“What in the world are you talking about?” is, from my cozy Massachusetts redoubt, what I hear all of you calling to me. Well, it’s not that cozy, as Marie Kondo will tell us, but I am holed up here due to a busted hip on top of the discomfort precipitated by Parkinson’s. Even if my hip were still a whole bone, as opposed to a bone with a hole in it, I wouldn’t be venturing outdoors onto this frozen tundra of a cityscape. Nah, today’s a day for hot chocolate, cold chocolate, room temperature chocolate, and maybe a wee bit o’ the hair of the dog. Ugh, don’t know the origin of that expression but it’s quite disgusting.

So…. back to my sister, Marie Kondo, who comes a-knockin’ in the wake of her previous day’s scrutiny of my digs, to which I barely attend in the best of times, tidiness-wise. These times ranked in the top ten of my worst times. Make that the top one. “Marie” (not her real name) is my sister (for real) who, in defiance of all research and the natural order of things, (as the eldest, I’m supposed to be the domineering one). is my otherwise terrific but occasionally bossy youngest sister. This is a person whose bedroom, wherever and with whomever she lived, served as some weird obstacle course, a game whose rules I never did manage to figure out. Jump over the sweaters, put feet in mismatched sneakers, prance around the pile of t-shirts and….declare victory when you reach the closet????

Like most people who get religion, my little sis has become a Kondo Kommando big time. Her current quarters pay homage to the OCD (I’m assuming) founder of The Container Store, and she WOULD. NOT. REST. until my home was similarly organized. I watched gratefully as she folded all my linens, discarded empty pill bottles, and generally imposed order on the Parkinson’s-and-broken-hip-generated chaos that is my home.

I must point out her overall wonderfulness. She stepped right up and, without being asked, appointed herself my Parkinson’s caregiver, driving me to all my neurology appointments, list of questions at the ready. She brings me homemade granola and other goodies. I’d be a basket case (more than I already am) without her.

And the Flovent? I suffer the occasional asthma attack, considerably less severe than when I was a child. I’d say I inhale Flovent maybe twice a month. Somehow, the inhaler landed on my monthly refill list and, true ditz that I am, i’ve never gotten around to cancelling it. I should have a budget category where I list all my unused prescriptions and subscriptions. Flovent and Britbox. What was the UK show that I absolutely had to watch and how long ago was the viewing of said program, followed by zero viewings of anything else on that English channel? Maybe three years ? I refuse to do the depressing math that evidences how much money I wasted. Add in, say, 24 months of the Sundance Channel and a couple of Showtimes, and holy shit, there’s a night in a nice Paris hotel living inside my cable box paid for by unwatched HBO and don’t forget the co-pays for all the Flovents still in their boxes cluttering my medicine cabinet. Or formerly cluttering since “Marie’” tidied up.

In her effort to get me to clean up, she calls to mind Saturday mornings in our childhood home when our mother would stomp up the stairs calling “I’m coming to inspect,” which meant that all our clothes had to be neatly folded in their designated drawers, our games alphabetized in their cubbies (okay, I made that up, but the boxes did have to be closed with no errant Monopoly irons or hotels loose on the shelves), the beds tightly hospital-cornered in anticipation of Sylvia’s inspection. After we’d reorganized to Mom’s satisfaction, she returned downstairs to ensure that her own Saturday task – dusting her living room jungle – met her exacting standards. *Some of this post is exaggerated, but I assure you that Saturday morning inspection was not. If you don’t believe me, ask my sister “Marie Kondo.”

Recommendation:

The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Actually, I can’t recommend this wholeheartedly since I have never even touched this tome. It’s here more for reference, for those of you who haven’t succumbed to, or even heard of, Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. No more need be said; the title says it all.