Today I am at odds with myself. I am on the fence. There is a war brewing between my Id and my Ego. Now, my Superego wants a piece of the action.
I walked in my bedroom yesterday and I said to myself: “Self: Girl, you are mess-y.” I felt bad for a split second. But, then I shook it off. You see, I am way too busy to clean. I have to sit, I have to wait, I have to ponder, I have to stress, and I have to candy crush. These things take time and precision and they cannot be rushed.
It’s now 12:47 and I’m sitting in my couch sipping my morning java thinking to myself: “Dang, it’s early.” *Yawn* Maybe I’ll wait until 1:30, then I’ll get up and make the kids their breakfast. Over there crying and carrying on that they’re ‘starvin’ and what not!
I am pretty sure that there are a plethora of things on this planet that I have not been diagnosed with yet. I am going to be a medical phenomenon when they autopsy my body after I pass. I might just end up trapped in a clothes hanger neck lock from the deep trenched bowels of my closet. Here is a glimpse into my kitchen cabinet.
Do you notice the complete lack of regard for any remote type of organization, or even stacking? This is a mammoth sized crap fest, that, in all honesty, is sure to heave and dismount at any moment.
Seriously. There’s a belt in my laundry basket because, for some asinine reason, it just makes more sense to keep it there. Laundry is such a hot button with me. Well, not so much a “hot” button, more like a “I hate doing laundry, so I’m going to wait until the laundry basket overflows and then I’m going to do 19 loads of laundry all in one day and leave the last load in the washer, and definitely not put any of it away” button.
Wanna know what I hate? Drop ins! I hate it when people drop in. Except for my very special friends, and you know who you are. Kisses! (my friends are gullible). When I hear the dreaded doorbell, and I have been working, (on nothing) WORKING all day, I start to pant. Like a big, fat sea lion – and believe me, I’m not clapping my hands in happiness with my little arm flippers. I answer the door, and somehow or another, some crazed neighbor with some elaborate situation feels like they need to enter! No, no entre! One of the voices in my head speak French. “Oh, let me just tell you what the Anderson’s aardvark did to my water buffalo! I have to enter your abode in order to illustrate it in the proper way.” I’m not listening to a word. Really, what I’m thinking is how I would love to sucker punch you right now. There are underwear on my kitchen counter. There are cereal bowls lined up the stairwell. There is dirt, ash and soot flailing about. I’m staring at you with my eyes full of wonder. How are you sitting there with your stupid face and your clean house, and I just want to jump in my foyer sinkhole?
Last week, I couldn’t find my black work pants. Oh, that’s the end of that thought. I still can’t find my pants. I did, however, find a really pretty ant farm. We didn’t buy it. It grew inside our house, organically.
Oh! You wanna know what I hate? When my dang husband is due to come home soon after working his 14 hour shifts, and my adrenaline kicks in and I do the “15 minute maniacal maid maneuver.” In a frantic frenzy, I jump up, trying to throw him off course, and counterbalance the fact that I have been been in a state of frozen pontification for every single minute of those long hours. Clean the kitchen! Throw something in the oven! Throw anything in the washing machine! Stat!
Here’s what my purposeless pantry looks like.
What is also a huge source of contention is that in the middle of my catastrophic mess lies 46 unfinished projects. On paper, I am a “writer,” a “seamstress,” a “cross-stitch expert,” a “scrapbooker,” a “painter,” (pictures, not walls) a “knitter,” a “graphic designer,” and a “book collector.” I’m a jack of all trades. Really, I’m just a jackass. Many people will agree.
So, the reason for this post is that I’m legit scared. Straight up, LEGIT! I’ve never been so on edge. You see, the hurricane is coming. The winds are fierce, but the aftermath is much worse. My husband is off all next week. He knows, and has known for 14 TERRIFYING years, what it’s like being married to me. And he has a plan. He has a very evil, scary plan that will turn my grubby lifestyle upside down! He said the 2 frightening words to me the other day as he was trying to find his way out of our bedroom closet. “Hurricane. Coming.” Things will be orderly, items will be in their places, and life will be no longer as I know it! When I’m looking for my paintbrushes, they will no longer be in my husband’s sock drawer. (still in the water-filled cup) When I’m searching around desperately for my knitting needles, (not because I plan on knitting, but because some random thought just magically appears in my head: “Your knitting needles have probably vanished.” – Yes, that’s how my mind rolls) I am definitely not going to find them in my daughter’s dance bag. Yes, they were hard to stuff in there, and are very ‘pokey,’ but still… So, it’s coming, people! The cleaning apocalypse is upon me, and I am terrified!
Oh well, at least I can cook. 🙂