The piles of STUFF in the study have been discussed and explored in great depth (ouch). The treatment for study piles, you'll be pleased to know, is underway.
The terribly disturbing thing, however, is that since I have been carefully addressing the study's very sensitive issues, this evil disease has spread, silently through the rest of my house. It would seem that if I take my attention off any open surface for a short space of time (say an afternoon, for instance), the next thing I know, that surface has contracted a nasty case of piles.
There are piles in the KITCHEN. Piles in the LOUNGE. Piles in the GARDEN. Piles in each BEDROOM. And in the PLAYROOM, the piles have piles.
We're talking a really BIG pain in the butt here.
These vulgar irregularities in my home's profile are insiduous. They creep up on me, subtley establishing themselves on any shelf, counter or table-top. It is getting so bad, in fact, that I may have to warn visitors not to sit still for long periods of time for fear of acquiring lap-piles.
Just this morning I discovered, much to my dismay, a new pile on top of the gas heater. The placing of this particular pile does not come as a complete surprise as the appliance has not been in use for the whole summer, and this makes it sort of inconspicuous, fading into the background. And this makes those piles that much sneakier. To lodge themselves on a neatly forgotten spot is really underhanded.
From piles of toys, to piles of documents; piles of washing, to piles of ironing (usually, I've noticed, the one form mutates into the other, and then back again - I have realised that this is possibly the hardest form of piles to get rid of); piles of dishes, to piles of shoes; piles of couch cushions (child generated), to piles of magazine clippings (also child generated); piles of My Little Ponies (ditto), to piles of Disney DVDs (which I won't, for personal reasons, complain about too loudly); piles of garden refuse to piles of plastic bags (I never seem to remember my big green earth shopping bags when I head off to the store); piles of recycled gift wrap to (and, this is the most recent version of piles in my domicile) piles of easter eggs.
What is a housewife to do? (Sticking my hands in my hair didn't seem to help. Neither did growling at any pile or pile-placer.)
Right now I would give a left pinkie, and possibly flash a butt-cheek for a nifty little laser beam to shrink these overwhelming piles into a neat little heap that can be tossed in a box and shoved under a bed. It would be awesome to be able to eradicate my serious pile problem with one quick session with a laser-beam. If I had a way of shrinky-dinking household piles, I could become one super-wealthy super-hero in one quick little blast of my hairdryer. I would embroider a tiny red H on all my underwear and carry my pocket size laser-beam in my (not crammed to overflowing) handbag. My distress signal would be a bountiful, yet gorgeously curvaceous, buttock-profile shone on grey storm clouds. And anyone rescued by my magnificent little shrink-ray would wake up the next morning to find a little red H tattooed on their flank.
It would be fantastic!
But for now, I hold my breath, take a pain killer, smear myself with local anaesthetic and ease myself (gently) into the tedious, and definitely painful task of tidying up after another day.
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