But there IS still me, myself and I! All three of us are like dervishes with a consumer fetish. I have an endless dyslexic reading habit, leaving small piles of magazines, bits of mail, brochures and maps, to-do lists and various books (even with the Kindle) upon coffee and bedside tables and counters. The piles grow in height until they start to lean, then slide and then in gay abandon tumble to the floor in a loose fan of spontaneity. You are about to enter the dark world of Tabor, which guests never see!
My camouflage jacket will hang carelessly over the bannister until warm weather prevents me from using it at all.
My huge, it IS huge, walk-in closet becomes a repository for a small pile of garden garb worn just that morning that is not dirty enough to put into the laundry but it is still too dirty to put away. (This habit is a hangover from living on a farm where one saved work clothes for just a while longer.) My closet also has the overnight bag, from a recent visit to my daughter's, that I have not yet unpacked, sitting in the middle of the floor. Then there is the exercise apparel draped over a chair that sometime in this century I will wear once again for a brief session in the basement in my attempt to remain forever young.
My box of purses sits on the floor under other containers just to the side since the transition to spring causes me to go through a series of selections of ugly bags before I finally settle on something to get me through the summer. None of these are designer items, and therefore, they are really ugly. (Not to say that designer bags are always lovely, and not to say that with courage I could throw half of these purses away and never miss them.)
The kitchen always needs tidying up, but we actually eat at home, so that is and always will be a normal endless task.
The garage has a fertility corner where pots reproduce like rabbits and garden tools form a tangled clutter like wall flowers at a Sadie Hawkins dance. I restack them once again. For some reason, long after fall has retreated, dried leaves tuck themselves everywhere and must be swept out monthly. Various plant stakes and wire supports tend to lean away from the wall where they have been carefully hung to grab me with devilish glee as I unload groceries, so on a monthly basis I tuck them flat again and again.
And, one of these days, I will remember to get at all those cobwebs that weave and wave on all the hanging light fixtures hanging nine feet above my head and which I only notice five minutes before company arrives.
Bring on the rain. Rainy days never ever get me down. I am too wicked, and anyway, there is no rest for people like me.