cellar is where the bins full of papers and magazines and god-only-knows-what-else from my college years lives.

The cellar is also where a lot of my graduate-student information is, apparently, buried. Because it's not in the second bedroom.

So today, I set my handy-dandy timer for fifteen minutes and made to tackle the cellar.

And the one thought I kept having, over and over again, was, "Why the hell did I even keep this to begin with?"

Why did I move it out to Colorado with me in the first place? That is the question. Do I really need my folder from the first journalism class I ever took -- the one I had to pass to get into the J-school? (No.) Do I really need all of these back issues of Vox, that I just tossed into a bin, that are all tattered and folded funny and ... and ... hell. If I need any of those old articles, they're online. And I have more recent material from a better job that is a better indicator of what I can do.

Sheesh!

Here are some of the other random things I found:

* A Josh Groban CD. (You know I did not buy this. His record company sent it to me in 2003 -- 2003! -- and I never even opened it. But I still have it.)

* About a dozen pairs of cheap sunglasses from Spencer Gifts that my old manager gave me when they were phasing out those styles. None of which I will wear.

* Every freaking issue of Jane magazine that I ever bought or was sent to my house. (I'm keeping those -- Jane is out of print; it's the only women's magazine I ever subscribed to [except for Glamour, which doesn't count; they started sending me Glamour when Jane folded]) .

* Every freaking issue of The New Yorker that I was ever sent. (These are going to recycling.) Between the New Yorker and Jane, those two periodicals filled up an entire (big) plastic bin.

* An empty box for a Crock Pot that I no longer own; I gave it away.

* A handwritten letter from my dad, dated March 26, but no year. (I'm keeping it. Duh.)

* A mini stuffed Bert doll from Sesame Street.

* A bill that I wrote a check for and stamped but never actually mailed.

* Some old birthday cards -- one from when I was seventeen years old. I could buy a birthday card for that birthday card; it will be eleven in February.

Why? Why do I have all this old crap? Some of it, granted, isn't crap ... but it needs to be organized and accessible so I can enjoy it instead of stuffing it down in the cellar and forgetting about it.

It's almost time for another fifteen minutes in the cellar. That could be a good name for a horror movie. Especially if it actually took place in my cellar ... there are mouse droppings everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and where there aren't mouse droppings, there are cobwebs. Lots of big cobwebs. I was only down there for fifteen minutes, as stated earlier, and I still feel like I should be combing spiders out of my hair.

If I do at least fifteen minutes down there every day, I bet by April (at the latest!) I will have that cellar organized. I'll keep you posted on other random things I find; I'm sure there will be plenty.