My “To File” pile has reached new heights. 12 centimeters. I’m an inch-girl myself, but the only ruler I can find is an old wooden one that has centimeters (as if), so there you have it. And that measurement is after a pre-sort where I’ve recycled all the circulars and junk mail, greedily siphoned off the coupons, and tucked the bills into the “Bills to Pay” folder. This is just stuff that needs to go into the big metal filing cabinet that looms, figuratively and literally, right over my shoulder.
Filing is my LEAST favorite job. I’d rather scrub a toilet bare-handed any day. Or change a poopy diaper. Or answer “Why?” creatively ten thousand times.
Hence the leaning pile that occasionally spits a receipt or a document onto the floor near my feet.
I just counted, and a centimeter is roughly 20 things that need sorting. Times twelve, that’s 240 things that I need to put in manila folders, tucked in one of five drawers, all of which need to be desperately sorted through and cleaned. Shudder.
So, the kids are in bed, and I’ll do the logical thing. I’ll grab an ice cream pop and see what’s on BBC America.