Apparently, my bling likes to swing

Sometimes I can be so freakishly organized, I even scare myself. The day we moved in our house, the very first thing I organized was the junk drawer in our kitchen. I didn’t care if we slept on doormats or used paper towels to dry off after our showers or ate off cookie sheets with screwdrivers for a week but no way was I going to fish around a drawer for a pen and get stabbed under my nail with a pushpin and get tetanus and rabies and sepsis simultaneously and have to be driven to emergency and have my ass hang out of a paper dress and fight with an orderly for some jello and miss my first night in our house.

Over the years, I have tackled one organizational disaster after another in our house and each time I successfully addressed one, there would be two more hiding in the wings, just waiting to be accidentally discovered with a resounding OH SHIT. It didn’t matter how many times I barricaded those damn wings, disasters always managed to find a way in. Who knew disasters could be so intrepid?

My jewelry box was one such disaster and sat at #29 on my list entitled Things To Fix After I Fix Everything Else. It patiently sat there as I’d fling my bling into it willy nilly, never once complaining about my utter lack of attention or the inch of dust resting upon its lid.

One day, we got an invitation to a wedding to which I immediately responded and jotted down on our calendar and then promptly forgot about until the day of, because my organization skills took an unauthorized hiatus during June.

On the day of the wedding, I turned into a chicken and immediately severed my head and ran all about my bedroom, complaining that I had absolutely nothing to wear, which came out sounding like “Cluck Cluck Cluckity Cluckity Cluck. CLUCK!” Turns out, I did have a nifty little black outfit that still fit, provided I suck in my breath and not exhale for approximately seven hours. But I needed earrings to distract people from my eyes bulging out of my head, and a necklace to divert their attention from my blue face so I once again opened my jewelry box.

It was then that I discovered that at some point since my last visit, my complacent, benign jewelry box underwent an identity crisis and had morphed into a full-blown, bawdy bling bordello and can I just say, that is an excellent example of alliteration, if I do say so myself.

Which I just did.

Anyway, it had turned into a full-blown, bawdy bling bordello and I stared in utter shock at the huge, mangled, intertwined orgy of gold and silver necklaces writhing inside of it.

As I desperately tried to extricate one necklace and a pair of earrings from the multitudes of ménage à trois before me, #29 Organize Jewelry skyrocketed to the top of my fix-it list, demoting Organize Nate’s Meds So That He Doesn’t Accidentally Kill Himself to #2. Maybe Nate will think twice before yelling C’MON, WHO CARES, LET’S GO ALREADY fifty-two times and thereby avoid an accidental dose of an estrogen supplement.

Just sayin’.

I managed to untangle what I needed and we made it to the church on time and as I sat there in my pew, listening to the couple exchange their vows, a light bulb appeared above my head and I turned it on and lo and behold, came up with a solution.

And I was so happy that I stood up and shouted HALLELUJAH and the Heavens opened up and angels flew all around the altar and I was bathed in a beautiful warm light and God bellowed YOU’RE WELCOME and the congregation shouted a collective AMEN and I sat back down and the wedding continued without further interruption.

That might have been in my own head. I’m not sure.

The day after the wedding, I ran out to several different stores to get my supplies and then I ran home and put on some music and ate an entire Tony’s pizza and washed my hands and made this:

I call it a Bling Board. Because basically, I couldn’t think of a better name and besides, it’s bitchin’ alliteration.

Say Bling Board ten times fast.

It’s basically an artist’s canvas that I altered with paper and lots of embellies. It’s got a bunch of hooks on the bottom of it for necklaces and bracelets and, on those occasions when your youngest daughter channels a slug and refuses to walk to the laundry room, a sock or two.

It’s got a chain to hold earrings and, on those occasions when your youngest daughter channels a slug and refuses to walk to the kitchen, a lollipop stick.

I meant to take a picture of the chain but I was distracted by the color of the ribbon. I love this ribbon.  If I could, I’d type this while wearing nothing but that ribbon but then I might scare the bejesus out of someone and I don’t want the responsibility of someone’s bejesus going AWOL.

Keep track of your bejesus. You can’t just run out and buy replacement bejesus at Target, you know.

Can you?

Who’s got a Sunday flier?

There’s also a lot of pretty going on.

It’s all about the pretty.

Well, it’s all about the function, too.

The pretty function.

The functional pretty.

Whatever.

You know what I mean.

Here it is in action. And of course, it’s in action in Zoe’s room because nothing is sacred in my house and I can call nothing my own anymore. Who cares that my jewelry box is riddled with sexual shenanigans the likes of which I’ve never seen before?

Nobody apparently.

But to be honest, it does look better in Zoe’s room than our room. Probably because she has plants in her room – you can just barely see the tip of one in this photo.

I don’t have plants in our room or the rest of the house. This is because I no longer have thumbs. They were so black, they rotted off.

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that this bling board wouldn’t have meshed with our distinctive bedroom color scheme.

Then again, nothing meshes with Seasick Cookie Monster.

The next bling board I make, I’ll make sure it coordinates with Seasick Cookie Monster or my name isn’t Gert.

My name isn’t Gert.

Remind me to ask Nate to paint our bedroom.

Here’s a closer view.

And another closer view. See how well it goes with her walls?

I love her walls. They remind me of melted chocolate.

I’d lick them if I didn’t think someone would arrest me. Or look at me funny.

People look at me funny as a matter of instinct. I rather not give them an actual reason.

Now I must review my list and refresh my memory as to what needs to be organized next.

I’m thinking that as soon as Seasick Cookie Monster bites the dust, there will be no more fears of accidental female hormone ingestion by those family members sporting a y chromosome.

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