Somewhere between a bottle of unearthed menopause pills, a very large pink bra and sheet music for Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring (which seems slightly oxymoron, considering) --I've been holed up in a room otherwise known as "the music room".
After putting thirty-five hours, yes I said 3-5 hours, into moving, pitching, organizing, pitching more, organizing, filing, archiving, pitching, pitching and pitching... I finally relinquished myself from the very thing that was; either constipating me or driving me to drink.
I requested my name badge to be engraved with the name "Neicy Nash", as it seems more fitting since I agreed (obviously at a moment of either weakness or complete oblivion) to whip a certain music teacher's classroom clutter into Clean House heaven. Today when I got to the point where what I was thinking in my mind came out like a twisted pretzel with strands of drool dripping out of the corner of my mouth --I knew it was time to stop. And, not just stop but, walk away telling myself job well done.
Now I am not sure what the remaining and final tasks outcome will be--I left a canvas similar to a paint-by-numbers art creation as a guide. All I know for certain is one of us is most certainly going to her collection of classic rock tunes to sing-- Free Bird.
I wonder who feels more Free Bird-ish me or the music teacher?
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