Here’s to cleaning . . .and cookies

Sometimes everything in my life comes together—and sometimes I have to coax it in like a scared dog. This past weekend, however, was not one of those times when I had to do much cajoling of the universe.
My mother was right.
There’s nothing like next-day visitors to kick-start a cleaning frenzy. It matters not that I run a tidy ship on most days, but after the checkered flag went up last week about my house being for sale and the phone started to ring. . . .
Suffice it to say, I got to know a side of me that embodies the whirlwind “Tasmanian Devil”—and my house is now very clean.
While I was at it, I not only sandwiched three days’ worth of exercise into one, but among other light bulb moments realized that I should never believe myself when I put something away in a special place convinced that someday I will be able to find it again.
In addition, there’s no doubt in my mind at least two inanimate objects in my house are in cahoots with each other.
If not, then why is there always two empty beer bottles missing when it’s time to take the beer case in for a refund? Personally, I think the bottles elope with the missing socks from the dryer.
I also believe the junk drawer procreates by itself because it wasn’t me that morphed it into a mangled collection of jute, electrical tape, screwdrivers, and other odds and sods.
(Oops, I forgot. I have a husband).
Then there’s my sidekick “Dot.”
An anonymous writer once penned, “In order to maintain a well-balanced perspective, the person who has a dog to worship him should also have a cat to ignore him.”
I beg to differ.
In order to maintain a well-balanced perspective, I should have taught my dog, who clearly does worship the ground I walk on, that her day would be much better served holding the cat hostage in a tree than following me around for six hours while I cleaned house with the speed of a tornado.
Dot leads me to believe there really is a magnet implanted in my backside.
And I have way too much stuff. I keep thinking about the meaning of downsize—and the reality check I’m going to get when I move.
Unlike one of my relatives, who has always claimed that when she dies, she’s going to be buried with everything she owns, I’m going to have to have do what I swore four years ago I’d never do again—have one kick of a garage sale.
But it won’t include my cookie tin. The old, worn-out, scratched up treasure that holds so much meaning for me used to be in my grandma’s kitchen cupboard. When I was a kid and all through the years that followed, grandma’s cookie tin was synonymous with a visit to her house.
So when it came to be mine after she passed away last month, I brought it home, washed it carefully, and put it away in my own kitchen cupboard. The tin was empty of goodies, I’m sure, for the first time in decades.
I’ve still got a lot to learn, however, I’ve been around long enough to know that you shouldn’t rush growing up.
But on Sunday, when I decided to bake my first batch of cookies for the tin, I wished very much that my six-month-old grandson would have been old enough to come running through my front door shouting, ‘Hi Grammy!’ and dash to the cupboard for a treat.
His time will come.
I baked the cookies anyway, opened the tin, and put them inside. But as soon as I closed the lid, out of nowhere I started to cry.
I wished so very much I could still ask my Grandma for a cookie.

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