My room is clean.This is such a rare vision, you really have no idea.
Technically, technically, there are two laundry baskets and one storage tub on the floor, but they are tucked against the dresser so as not to take up space or disrupt the peace.
My hats, scarves, and purse are hung. The toiletries are in drawers. The bathroom trash is collected. All clothes are on hangers or in the hamper. The bed is made. A picture from Namibia is freshly framed and bonding with my jewelry on the dresser. A throw blanket (and I am particularly proud of this piece) is draped in an oh-so-modern-decorator-show manner over my reading lounge chair (even though I usually read in bed rather than the chair, but it's all about aesthetics). My stack of NY Times is on the ottoman of aforementioned chair, at a decorative angle, not quite symmetrical with the ottoman itself. The bookshelves--the bookshelves are what sparked this whole thing into motion--are organized, somewhat; photo albums are grouped with photo albums, yearbooks with yearbooks. There are things tucked in places that don't exactly make sense. I put a boy's phone number in a top drawer that I will forget about and find when he is already married to someone else, but if that is the price to pay for a clean room for 24 hours, then...well, I guess I'll take it.
So currently I am taking a deep breath of calm air and letting it out slowly (which is appropriate, because Waiting to Exhale just happened to be on TV this evening).
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