The best organising tip I ever received (and actually use)

The Builder suggested I add point 11 to yesterday's list of the top 10 things I learned on holidays. His suggestion: no matter how long or fabulous the holiday, the second day back at work is always hard. I agree, but told him that nobody does 11 point lists. They just look wrong. So I came up with another one, to make it a nice round dozen.

12. The length of the holiday will be in direct proportion to the time it takes one to unpack one's bags after one returns home. To whit: if you go on holidays for one week and return on Sunday, you can be pretty sure those bags will still be sitting there come the following Sunday. And they will always contain three times as many clothes as you ever actually wore on said holiday.

But, having come up with that one, I decided that I would take a stand this time. I would unpack those bags. Today. I would... I would... I just...

I needed help. So I turned to a book sent to me recently by one of my favourite contacts, Lissanne Oliver. I call on Lissanne when I need help with the organisation/decluttering/simplifying end of the feature story spectrum. She is, quite simply, great at it, and gives good quote. Win/win for me. The only downside to our conversations is that she's usually saying things like 'People need to realise they can't work surrounded by piles of paper, lip balms, paper clips, nail scissors, random cables, books that need reading, articles that need referencing...' right while I'm sitting at a desk surrounded by all of those things.

Lissanne's book Sorted! is an action-stations guide to being organised. It has everything you need to clear space in your home, right down to the time-frames required to fulfill each step she outlines. Admittedly, there is not a section devoted to Unpacking After Your Holiday but much of the focus is on clearing living spaces - and given that the unpacked bags were interrupting a) traffic flow and b) air flow, I was able to use Lissanne's editing, filing and storing techniques to get the job done. Okay, half done. The Misters are now able to find their socks and undies for the morning. Me, maybe not so much.

It's progress, though, and that's what counts. Oh, and the best tip Lissanne ever gave me for a story (as in one that I actually use all the time)? Open your mail over the bin. Dump the stuff you don't need. Keep the stuff you do. Guaranteed to reduce the amount of paper entering your house.

Lissanne Oliver is joining forces with two international productivity and organising experts for the Six Steps To Your Organised Life workshops in Sydney (October 22) and Melbourne (October 29). Full details here. You can find out more about Lissanne's book and her organising work here. 

Things no woman should see

There are things no woman should see. Things that, once seen, simply cannot be unseen. Things that, once seen, require action.

Things like the tops of the kitchen cupboards. Those very high ones. Wa-a-y up there out of sight. If you've never looked at the top surface of those cupboards, I suggest, very firmly, that you simply do not.

Today I looked upon the tops of my cupboards. Tonight I spent an hour perched precariously on the benchtops, clinging on by my fingernails, scrubbing away at the collected grime of, apparently, centuries of kitchen use. Dear God it was ugly.

My new kitchen arrives tomorrow. The contents of my old kitchen are currently reposing on the dining table. Actually, scrub that, on, under and around the dining table. I unearthed a chocolate-making kit that I never knew existed. The large stockpot that I was sure I had, but that had not been seen in living memory. Some really nice little bowls and things for entertaining - clearly we haven't been friendly enough in the Fibro.

And I will go to bed tonight knowing that the tops of my kitchen cupboards are white. It's a saintly kind of feeling, I have to admit.

So... dare I ask? What would you add to the list of Things No Woman Should See?

Making time to think

Does your mind play tricks on you? Does it whirl around in circles making you feel busier than you have any right to feel? That's where I'm at right now. There's a lot going on round here, but not as much as my mind would have me believe. Left to its own devices, it swirls around, creating pools and eddies of thought, creating waves, creating whelm. (What is whelm anyway? I know we can be over it or under it, but is there a middling whelm?)

I'm working on a story about organisation at the moment. Clearing clutter. Creating systems. Making space for thought and productivity. One of the experts made the point that we create much of our own anxiety and stress simply by not using the tools at our fingertips. If I were to write down all the things that I need to do, put them in order, pop them on my calendar and schedule time for them, I'd be feeling much less agonised right now. I'd feel as though I had some control. Instead of guessing and worrying and fretting, I'd be calm.

My love of To Do lists is well documented (yes, my To Do book is coming along well, thanks). But I'm going to try something new today. I'm going to allocate time for the tasks that are cluttering up my mind. If I spend half an hour now, it will save me hours and hours of wondering and whelm (I really hope that's a word - if it's not, it should be). Relieved from the duty of all that wondering and whelm, my mind will be able to do it's true thing and think. Technically.

One of the things I love about freelance writing? It teaches me all kinds of nifty stuff.

[image: Boutique Avenue Tumblr]

What did you talk about this week?

Well, here we are at the weekend. Time to relax, unwind and recharge. Also time to look back at the week that was. The Fibro was a hive of activity and conversation this week. Mostly centred around splashbacks and cupboard profiles. But we did manage to fit some other stuff in too. Some are personal, some are professional (as in, for a story). I'll leave it up to you to decide which is which...

Cold Chisel, prawns that had been hidden in a bag in our laundry for five days, freezing said prawns in container, under-bench top sinks, the wall that was and then wasn't, green olives, balsamic vinegar, visitors, moving house, bathroom cabinets, community grants, worm wee, soccer, concentration, Lego mini-figures, birthday parties, Cars 2, scooters, vacuum cleaners, milkshakes, organising one's office, organising (specifically) my office, the decision to have a baby, fitting in 'relations' as a working mother, Mosman, blogging, bloggers, pitching, ideas, the state of the freelance writing market, finishing the damn book, feeding the fish.

What did you talk about?


PS: I'm Rewinding at And Then There Were Four this weekend. Link up an old post for new comment love! Hope to see you there. 

[image: Disney/kidsfunreviwed.com]

What's on your Lifetime To Do List? It may not be what you think.

Yesterday, I ticked not one, but two things off the Lifetime To Do list. The Lifetime To Do List is that ever-accumulating list of things that you're constantly getting around to, but never actually seem to get there. Hence, they seem to take a lifetime to achieve. Things on this list for me tend to include such things as getting the carpets cleaned, getting the pictures framed, dusting under the bed, having the blinds cleaned, hanging the pictures... all those things that you're forever 'getting around to'.

Well, no more. On a few items anyway. The Fibro is currently beaming under the weight of freshly steam-cleaned carpets (bonus: under the bed no longer requires dusting - result!). I realise now why I put it off for so long as well. It took one hour to do and yet the furniture is still cluttering up the hallway, awaiting the moment when the carpet is truly dry. I have a bad feeling that once you wet the carpet it will forever feel 'slightly damp', either in reality or in my mind. Jumping over the magazine rack to get to the bathroom is rapidly growing old though.

My second achievement was to arrive at the framing shop with two lovely prints that Mr4 received for his first birthday. Time moves slowly in the Fibro. After half an hour of discussing frames and matting and foamcore and wires, the pictures are in the hands of the expert and will be returned to me, ready to hang, in a fortnight. Are you wondering why it took me so long to get around to this? I know that I am.

So there you have it. An achieving kind of day. I feel ready to tackle anything. Well, anything but the next item on my Lifetime To Do List, that is.

What's on your Lifetime To Do List? Are there things that take you an apparent lifetime to get around to doing?

[image: how cute are these notebooks from ShePinTea/etsy - just the thing for a Lifetime To Do List.]

Left on the shelf

In my kitchen, there is a shelf. I have seen such shelves in other people's kitchens, usually photographed in glossy interiors magazines. In those pictures, such shelves are clean, horizontal spaces, used to denote the transition from one section of an open-plan space to another, without the need for anything so unsightly as walls. In those pictures, such shelves are adorned with one witty fruit bowl, often overflowing with piles of unseasonal lemons or limes (see left).

In my kitchen, there is a shelf. I know it's there because I've seen it. When we moved in. Since that time, it has been buried under an avalanche of family detritus. Or 'an eclectic layer of adornment' if you like the interiors-speak better. Pencils and textas (but never a working pen when you need one). A thermometer to poke in sick children's ears. Keys. A Tupperware catalogue that I forgot to order from. Two DVDs that I forgot to return to the shop. Those children's artworks that are not destined to be treasured forever but must spend their time at the holding station before being recycled lest said children think that we do not love them. Three funky orange canisters that have never held anything. A shiny copper jam pan with a witty fruit bowl stuck inside it because there is not room on the shelf for both. Admittedly, there are some lemons in said fruit bowl - but they are withered and stale because I forgot to use them. It's hard to see them under all that adornment.

Every once in a while, I clear off this shelf, leaving it bare but for the funky canisters and the weird jam pan arrangement. Within minutes, it has started attracting a new layer of adornment.

In your kitchen, is there such a shelf?

[image: 22BayRoad/etsy]

In praise of the ironing basket

If you know me well, you know that I would not generally use the word 'praise' in the same sentence as 'ironing basket' without good reason. The iron and I are not friends. I remember getting a steam iron for Christmas the year I moved out of home and... well, let's just say the words 'stony' and 'faced' would have best described my reaction. Almost as good as the year I got a vacuum cleaner... but that's another story.

I have spent much of my life seeking out the words 'anti-wrinkle', and not just in face creams. Those 'throw out your iron' pants that Shane Warne was advertising a few years ago? I tried very hard to get The Builder to invest in an entire wardrobe of them. I had shirts that hung unworn for years simply because they did not fit the work wardrobe criteria: can it be put on right now and look presentable?

But I am a reformed non-ironer. Like a reformed smoker, only less evangelical. Still a little preachy though. So bear with me.

When Mr7 started school two years ago, I stuck with my long-practised Theory of Ironing. That is, do it only when necessary. So, yes, I was ironing a uniform every day, wedged around sandwich-making and general yelling about shoes. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.

Until I realised that it was one of the reasons that, every single day, we screeched into the carpark as the bell rang. And that it was adding to the general yelling about shoes by adding to the general stress levels.

