Monday, February 7, 2011


I think we all know that places we sit in rooms or the sides of the bed we sleep on are territorial.

Think about your family when your kids were little and even farther back to when you were a kid.

Imagine your mother in some sort of rocker with handiwork and father stretched out on the sofa most likely snoozing. Even before television, when TV became the center of the room, the place in the den seemed to be in place.

Now, the stage is set.

We are territorial here. We have our sofa grooves. And we have the tops of said tables covered with personal items and the drawers, if any, are filled with the operator of that spaces treasures.

Yesterday, the cell phone was missing. I don't know how long it had been missing because it is used seldom. I suppose the last time minutes were added. Yet, it was bothersome not to see it laying in the kitchen. To find it, I dialed the number. After several rings, I found it behind my end table wedged between the table and the air purifier.

It was obviously time to clean off the tables.

Take off:
Lamp with the blue tooth ear piece wrapped around the base in a perpetual charge.
Take the glass shade and the hurricane chimney off the lamp and wash it.
Dust the brass with its trillion crevices.

Take the glass out of the end table and wash
Polish the wood
Put lamp back on
and lady bug jewelry holder which acts as a pain pill box

Do the bottom shelf and ask, why is this here?
Emery board
pumice tool
cough drops
dental pick
hand lotion
foot lotion

It is obvious that shelf is an extension of the bathroom. Oh, and the empty coffee can which acts like a waste basket because it fits just right!

I don't remember what is in the drawer except five mouse turds which I vacuumed up.

Now, on the other end table, which I have time to do because the oven is cleaning and won't be done until noon, is another story. And because it is NOT my stuff, I can question WHY IS THIS HERE but I can not discard anything although I can file paperwork regarding the truck being serviced.

It might help to know each of us has a tray, which holds most of the loose stuff. I am also a user of a coffee cup that has been retired for one reason or another.

Tom's drawer holds all remotes except for the TV, which seems to have taken up residence on the arm of the sofa. The drawer also holds the battery operated unit used to take the pills of clothes and the Max scissors--so called because Tom used it to cut the clumps of hair out of the cat. Besides the lamp, which sits higher than mine and throws more light, he has the police scanner. In his tray, which I just finished vacuuming, there are:

Nine units one ties to the fishing line to attach the lures with four, (+or-) inches of string on each.
One grotesquely bent paper clip
One bolt of unknown origin
One red bead
Hand lotion
Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, still in box
Two-30" shoe laces tied together
A mat for can of soda
And a paper bowl

The scary this is, I know why he has the stash he does except for the magic eraser. Every one needs paper and the pen is always in his pocket. The shoe laces, the bent paper clip, the fishing stuff, which includes the red bead, are all part of the fishing duty from the weekend.

But the paper bowl? It is his peanut bowl. Every night, he has some peanuts. He takes them out of the three pound can and put some in the bowl to munch on. He changes the bowl out as he feels necessary.

As for the clasps and swivels for the fishing line, all left after taking all the string off the reels to send in for cleaning. Some of them are open. Am I going to shut them? No. Why? Because there may be some sort of system to him. But for now, I will get the tweezers out of my cup and tease the braided line off the clasp before I put them back where they belong--for now.

It is the territory of the man who sleeps nearest the door. It is the territory of the man who takes his real waste can out and puts it in front of him when he files his nails. Do I do that? No. Why is that?

Maybe I need a new, improved waste can! Maybe I better go wipe down the oven.



No comments: