At 8:14 on Saturday morning, Isabelle woke up feeling ambitious. This was unusual.
Normally, Saturday morning Isabelle believed strongly in remaining horizontal until her bladder presented a legally binding eviction notice. But on this particular morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, birds were singing, and somewhere deep inside her brain, a deeply irritating voice whispered, “You should accomplish something today.”
Isabelle opened one eye.
“No.” The voice persisted.
“You could clean the house.” Isabelle pulled the blanket over her head.
“You could organize the closet.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You could finally deal with that junk drawer.” Isabelle sat upright, there are limits.
Nobody willingly deals with the junk drawer. The junk drawer exists because society collectively agreed that certain objects no longer deserve explanation.
Still, Isabelle was awake now.
She grabbed her phone to check the time and made the rookie mistake of opening social media.
Forty-seven minutes later, she knew how to make homemade mozzarella, had watched a raccoon steal a DoorDash order, learned that apparently everyone except her was vacationing in Greece, and had become emotionally invested in a woman restoring an abandoned Victorian mansion in Ohio.
It was 9:06.
Excellent start.
Isabelle got out of bed and announced, “Today, I am getting my life together.”
Her dog looked up from his bed.
He had heard this before.
Isabelle began with coffee because no responsible adult should make decisions while their blood is still technically decaffeinated.
She filled the machine. No coffee. She checked the cupboard.
Nothing.
She checked another cupboard, despite knowing perfectly well that she had never stored coffee there.
Still nothing.
She checked the freezer.
Why?
Nobody knows.
Isabelle stood in the kitchen staring into the freezer at a bag of peas as though they had personally betrayed her.
“This day is already hostile.”
Fortunately, there was a coffee shop nearby.
Unfortunately, that required pants.
Isabelle considered her options.
Coffee won.
Coffee always wins.
Twenty minutes later, she returned home carrying a large coffee and a breakfast sandwich she absolutely had not intended to buy.
She placed both on the counter.
“Okay. Productivity begins now.”
She made a list.
Laundry. Vacuum. Clean bathroom. Organize kitchen. Change sheets. Take recycling out. Grocery shopping. Meal prep.
Isabelle looked at the list.
The list looked back.
This felt aggressive.
She added “drink coffee” at the top and immediately checked it off.
There.
Momentum.
Next came laundry.
Isabelle gathered clothes from the bedroom, bathroom, chair and the mysterious secondary chair whose sole purpose was apparently holding clothing that wasn’t clean enough for the closet but wasn’t dirty enough for the hamper.
Every bedroom has one.
Scientists should study it.
She carried everything downstairs and loaded the washing machine. She poured in detergent and pressed start.
Nothing happened.
She pressed start again.
Nothing.
Isabelle stared at the machine.
The machine stared back.
“Don’t do this.”
She opened the lid. Closed it. Pressed start.
Nothing.
“Listen, Whirlpool. I don’t know what you’re going through emotionally, but today isn’t the day.”
Then she noticed the machine wasn’t plugged in.
Isabelle plugged it in.
It started immediately.
“Glad we had this conversation.”
Laundry underway, Isabelle moved on to vacuuming.
She pulled out the vacuum cleaner.
The dog left the room.
He knew.
Isabelle plugged it in and began. Within approximately thirty seconds, she sucked up something she shouldn’t have.
THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK.
Isabelle froze.
The vacuum began making a noise usually associated with industrial machinery preparing to explode.
She turned it off.
From underneath the vacuum emerged one sock.
Not just any sock.
The sock.
The missing sock from the laundry pair she’d been complaining about for three months.
Isabelle picked it up.
“Well, well, well.”
Mystery solved.
Unfortunately, the vacuum now smelled vaguely like burning rubber.
Isabelle put it away.
Vacuuming was complete.
Was the floor clean?
Not particularly.
But Isabelle had participated.
That counted.
Next: bathroom.
She sprayed the shower, sink and toilet with various cleaning products until the bathroom smelled like a chemical warfare demonstration.
Then she realized she needed to let everything “sit for ten minutes.”
Excellent.
Unexpected break.
Isabelle sat on the couch.
This was mistake number two.
She picked up her phone.
Mistake number three.
Somebody had posted a video titled, “Ten Things Organized People Never Keep in Their Homes.”
Isabelle clicked.
Apparently organized people didn’t keep old towels, mismatched containers, expired spices, excessive coffee mugs or clothing they hadn’t worn in a year.
Isabelle slowly looked around her house.
According to this woman, Isabelle needed to throw away approximately 83 percent of her possessions.
“No.”
She scrolled again.
A different woman was organizing her refrigerator using clear plastic bins.
Isabelle became fascinated.
Everything had a container.
Eggs had a container. Cheese had a container. Yogurt had a container.
Even the containers appeared to have containers.
Isabelle looked toward her refrigerator.
Inside hers was half a bottle of mustard, three questionable carrots and something wrapped in foil that nobody had been brave enough to identify since Tuesday.
She suddenly felt inadequate.
“I need bins.”
This is how it happens.
At 11:32, Isabelle abandoned cleaning the bathroom and drove to the store for refrigerator bins.
She returned an hour later with six plastic containers, scented candles, throw pillows, a plant, two storage baskets and absolutely no groceries.
She had spent $137.
The refrigerator remained empty.
But now it could be empty in an organized fashion.
Isabelle arranged her three carrots in a plastic bin labelled PRODUCE.
Beautiful.
She put the cheese in another.
There was only one block.
It looked lonely.
She put the mustard in a third container.
Now it looked important.
Isabelle stepped back.
“Look at me.”
The dog looked.
“I’m thriving.”
The dog sneezed.
By this point, the washing machine had finished.
Isabelle transferred everything to the dryer.
Then she remembered the bathroom.
The cleaning spray had been sitting for approximately two hours.
The shower was practically marinating.
Isabelle walked upstairs. She wiped the sink, cleaned the mirror, scrubbed the shower and cleaned the toilet.
This took fourteen minutes.
Isabelle was exhausted.
“People do this every week?”
She needed another break.
This time she deliberately left her phone in the kitchen.
Personal growth.
She sat down.
The doorbell rang.
Isabelle remained perfectly still.
The doorbell rang again.
She crept toward the window and peeked through the blinds.
Delivery person.
Isabelle hadn’t ordered anything.
Then she remembered.
Three nights earlier, at approximately 11:40 p.m., Isabelle had apparently decided she needed an electric vegetable chopper.
The package sat on the porch.
Isabelle brought it inside.
She opened it.
This thing had seventeen pieces.
There were blades, attachments, containers and an instruction booklet thicker than some novels.
Isabelle stared at it.
She owned one knife.
The knife had worked perfectly well for 23 years.
She put the vegetable chopper in a cupboard.
It would remain there until she died.
At 2:30, Isabelle checked her productivity list.
Drink coffee: done.
Laundry: mostly done.
Vacuum: technically attempted.
Bathroom: done.
Organize kitchen: she had purchased bins.
That felt adjacent.
Change sheets: absolutely not.
Recycling: still sitting by the door.
Groceries: no.
Meal prep: hilarious.
Isabelle decided she deserved lunch.
There was nothing to eat because she had forgotten groceries.
She opened the beautifully organized refrigerator.
Three carrots.
Cheese.
Mustard.
Isabelle stared.
“This looks like ingredients from a hostage situation.”
She ordered pizza.
While waiting, she decided to tackle the junk drawer.
This was reckless confidence brought on by low blood sugar.
She opened it.
Batteries. Tape. Three screwdrivers. Birthday candles. A charger belonging to a device nobody had owned since 2014. Keys to something. Nobody knew what. A single chopstick. Twenty-seven pens, four of which worked. Two Canadian Tire receipts. A tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. A package of picture hooks. An Allen key.
Isabelle picked up the Allen key.
She had no idea where it came from.
IKEA had apparently marked her for life.
Then she found a gift card.
“Ooooooh.”
She checked the balance online.
$1.43.
Naturally.
Isabelle put everything back into the drawer and closed it.
Organized.
At 4:00, the pizza arrived.
Isabelle ate two slices while standing at the counter because plates create dishes, and she had learned enough lessons today.
Then she remembered the dryer.
She opened it.
Everything was dry.
She carried the warm laundry upstairs and dumped it onto the bed.
She would fold it immediately.
Obviously.
Isabelle sat beside the pile.
Five minutes later, she was lying underneath it.
Warm laundry is essentially a blanket with responsibilities.
She woke up at 5:47.
The dog was sleeping beside her.
Isabelle looked around.
The bed wasn’t changed. The laundry wasn’t folded. The recycling hadn’t moved. There were six new refrigerator bins, two throw pillows and a plant she couldn’t remember the name of.
The kitchen smelled like pizza.
The vacuum was possibly injured.
The junk drawer remained a lawless territory.
Isabelle picked up her productivity list.
She stared at it for several seconds.
Then she crossed out “meal prep” and wrote:
Ordered pizza.
She crossed out “organize kitchen” and wrote:
Bought organizational equipment.
She crossed out “vacuum” and wrote:
Recovered missing property.
She crossed out “laundry” and wrote:
Washed, dried and emotionally bonded with clothing.
Then she crossed out “grocery shopping” and wrote:
Went to store.
Technically true.
Isabelle looked at the revised list.
Suddenly, she’d accomplished almost everything.
She smiled.
This was why wording mattered.
By seven o’clock, Isabelle was back on the couch wearing pajamas, eating cold pizza and watching television.
The dog curled up beside her.
Her new candle was burning on the coffee table.
The refrigerator looked fantastic despite containing almost no food.
And the plant she’d impulsively purchased was sitting beautifully in the window, completely unaware that its chances of surviving September were approximately twelve percent.
Isabelle felt strangely satisfied.
Had she gotten her life together?
No.
Not even remotely.
But she’d cleaned a bathroom, done laundry, found a sock, bought some bins and survived several hours of attempted adulthood.
That was enough.
She picked up her phone.
A video appeared.
“Wake up at 5 a.m. and follow my productive morning routine!”
Isabelle stared at it.
Then she blocked the account.
Some negativity simply doesn’t belong in your life. 😂
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