Enter, the ironing basket. It began gradually enough. On Sunday night I would iron two 'normal' uniforms and one 'sports'. We had enough gaps between sports days that we could rotate nicely. The Builder's work blues began appearing on the pile and we would take it in turns to 'do the ironing'.

Slowly but surely, I have become an organised, Sunday night ironer. The Builder and I not only do all the uniforms and the work blues, but the occasional random pair of pants or frock has joined the pile. I have realised the joy of going to the wardrobe and being prepared. The true definition of Ready To Wear. Not everything, of course. A family night out would not be a family night out without last-minute ironing (and yelling about shoes).

Somewhere online last week - a blog? a tweet? facebook? - someone* commented that their mum had come over and had been looking for the ironing basket. "I don't have one," this mystery blogger/tweeter/facebooker replied. "I'm too busy to do ironing like that."

I thought of my ironing basket. And how much time it saves me. It's like reading your emails - a major time-suck if you do it piecemeal, but chunk it down and you can get really efficient at it.

Or at least that's what I'm telling myself as I try to come to terms with my new position in life as an Ironing Basket Disciple.

Are you an ironing-basket disciple, or a devotee of the Iron As You Go principle? Is this just another sign of my impending old age?


*Let me know if it was you - I often find myself wandering down unfamiliar paths on the internet and can never remember where I was or how to get back there.


And yes, in case you were wondering, the above image from GraphiteGirl/etsy is exactly what I look like when I iron. Right down to the high heels.

'Fess up: How many empty jars do you have?

On Friday night, The Builder made his Fibro-famous spaghetti bolognaise, full of super-secret ingredients, including a jar of pasta sauce. After we had wolfed down his amazingly good dish (I figure exuberant praise might result in more cooking from The Builder), I did the washing up. Because we all know that the joys of the washing up can never be underestimated.

I washed the pasta-sauce jar, dried it lovingly and put it away in the cupboard - alongside the 500 other jars that I have lovingly washed and put away, awaiting... what, exactly?

I have a colony of glass jars settled in my corner cupboard. Waiting. Apparently breeding.

While I occasionally use one to shake up a salad dressing and I have been known to make a batch of chutney or relish, the chance of me ever needing 501 jars all at once are extremely slim. And, even so, I still covet these blue Mason jars and consider adding them to my motley collection of IXL, Vegemite, mayonnaise and jam jars.

It's one of my worst examples of 'you never know' hoarding. Beetroot aside.

And now I need to know, just how many jars do you have? Lurking in the cupboard under the sink or stashed away in another secret location. Just how many.

How (not) to clean out the pantry

ANPNF343ZH3E Some people like to Spring Clean. Others (crazy people) clean the house from top to bottom every single week. I'm a Start of Year clean-out kind of girl. Dump a whole lot of stuff, and then spend the rest of the year re-filling the cupboards.

I remember having regular conversations with a Feng Shui expert for several CLEO features (it was the late 90s), who advocated taking the 'seven things for seven days' approach to bettering your life. Her theory was that if you threw out seven things a day for seven days, you would clear enough space in your home to free your chi... or was it your chakras. Something.

As with most things in life, I tend to take the 'binge' approach to this theory. I throw out 49 things in one day and then rest on my laurels for the rest of the year.

Recently, I approached the pantry. With caution. Pantries are a running joke in my family, mostly because my parents have never met a Use By date they couldn't beat. I used to laugh a lot at the contents of their pantry, complete with three-year-old tin of beetroot. I'm not laughing any more.

In cleaning out the pantry recently, I discovered not only the requisite three-year-old tin of beetroot (which I'm thinking my Dad put in there just to befuddle me), but nine bottles of vinegar. Nine. To be sure, there was Cider vinegar, Brown vinegar, Malt vinegar, White vinegar, Rice vinegar, White Wine vinegar (times two), and Red Wine vinegar (times two). But seriously? Should we ever be facing a siege, Fam Fibro will be in an excellent position to pickle...

We are also well-equipped with baked beans (13 - count them - tins), flour (three kilograms), and several tins of Bundaberg Rum fudge. Yep, all the food groups covered there.

A quick survey on Twitter helped me draw the conclusion that I am not alone with my lone, faded beetroot tin (though there was a late charge by the Tinned Bamboo Shoot brigade) - but that nine bottles of vinegar probably qualifies me for some kind of hall of fame. Well, I've always wanted to be an award-winner ("You like me, you like me!").

The truly sad part of this tale, however, I have saved for the end. That tin of beetroot? Still there. I couldn't bear to throw it out. You just never know... and those tinned things never really go off, do they?

Mum and Dad, I understand now.

'Fess up: do you have that tin of beetroot? Or some other random tin that you bought years ago and still resides at the back of the pantry? Or, like me, do you buy strange things - like vinegar - in bulk? Share the Hall of Fame with me - it's lonely in here.

{image: inspcollection.com}