Works Well With Direction

I'm a hard worker. Really, I am. When I got custody of my younger son at age 14, I worked a full-time and two part-time jobs while in law school to provide for him adequately and appropriately. Ten years earlier, when first separated from his father, I worked full time for one of the United States senators from Florida. Four evenings a week I would play for Happy Hour at a hotel overlooking Lake Eola in Orlando. Three nights a week, I would play in a trio with a female vocalist and bass player in a restaurant on Park Avenue in Winter Park. I know how to work hard.

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On Sunday, Boston was doing some tasks for me to earn a new Legos toy. At one point, his mind was on the box of toys he was supposed to be moving rather than on shredding the papers he had been assigned. I said to him, "Are you working hard or hardly working?" He just cracked up at that question. He repeated it several times as he continued laughing. I didn't tell him the question was older than I am.
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But to work hard at a task, I must first be able to understand the task. If a task is in front of me and I am not sure what to do with or about it, I am overwhelmed with indecision. I mentioned last week that the Jazzman had told me my organization gene was defective. And he's right! It's not an insult; it's a fact!

The family who sold me my house did me both a favor and a disservice by leaving so many things in the house. Their maiden aunt had fallen and needed to go into a nursing home. The nephews who were tasked with selling the house were in their 50s and 60s with their own established houses. They had no use for her belongings. So they just left them.

This was good for me in one aspect: I had gotten rid of most of my furniture before leaving Tucson, rather than placing it in storage for an indeterminate period of time. So with the articles left in the house, I suddenly had beds and sofas and chairs and pots and pans. True, the furniture was cat-scratched, and the pots and pans were old and of lesser quality than I was used to owning. But the presence of these articles saved me from having to run right out and buy furniture and pots and pans (among other things).

But all the screws and window hardware and old this and dated that strewn across the various shelves in the basement? I had no idea what to do with it all. I'm not a handyperson; I grew up with a maid to make my bed, for God's sake. I was born and bred to hire things done. No, I'm not proud of the fact, but it is a fact. So to look at this detritus and know what to do with it? Darlings, it ain't happening!

The other day, the Jazzman looked at one of my built-in cupboards in the second floor hallway and said, "You could put those blankets in a plastic tub and store them in the attic." Well, a statement like that was similar to opening the windows of heaven and having God say, "Hey, Lady, wake up." I woke up. I spent Saturday morning and much of Saturday afternoon emptying, cleaning, and reorganizing the two cupboards. (Okay, so you can probably drop the "re".) I found empty plastic storage containers, and much of the second floor clutter that's been immobilizing me is now stored in the attic. When the Jazzman arrived to take me to dinner with friends, the first thing he did was open the cupboards and give me a big "Attagirl".

On Sunday morning, we babysat for a few hours so Tyler and Jaci could have brunch with friends. I was sitting in the living room as Boston and Ridley were playing the piano and coloring and pestering the kitten. I realized I hadn't seen the Jazzman in a while, but wasn't sure where he had gone. A few minutes later I heard the vacuum cleaner running in the basement. He had gone into the furnace room, emptied all the detritus (that's French for "crap") off the shelves, and washed them. When I went looking for him, he called me into the furnace room to show me his handiwork. Shocked; amazed; humbled; honored; …. I may be a wordsmith by trade, but this boy frequently leaves me devoid of words.

I can honestly say that I've never met a man quite like him. Especially a single man of our age. I've met plenty of single men in our age group but, for the majority of them, their get-up-and-go got up and went a long time ago.

I tell him daily that I'm a very lucky woman.

And to put an earlier issue to rest, I did see his living quarters on Saturday night after dinner, and I have nothing to worry about. This boy is way neater and more organized than I. So long as he doesn't give me a hard time about the cleaning woman I employ bi-weekly, we're in safe territory!