I have to make the bed before I leave the house.  It is part of who I am.  I have no problem with people in other houses who choose to leave their beds unmade, it is just that, for me, a neatly made bed is mandatory.

And, unless the house in on fire, I cannot leave any dirty dishes in the sink either.

There is actually a rather long inventory of housekeeping things that are must dos for me which head my daily list and most often knock the want to do’s off to another day, a day that never comes.

Don’t get me wrong, my home is not a magazine cover, far from it.   There are days, like today and many days to come, when, because of my inability to move an object from one floor to the next (hip stuff is involved here) that our home looks like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie.  It is a temporary truce between my competing desires to have an orderly home and waiting for one of my offspring to visit and move the debris of Christmas prep.  You do have to be able to gather the many boxes of decorations, wrappings, prepurchased gifts, etc. to adequately celebrate Christmas.

But … I just want to find a way to chill and start my daily list with things I want to do, rather than those I have to do.

Let’s get real here.  I’ve often thought of writing a personalized book for each of my grandsons.  This brilliant thought occurred when the first one was three.  He is now 16. I have no resources that would allow me to produce a book for a 16-year-old young man or for his younger brother for that matter.  There are two other toddlers who are three for whom the intent still remains, yet the list of quartermaster duties comes first.

The cupboard in my “office” has about 140 yards of fabric, purchased over the years, some I bought on my honeymoon, with the kind of the good intentions attributed to the United Nations Security Council. Like the Security Council, I haven’t gotten anything done either.  OK, a few rice filled neck pillows, but just finding space to set up my sewing machine would mean rearranging my kitchen, so the fabric lays there for posterity, I guess.

And what was I doing buying fabric on my honeymoon?  I probably had it on a list.

My top drawer holds all kinds of paper clips, one of my secret passions …  yes, I did say paper clips.  I have square ones, round ones, some with faux jewels on the end, vintage clips … all lying there in boxes, not clipping anything.

And the books, the come hither, I-can’t-wait-to-read them books, soldier shoulder to shoulder in my bookcases, unread, promises of paradise last on the list.

Each year, as Christmas approaches, I am sucked into the belief that it will be different this year.  I will get everything done early.  The gifts that I give will be wrapped so beautifully that it will be hard to disturb the packaging.

What a fantasy!  In the end, the packages will be wrapped in whatever paper I can scrounge with the tiniest bits of tape because I’ve forgotten to buy enough.  The lovely gift tags of my imagination will be replaced by the name of each recipient cleverly written on the gift wrap with one of my colored Sharpies.

I want to redefine my productivity.  My new productive days will not be the same – they will be a loose application of organization wrapped around a list of things that get done in no particular order.  They will surmount the limits or aging joints, money, memory and interest.

I will follow my bliss and not let the ordinary maintenance of infrastructure get in the way.  I mean, who is interested in cleaning the cat litter box.  It’s necessary but it should not engender sleepless nights and endless cups of chamomile tea.  I can see the children’s books, the fabric creations –  curtains, pillows, couture frocks; the hours spent lost in the plots of mysteries, romance, history and travel tomes and a Christmas to rival Better Homes and Gardens.

But first I have to vacuum the family room, divest the stair runner of cat fur, sort through the Christmas decorations, mop the kitchen floor, reorganize the freezer, fold the laundry, iron, make the bed, make a new shopping list for the things I forgot to buy yesterday.

And, as the hour of celebrations passes, I promise myself that I will make a pot of tea, sit quietly in my spot on the love seat in the living room and think about the gifts that I’ve been given, rather than the personal failures that I’ve created for myself.  I will put one foot in front of the other, aided by my trusty cane, and accept the person who I am and not the frenzied gal that I create.  Could this be my New Year’s resolution?

Do I hear a paper clip calling my name?