All Hail the Goddess (or I swear my house is not a pigsty)

I stand in the middle of my castle and have myself a look around. What I see astounds me and overwhelms me. (no. not the awesome split layout of it.) (no. not the Elphaba-green walls.) (not the sheer mass of square footage per capita, either.)

On the seat of my recliner, which reclines atop a $$$$ and heavily stained rug (which we got gratis when M worked at a home interior company), sits a basket full of bunched up, clean colored clothing. (Yes, "colored" is a big deal because it's the load I put off until I can fetch it fresh from the dryer to immediately hang it up because I'm anti-ironing.)

Across from the recliner sits a pile of my shoes. Not all of them, mind you. The rest are in piles on the floor of my closet. We've started taking off our shoes upon entry into the house, but have never actually had the time to establish the "entryway" we envision will at some point be next to the garage door entrance. The area where we currently dump everything when we walk in is the large, low, square goodwill-find "coffee" table, which just seems to collect every odd and end in the house, which we then try to shove as far as possible to the other end in order to have a place to eat.

The sink is overflowing with dishes, some of which I'm quite sure have the same water used to "soak" them on Sunday afternoon after M made pancakes for dinner at my request. Blech! The counters have piles of mail that I'm so over trying to open. The floors have the silty, scratchy feel of dirt. . . oh, wait. . . that IS dirt! Brought in by the dogs who love to run figure 8s around our newly planted treets, resulting in more dirt than is normal or healthy. (Can we scratch the taking-off-the-shoes-upon-entering-the-house routine now?) There is also a thickening-as-we-speak layer of dust gathering on the dining room table we never use (hence the stained $$$$ rug in the living room).

In my bedroom is another basket of clean laundry, oh and another pile of clean laundry on my cedar chest because we needed a basket for the other clean laundry. Clutter here, dust there - oh, and clothes hung on the top bar of the closet waiting for me to sew a button or a hem, thus dwindling our wardrobes down to odds and ends - what, with everything else in baskets and such.

And then there's M's bathroom, which isn't clean, but of which I'm sort of envious because the shower is clean. My shower, on the other side of the split plan house, is not so clean. I asked him the other day "wow! how is your shower so clean??" He said "because I cleaned it". Hmmmm. Wish I'd have thought of that. Mine hasn't been cleaned in. . . too many months to count right now. On the other hand, I see all his thick, black hair on the floor (please don't be going bald from stress or from a sickness caught from the filth of our house), so maybe I'm not all that envious after all.

Add to this the OCD inducing news M shared with me the other day. Something about the large percentage of fecal matter found on keyboards. I don't know about you, but I tend to touch the keyboard and then. . . oh, everything else. (Bloggers: go wash your hands! Like NOW! and then wash the keyboard. I'll wait.)

[commence elevator music]

*sigh*

I guess what I'm saying is I'm no domestic goddess. Yes, I've cooked dinner every night this week, among various other things. But for crying out loud, can someone just get me a Stepford wife already!???! Is that too much to ask?