While most are eager for the weather to warm up in time for St. Patrick’s Day (and the green beer, sure), I’m more into the holiday’s theme of ridding the country of evils. It’s time to purge, y’all.

I’ve been hibernating for six months under a blanket in front of the fireplace. All I see here is an intense accumulation of clutter tucked in the corners out of my usual visual paths as I traverse my house.

I finally get up and start the purge.

“Who’s beach towel is this?”

“I think Bobby left it here when we had that slip-n-slide party,” one of the kids says to me while walking out of their scarf, gloves, hat, sweatshirt, and shoes, which leaves a trail marking my imminent demise from slips and falls. (If I fall and am lying there unconscious, interrogate my kids first).

“The slip-n-slide party? That was five years ago!” I respond.

“Yeah, I think Bobby moved to Alaska,” comes the retort, which was both informative and confirmation that we had a right to be embarrassed.

“Well he doesn’t need this beach towel anymore.” Once the snow melts, the purge involves three or four trips to Goodwill.

It’s funny that, when you’re trapped in your house long enough due to subzero temperatures, you start looking at the walls a little differently.

“Is it me, or is our kitchen less sage green and more My Little Pony Minty Green?” I ask my husband.

Before he can assure me the pastel shade of green is fine, I’m off getting paint. You can’t go wrong with a color called “Chocolate” for the kitchen, right?

My family isn’t very supportive of my winter stir-crazy hobby of purging. This year for Christmas, the kids asked Santa for locks on their doors in an effort to protect their belongings from Mom’s annual campaign.

It’s inevitable that, about five years after I give something away, one of my kids wants to know where it went. I’m sorry your 2005 Lego set is gone. My bare feet just couldn’t take it anymore.

Just as St. Patrick rid Ireland of all the snakes, I’ve secretly celebrated my own sainthood as I’ve shooed all of my clutter away.

Oh, but then you realize that even saints can’t always win the clutter battle. The cat barfs up a hairball. My son walks by and touts “If only we still had Bobby’s beach towel to clean this up!”