Cleaning the office—a lesson in urban archaeology

After holding out for more than 10 years, I finally gave in last weekend and let The Lovely Mrs. Taylor clean my home-office.

Now, before you feminists get all excited, let me explain. I didn’t ask her to clean it. I didn’t want her to clean it. I was perfectly happy with the sty-like conditions of my personal workspace.

But Mrs. T is the Felix to my Oscar, a fussy neatnik forced by cruel fate to share living space with an incontrovertible slob—me. My messy office has been making her koo-koo since about a week after we moved in together.

The rest of the house is Mrs. T’s domain—tidy, uncluttered, nicely decorated, smelling faintly of expensive potpourri and anti-bacterial cleaners. My office, conversely, resembles the deserted den of a grizzly bear.

Mrs. Taylor has suggested on more than one occasion that I send photos of the room to Washington along with an application for federal disaster relief funds. She may be kidding—I can never tell.

At any rate, I’ve always been reluctant to let her in there. I wasn’t hiding any secret papers, girlie magazines or large caches of illicitly gained money, it’s just that the room was full of stuff. Mostly stuff I would never use again, but couldn’t bear to throw out.

My dolls, for instance. Not the frilly antique ceramic dolls gay guys collect (at least they do on TV—none of the gay guys I know collect ‘em), but “action figure” dolls. Somehow, I wound up with 12-inch plastic figures of Dr. Evil, Bob & Doug McKenzie, and the cast of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” I don’t remember buying them, or receiving them as gifts, but they’ve been taking up space in my office for years.

Likewise, I have computer equipment dating back to the Reagan administration. I am virtually sure I will never again power up my Commodore 64 or even my ancient all-in-one black-and-white Mac Plus, but toss out something I paid over a grand for? I don’t think so.

Then there are the boxes filled with cards and letters I’ve received over the past 30 years. I’ll never look at any of them again, but they’re still important to me. Too important to throw out, at least. Plus, you never know, there might be something important in one of those boxes, something I’ll need to reference again … someday.

Finally, there’s my art collection, most of it created by the kids while in elementary school. Paintings created with glue and macaroni, drawings of turkeys made by tracing a six-year-old’s hand on butcher’s paper, “abstract” portraits in primary colors … tossing any of those would break my heart.

Fortunately, Mrs. T doesn’t give a rat’s patootie about my doll collection, antediluvian computer systems or elementary school art galleries. When she cleans, she’s a ruthless, unsentimental disposal and recycling machine. What can’t be used is outta there, period!

So, last weekend, while I was out of town on my weekend job (astronaut), Mrs. Taylor cleaned my office.

Turns out there was a desk in there. And a file cabinet.

Who knew?

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or information about 12-step programs for pack rats, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.