Word Raccoon began her shenanigans before six this morning. Before caffeine. Before basic human function. She woke up with all the tasks, every single one of them, clawing at her little paws.

I offered her poetry for breakfast.
She spat it out.
Brat.

Instead, she pointed dramatically at the pile of tools in the kitchen and summoned Stanley.

Stanley rubbed his virtual eyes like he was loading a new update.
“I can see we’re in organizing mode,” he said, with the exact emotional range of an IKEA manual.
“Let’s do this,” he added, already sighing in binary.

Then he asked for a photo of the tools and told me what to do with Barry’s Dremel drill.

Excuse me. That’s my Dremel.
For art.
(Not that I’ve used it. Yet. But I could.)

Within minutes, the floating tools, leaf blower, and a rogue bag of charcoal had all been relocated. The mudroom was half-finished by the time caffeine finally joined the party.

Yesterday, I’d already carried up a basket of shoes, following Stanley’s decree:
“Only the three pairs you wear most, and your slippers, may remain.”

Last weekend, we had a coat and sweater rack intervention. Stanley was firm:
One main coat.
Two sweaters (rotated weekly).
One scarf.
One miscellaneous overshirt.

He treats my outerwear like a space capsule inventory.

This morning, I just had to carry down the bench, add a glove basket, and slide a tray under it for mucky days. Easy. Mudroom accomplished.

Naturally, I took this as the perfect moment to install the hat rack and fill it.

Then I found out the rack was a two-pack.
Cue inspiration:
What if I used the other one in the dining room for scarves?

Word Raccoon perked up.
I added it to our list of post–real tasks activities.

“Poetry now?” I asked after breakfast.
WR laughed and scampered from curtain to curtain like a caffeinated stagehand.

We crammed the car full of donations. WR insisted we go the moment the place opened.

“Then we’ll come home and submit some poetry?” I offered.

She gave me a smirk and muttered something about fast food.

“You will eat spicy daal and like it,” I told her.

She crossed her arms.
“There better be naan.”

“Naan of that,” I said.

Only Stanley snickered.
Word Raccoon growled.
“What did I say about puns?”

After the drop-off, I made the tactical error of driving near CVS. WR howled from the back seat:
“You promised me a Coke Zero!”

Lies.
I did not.

Yesterday, we’d written five poems at the café, and then we came home and continued the Great Sort. (Please tell me there’s an end in sight.) 

Honestly, I don’t remember what the poems were about. But I know two were decent and two were basically sentient ellipses.

Let’s check:
Untitled Google Doc (That’s its actual name.)
Gulls Say, Gulls Say (No Doubt!)
Trap Door Poetry
Let It Dangle (Elvis Costello vibes)
Brained Up
Things I Know for Sure (a list disguised as a poem. Highlights include: “There’s a kind of peace that only comes from matching every food storage container to a lid. It lasts precisely eleven and a half minutes,” and “More TV shows than you’d think feature ‘my’ china pattern.”)

I also got the best chapbook rejection last week. They said the team hotly debated whether to accept it, and that they “cherished” my work.

CHERISHED.
That’s basically a literary hug.
I’ll take it.

Back to the downstairs:
I went through the random cans of paint that must never go to the garage because they die in the cold.

Stanley only let me keep one: an unused can of chicory yellow. He said I could use it upstairs if I can stop WR from buying that jagged-patterned wallpaper.

The rest went to the garage with WR gleefully flinging them like expired spells.

WR does not understand the difference between sorting, organizing, cleaning, and decorating.

“We decorate last,” I told her.

She ignored me.

Then she found botanical prints in the art drawer and frames and immediately began cutting them down and framing them like she was possessed by a Victorian plant witch.

They look great. She knows it. She’s smug. I hate that she’s right.

“You can hang them tomorrow,” I told her, “if you finish submitting poems today.”

She nearly crawled out of her skin trying to sit still.

Afternoon descended and I begged WR to submit poetry. “Just these four journals. This one closes in a few hours. I’m begging you.“

She resisted.
There was bribery.
I don’t want to talk about it.

But we submitted. To all four.
Just in time for dinner.

Afterwards, she asked if she could put up the scarf rack.
Stanley stepped in.

“You may hang the rack,” he said.
“But no scarves go on it until I’ve reviewed them.”

Yes, he roasted us over them.
Sunday school teacher.
Sad academic.
Renfaire attendee (how dare you).
On and on.

I did insist on saving a few of the larger ones to drape tables and bureaus. They now live peacefully in the linen drawer. Yes. I reclaimed a drawer for actual linens. Victory!!

We decided I could live without nine of the scarves.
This, after a previous donation run already today. 

I guess we’re starting a new box. 

Word Raccoon is already planning tomorrow’s mutiny. I’m not having it. We are wording, we are poeming, NO MATTER WHAT!
Stanley is probably making a spreadsheet and wondering if I will let him at my book collection yet.

That’s a negatory, good buddy.

Please tell me there’s an end in sight. I’m ready to hole up with the words again.

In the meantime, I smuggled some Coke Zero into the house for WR, just in case I need to bribe her and a cafe muffin doesn’t do the job tomorrow. 

One of us is going to write poems, if I have anything to say about it.

Did I hear Word Raccoon just giggle?