Shoulda got a dumpster instead of a teensy-weensy office recycle bin. Shoulda got a Jaws of Life cutter tool instead of an office shredder.

Yes. We’re talkin’ trash today.

For the last two days — and this will be day three going into the next millennium — after I’ve finished my word count for the day, after I’ve finished blogging for the day, I’m pitching-shredding-straightening-decluttering my office.

Folks, it’s not pretty.

You’ve probably heard this before. I’ve said it before. Now, I’m actually doing it.

It’s a house-wide campaign. We are pack rats of the highest order. The highest. I figured I might as well start with my office, because I would have a refuge, a hidy-hole, a secret room to repair to when we’re pitching-shredding-straightening-decluttering the rest of the domicile. I use the term “we” in a broad, fictional way.

After I uncovered a sizable portion of my filing cabinet the floor, Gracie Allen did a Golden pup flop and snore, leaving behind a wad of Golden fluff when she wandered off. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d banish her from my working kingdom. Clear it, and they will come.

I found hidden treasure. A green lollipop, circa 1998. Once Upon a Child adhesive strips — I have no idea. A nest of cords and adapters for electronic equipment — I have an idea, but I’m not saying — which I fully intend to throw into a bin (like Christmas lights) and let Mr. G, honey deal. Fair is fair.

My office is over the garage, and if I’d engaged the little grey cells, I would have drilled a hole right through the floor and shoved the recycle bins in it. It was an exercise in stupidity hauling those suckers filled with my hoard of The New Yorker, Men’s Health (I get it for the articles, I swear!), Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, Chatelaine, RWR, TORO and Scottish Memories downstairs and out the front door. After which, Mr. G, honey informed me that there is a weight limit on recycle bins. Who knew? I glared and stalked off, taking my new hernia with me.

There are now 15,000 recycle bins sitting at the curb, waiting for the garbage truck. Here comes the garbage truck. Hunky Muscle Guy jumps down, tosses those just-the-right-weight bins back like nobody’s business. He shoots. He scores. He gets no hernia.

Goodnight Clutter.

Elen